“Fine. You both win. But you have to watch a recap of everything you said last night on video.”
Then he heard it: a soft, wet ah-choo from across the arena.
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. The Hungover Games
They stared at each other. Then, simultaneously, they both said, “Truce?”
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. “Fine
“Your challenge,” the voice continued, “is simple. Survive. Avoid eye contact. Do not under any circumstances say ‘I’ll be fine.’ And whatever you do—do not sneeze.”
What followed was not heroic combat but the ugliest, most pathetic scramble in reality TV history. A man in a bathrobe tried to fight for the Advil but threw up instead. Two women formed a shaky alliance based on the fact that they both had the same Uber receipt from last night. Someone screamed, “I just want to go home and lie down,” and three others nodded in solidarity, forfeiting immediately. A spotlight hit the center of the arena,
The Hungover Games: no one really wins. But at least you don’t have to fight for the Advil alone.