ClickHole

Can You Survive A Night On The Town With The Rat Pack?

It’s 1963, and it’s the time of year when John F. Kennedy is still alive.

After finding a cool $50 on the ground in your two-bit, one-mailbox town, you decided to come to Las Vegas to try to turn that $50 into $150 through the act of poker. Unfortunately, you ended up losing all your money after someone dared you to throw it into the sewer. That’s just the Sin City of Las Vegas for you.

Hot damn.

Nope. Your cool $50 is still in the sewer where you threw it. It’s gator food now.

Well, you returned home with your human tail between your scrawny, stupid legs. And wouldn’t you know it, the straw-chewing, tractor-driving dunces who call your town home were all waiting for you at the border. You had said, “See you when I have $150, not $50,” before you left, and oh man, are they going to let you hear it. When will they stop laughing? No time soon, that’s for sure. These bumpkins have got all goddamn day. The cows and corn can wait, for there’s a wannabe city slicker who thought they were piping-hot shit in their midst, and that W.C.S. is you. Oh man, are they ever going to fuck you up north, south, east, and west.

And it’s all your fault.

You continue to walk. You see casinos, lights, and a crisp $50 bill lying in the street. Normally, this would have your pleasure sensors lighting up like a Las Vegas night in November, but since you just lost money, all this shit just sucks ass. You are sad, the warm feeling of pain.

But all of a sudden, something stops you in your tracks.

Yep.

You’ve smelled something.

You rev your nostrils once more, and it’s a mighty rev indeed. The act of vigorous inhalation reverberates throughout your entire body, your skin and bones bouncing as one. What a kickass feeling.

You’re close to recognizing the smell. Another inward suck of your nose, a Definitive Smell, will get the job done.

Oooooooooooh. And ah.

There it is, oozing out of a nearby bar.

You know this smell. It’s a smell that has enraptured the hearts of millions, and it’s a smell that has more than a few fans. You’ve heard about this smell on TV, and it’s an amalgamation of cigarettes, booze, and one cool, cool cat.

It’s the smell of goddamn Frank Sinatra.

You couldn’t really be smelling this, could you? Could you actually be smelling what you think you’re smelling?

Yep.

“Hello,” Frank Sinatra says. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re goddamn right!” shouts Frank. “Say, I like the cut of your jib. It’s cut real lean and nice, the type of jib I just can’t ignore. Would you like to meet Rat Pack? It’s a group of celebrities and stars I’m the Enormous Captain of.”

Whoa. Frank wants to introduce you to Rat Pack? And he likes the cut of your jib? Jesus, wow. Okay, just play it cool.

“You’re gonna meet Rat Pack.”

“This here is my second-in-command. His name is Dean Martin, and he can make a bunch of different noises come out of his head: comedic noises, music noises, acting noises—all of ’em.”

“Hello,” says Dean. “Here’s an acting noise: Say, sweetheart, where’s the cash and jewels?”

“The guy with the grin is Sammy Davis Jr. He’s a lot like the last guy, except Sammy here makes dancing noises, not comedic noises.”

“The bartender spat this into my glass,” says Sammy. “Here, you have it.”

“This is Charles Lindbergh. He’s very different from Dean and Sammy, as he makes none of the noises they do. Rather, he’s someone who intimidates an airplane into making noise. In other words, Charles Lindbergh is...well, Charles Lindbergh is a pilot.”

“My favorite word is ‘airplane,’” says Charles. “I hope it’s yours, too.”

“And last but not least is Good Blaster, Rat Pack dog. We named him or her Good Blaster out of support for rockets that don’t immediately explode.”

“Bark,” says Good Blaster.

“That is Rat Pack,” says Frank. “Now, how about you hang with us tonight? Rat Pack has never warmed up to someone the way they’ve warmed up to you. You’ve heard of a hot stove, yes? Well, we’re currently very similar to one of those.”

Holy. Shit. Rat Pack, the beloved group of vandals, want you to run wild with them.

Do you think you can do this? Do you think you can survive an entire night with these guys? As you know from reading a newspaper, these guys can be tough to keep up with.

You gave Good Blaster a pet that was a little too hard and it killed him. Naturally, Frank Sinatra had you killed by activating the Mafia, who filled your body with bullets and knives. They buried you two side by side.

Somewhere, an old John Steinbeck hears about all this and is inspired to go back in time to write his classic book Of Mice And Men. He bases the character of Lennie on you, and it’s quite an honor. But since you’re dead, you’ll never even get to know. Bummer.

“We are currently thinking of the racial slur ‘French.’ Anyway, what’ll it be? Are you going to help us spread our nationally beloved brand of commotion or not?”

You and your new friends grab a couple of nearby glasses and slam them together out of joy. They explode on impact, and the entire bar flinches, then gives you a standing ovation.

You run this town.

“What do you want to do tonight, kid?” asks Frank.

You take a quick sip that fills your body with a previously nonexistent warm confidence. Society allows you and your friends to act differently than everyone else, and you’re going to take advantage of that.

Well, you returned home with your human tail between your scrawny, stupid legs. And wouldn’t you know it, the straw-chewing, tractor-driving dunces who call your town home were all waiting for you at the border. You had said, “See you when I have $150, not $50,” before you left, and oh man, are they going to let you hear it. When will they stop laughing? No time soon, that’s for sure. These bumpkins have got all goddamn day. The cows and corn can wait, for there’s a wannabe city slicker who thought they were piping-hot shit in their midst, and that W.C.S. is you. Oh man, are they ever going to fuck you up north, south, east, and west.

And it’s all your fault.

