See

My name is Jig-Puzzle, and I have a game. Tonight, as with most other nights in which the kidnappings take place, a game of roulette unfolds and the participants, though unwilling, face horrifying tasks that I state clearly to accomplish in order to find liberty, but rarely will that ever be the case. Pretty much everyone loses, if you catch my drift, wink.

My four victims this evening are all of the same nature, and their task, as I will tell them directly, is to understand the things they all have in common. Once the goal has been achieved, all four will be set free.

In a small room, no larger than a small cubicle, two men and two women sit, facing each other, in four chairs. My recording plays.

"Hello everyone. I would like to play a game." It starts. "In the last 34 years of all your lives-" They are all 34 years old. "-you have been burdened and succumbed to the tortures of life. Your goal today, however irrational it is for me to consider this actually benefiting you in the conclusion, is for yourselves to understand the similarities between you all."

I continue. "One similarity is so overpoweringly present and if you succeed in deciphering just that singular one, I will let you loose. Let the game begin."

With a camera placed within the confines of this small room, I can witness the whole ordeal play out.

John, an unsuccessful business man, whose parents despise his ever-living being, has become a slob who does no more than sit at home and attempt to succeed through online dating sites.

Charlie, an unsuccessful human-being all-around, has never made any decent accomplishments. He sits next to John, on his right.

Laura, another hamper to society, now has lessened herself to the duties of under-waged morons.

Rachel, a wannabe knitter, whose chances at such a role were dashed with the crippling-at-birth of her hands. She is now a worthless person.

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I have left the displayed image of their agony for many hours, and now have returned to see what progress has been made. None are blindfolded, so I imagined the task would be rather simple, but it appears no further exploration of the goal has been done.

All sit in drooling ridiculousness. As I had hoped, secretly, the four people, all bearing the illness of retardation, cannot function even enough to overcome such a simplistic task. The challenges of the weak are joyous from the eyes of an outsider.

That's when I saw John open his mouth. Could it be? Could he actually have understood enough to construe a reasonable answer?

No words were spoken, but his mouth lay agape. That's when I saw the fruition of his mouth-opening effort: He was, in glorious fashion, blowing bubbles with his mouth.

Simultaneously, Rachel was screaming random phrases: "Shlarp derp." Embarrassing, yet humorous in their futile nature.

Charlie, being the faggot that everyone knows him to be, sits there, soiling himself constantly, and quietly vomiting his own fecal matter into his mouth, letting slight amounts dribble out to his shirt-covered beer belly.

All the while, Laura has found joy in napping, but in doing so, has also initiated the snoring noises of a dieing squirrel. Though I've never heard such a noise, my imagination went to town with such a thought. The high pitched cry of agony, and the squeezing of such a poor creature could only just emit a squeal of deafening prowess.

Epic in their moronic nature, I flip the light-switch to the room. Though they can still achieve their task, I know such a thing will never happen. Forever the four of them shall sit retardedly inside a small room until they all die of their own vices.

That's when, and to the surprise of myself, I came to a shocking revelation. Only someone so stupid as myself would place people under such ridiculous circumstances with chances of success so outlandish in nature, expecting it to actually help the person later in life.

I... I too am a retard, and as such, should reside within the room of the four creatures.

As I open the door, the stench of rotted urine and recoiling in my aback-taken breathe of anything resembling fresh-air, I stepped within bravely. Never finding a dry piece of ground to stand on, I sat on Charlie's lap. The poop, though ever-horrifying, cushioned me comfortably, and I fell asleep.


Author's Note: I hate myself. A lot.