Games | The Hungover

The arena went silent. The voice overhead paused, then sighed like a disappointed game show host.

The lights cut out. A low rumble started. When they flickered back on, the sneezer was gone—vanished, leaving behind only a single flip-flop and an empty can of White Claw.

Jack groaned. The last thing he remembered was his friend Dave saying, “One more shot, bro. What’s the worst that could happen?” Apparently, the worst was waking up in a dystopian reality show where the only weapons were regret, dehydration, and the vague memory of a bad decision.

“Me neither,” Jack said. “My temples are throbbing.” The Hungover Games

They stared at each other. Then, simultaneously, they both said, “Truce?”

A spotlight hit the center of the arena, revealing a table piled with things that looked helpful at first glance: a bottle of water, a breakfast burrito, a pair of sunglasses, and a single Advil. Fifty people lunged.

He opened one eye. Then the other. He was in a large, circular arena, surrounded by fifty other people in various states of dishevelment. A woman next to him was still wearing a sequined tube top from the night before, her face half-smudged with glitter. A man clutched a half-empty bottle of tequila like a teddy bear. The arena went silent

Jack stumbled through the next few hours, avoiding sudden movements, loud noises, and anyone who said, “I feel great, actually.” He crawled through a tunnel of discarded party streamers, scaled a foam pit that smelled suspiciously of cheap vodka, and at one point had to outrun a rolling wave of brunch leftovers.

Then he heard it: a soft, wet ah-choo from across the arena.

Jack, moving slowly and deliberately, grabbed the sunglasses and the burrito. He ate the burrito in three desperate bites, then put on the sunglasses. For a moment, the world softened. A low rumble started

“Welcome,” boomed a voice from overhead, “to the Hungover Games.”

The Hungover Games: no one really wins. But at least you don’t have to fight for the Advil alone.

Jack woke up to the sound of a gong. Not a gentle, meditative gong—the kind that announces a bloodsport. His head pounded in triple time, and the floor beneath him was cold, damp concrete.