It's night

Now's not the time for such things as pants, you quickly decide. A lot of your co-workers in the past have wondered why you dislike pants so. You personally have nothing against pants as an article of clothing but as a principle. Wearing pants symbolizes that you are ready for work and social interaction and responsibility. That is just not your style. So you scoff at your pair of cargos draped over the chair and set to work on that mine. This is an older model, obviously. When disarming something like this, you just gotta get the mechanics behind it right. Make sure you set it up such that you've disconnected the trigger input from the explody bits. In a lot of chip based explosives it's a matter of cutting leads and working with circuits. It's out of your expertise and it's kind of lame. No more visceral kick to it, just a dead little electronic.

Whoops. That part wasn't supposed to go there. It's cool though, you just need to get your... okay. Problem. You didn't bring any tools because this was vacation. You need the fivendime to get the squiggle out the jammer to connect it back up with the jingle so you can crossways down the river. Except no one here would understand a word of that. You need someone with good English skills. You should...

[] Call 911 equivalent.
[] Call the neighbors.
[] Try to do it by hand.

 

call the neighbors​

 

There is no try. Only do. By hand. Do it by hand.

 

Frank Oz's raspy little voice echoes through your mind, compelling you to keep going. Then you remember that he was voicing a little green puppet at the time and telling a young Mark Hamill to levitate something with his mind. You can't take that idea very seriously anymore. Your gaze flits around the room for something to get your hand out of it. If you hadn't insisted on disabling your phone to prevent interruptions you could call the neighbors. But you did, so you can't.

You never thought you'd die like this. You never imagined in a million years that you'd die alone in some godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere with a bomb in your hands and no pants on. Dying pantsless is not at all dignified. Not that you've ever cared before, but staring into the void kind of scares you. This is coming from a guy who's stared down the barrel of a gun and smiled, a guy who's kicked a grenade back at the thrower, a guy who's too damn sexy to die.

Whatever, balls to the walls, you're doing it, you're making it happen. No tools? No problem.

*click*

It was a dud.

[] Feel incredibly silly.
[] Throw it away, it still might go off soon.
[] Put some pants on.

 

put a shirt on as pants​

 

Wear nothing but shirts for all non-shirt related articles of clothing.

 

You know what? Of course you do, this is rhetorical and to yourself; you're not gonna wear any pants for the rest of your vacation. You have seen the other side and it is a world full of you not wearing any pants. It is the world feel of delicious freedom. You can almost taste the fried twinkies in your mouth from all the freedom your feeling right now. But you've gotta wear something because you'd look like a total dongus without something on. There, shirtpants.



That oughta learn them uppity leg casings a thing or two. Wahahahahahaha! What were you even doing?

[] You had to be somewhere.
[] You had to be someone.
[] You had to be there.

 

you had to be someone, somewhere​

 

You had to be there, but you're not entirely sure where, so you just keep walking until something interesting happens.

 

Broken record shirt <3

You had to be there. You know where. Where it's at. What's it? It is in. Everybody's doing it. At that place where you've got to be. You gotta be there while it's in so you can do it where it is while it's there before it's out. So go to it and do to it.

 

Okay... you didn't really think this one out. Like not at all. Like you could have realized that taking steps with only full range of motion in your ankles would trip you up if you tried to run, jump, hop or skip anywhere. But yeah... You done goofed, ya doof. So now you're lying you face there on the floor next to the-- shiiiit. Mine's still there. Duds can still go off without warning unless disabled or disposed of. That's preschool stuff, Spongebob. Preschool. Okay, so you're gonna just edge away from that little guy... Did it just tick? That was a clicking sound you heard. You swear you heard it. That's when you hear a voice. It's a man and he's talking about how fancy it is that he found you there looking all mighty retarded and whatnot. You know who it is. It's your mortal enemy, of course. Not really, it's just a guy you owe some cash on account of you blowing up some of his... everything. Hehehe. The clicking was him pulling back the hammer on his vintage Peacemaker. Guy likes cowboy flicks. You're pretty sure he's gay for Eastwood. You should...

[] Talk some sense into this guy, it was just business... that went horribly wrong.
[] Take off the shirt pants before he shoots you and you die wearing a shirt around you bottom half like some kind of special needs kid.
[] Figure out where he is and log roll the opposite direction.

 

roll towards him in an attempt to trip his ass​

 

You don't feel like dying while cosplaying a special need kid, so you ask for a moment to remove your shirpants.

 

This

Then somehow get him entangled in the pantshirt

 

You tell him to calm his manbreasts and think about it for a second. You are on the ground, wearing heavy body armor and a shirt around your legs. No matter how he looks at it, this is too silly to happen. You suggest that he at least do you the courtesy of letting you die or get hauled off or whatever it is he plans to do, without looking like a friggin' aspy. He scoffs (from the right, about five feet away now (soft footsteps, bro)) and tells you that he's going to kill you and you're going to look like an aspy. After all, you made him look like he was having a stroke when he found out you blew up his house, his third wife and his money. Welp, Plan B. You start rolling like you've never rolled before and let you tell yourself, you have rolled in your time. You hear a gunshot and feel the lead (amateur) dig into your vest half a second before you feel your torso roll over his legs. He falls back with about the grace you'd expect from a business man. With no time to lose you get to your feet-- well, knees. Good enough. From there you proceed to notice the two armed guards just outside your door looking an awful lot like they just got in and are shooting at you and a bloody mark on your desk where his head cracked open. One down.

You launch yourself into your closet as fast as possible and manage to ditch the lame busted record shirt. From there you get your peep on those guys out from your concealment, no, it is not cover, and notice that they're missing you by a wide margin. Score! So you now have like five seconds to...

[] Check your inventory.
[] Check your closet.

 

Check closet. Maybe I'm smart enough to have a way out.

 

check the closet​

 

Kurozetto oh fuck you character limit

 

Check the closet.