Dean calls up the owner of the hottest place in Vegas, the Boar’s Head Hotel and Delicatessen. He uses the acting voice of a tough guy to scream, “Rat Pack has an ITCH,” and 15 minutes later, you’re walking through the main lobby.

That’s the power of Rat Pack.

You’re ushered into their world-famous Rumpus Room, and soon you’ll be onstage, part of one of the impromptu fuck-arounds that have made Rat Pack something a man or woman talks about. Whoa.

“Hello,” says this. “I’m the chef of the delicatessen portion of the hotel. I couldn’t help but notice that you’re in Rat Pack. Here, have one free sandwich.”

“You’ll like it. My bones are pure.”

You pushed over the chef of the delicatessen portion of the hotel, and he fell right on a couple of sandwich knives and died. Some people in the Mafia were his parents, so they roughed you up, killing you. They buried you somewhere in here. They can’t remember where, though.

You head backstage. Frank Sinatra’s at the bar, and he’s drunker than you’ve ever seen anyone in your entire life.

“You’re about to be part of something special, kid. This is what we do best. I’m gonna sing a song. Dean is also gonna sing, and maybe throw in a comedic noise. Sammy will dance in Sammy’s Dancing Corner, you know, just spinning around and shit. Charles is going to do his thing, and Good Blaster is going to dig a hole or two.

“Now, I know it can be difficult for new people to keep up with us, even someone as wise as you, so I’m going to give you something that I think is your speed.”

“Tambourine,” drools Frank.

“Now you’re getting it! Just be sure to do the appropriate thing with the tambourine at the right time, and everything will be fine.”

Frank puts down his drink and disappears. It’s showtime.

Everyone’s onstage and ready. The crowd is positively abuzz, shouting sentences like “Good Rat Pack!” and “Watching Rat Pack is a good thing to happen to someone like me!” Who else could whip up a frenzy like this?

The lights dim and Frank steps to the microphone, confident as a man who can commit crimes but knows he’ll never get in trouble for committing them. He begins to belt one of his classics:

“I’m going to bed with a smile on my face, a grin from ear to ear because I spent the whole day thinking of outer space.”

Fucking. Bedlam.

You did the appropriate thing with the tambourine, and the crowd loves it so much. Way to go.

Frank continues to howl:

“I thought of Mars, a comet, and a little green alien too. But now that I’ve stopped thinking about space, my heart’s gone from bright red to bright, bright blue.”

You were supposed to do something else with the tambourine there, and the crowd isn’t happy. Simultaneously, all of Rat Pack gives you a look that can only be described as “What is going on with your brain, new friend?”

Frank continues to howl:

“I thought of Mars, a comet, and a little green alien too. But now that I’ve stopped thinking about space, my heart’s gone from bright red to bright, bright blue.”

You didn’t hit the tambourine, and the crowd loves it. Frank gives you a look that seems to say “Thanks for doing the appropriate thing.”

His song is over, and now it’s Dean’s turn to do some singing noises and one comedic noise:

Have you ever looked at a star? Pretty goddamn bright, if you want my two cents. Okay, here’s a comedic noise: Some people today have TVs, so why do they complain so much, or even, for that matter, at all?”

You did the wrong thing, and the crowd hates it. Frank gives you a look that almost seems to say “Honest to God, I’ll rip off those limbs.” Uh-oh.

Frank’s song is over, and now it’s Dean’s turn to do some singing noises and one comedic noise:

Have you ever looked at a star? Pretty goddamn bright, if you want my two cents. Okay, here’s a comedic noise: Some people today have TVs, so why do they complain so much, or even, for that matter, at all?”

Nice! You did so well that someone felt compelled to wander onstage and give Sammy a trophy. He really loves that thing, and keeps saying, “It’s Sammy’s Prized Metal.”

Well, you messed up really badly, but someone still felt compelled to wander onstage and give Sammy one trophy. Looks like everything is going to be okay. He really loves that thing, and keeps saying, “It’s Sammy’s Prized Metal.”

“Thank you for another trophy!” says Sammy. “I will use it to call my family and friends.”

You’ve made Sammy very happy, which is a good thing. Everyone is in good spirits and coalescing as one happy disaster, at least until the owner of Boar’s Head Hotel and Delicatessen comes barreling in, screaming about how he needs to fill his entire body with sleep.

“Looks like there’s only time for one more thing!” shouts Frank.

Frank responds to the inquisitive nature of your tambourine by shouting, “Charles Lindbergh, get cracking,” and so it goes that Charles Lindbergh steps up to the microphone wearing the glasses of someone who flies a plane.

“Look. I demand total silence for what I’m about to do,” he says. “It is imperative that you do not make any noise, or else something bad will happen. And that’s a promise. The silence begins...now!”

Whoa. He means business.

Charles Lindbergh’s thing was a success! You didn’t make any noise, and the crowd loved it. There was even enough time for Good Blaster to sneak in a dig or two. Nice.

It’s time to leave the hotel, but the night is still young for this famous cabal of legal criminals. Frank’s nodding his bulbous head in the manner of someone who wants you to choose another thing.

And this is what?

You had to make a noise even though the famous pilot Charles Lindbergh said not to, didn’t you? Well, guess what? His thing went horribly wrong, and now you and everyone who was inside the Rumpus Room at the Boar’s Head Hotel and Delicatessen is dead, long dead—including the famous people, like Dean Martin. Nice job.

The rivals of Rat Pack are the 1927 New York Yankees, the other group of popular men. Widely considered to be one of the greatest teams in the history of professional baseball, the ’27 Yanks went 110-44 and won the World Series in four games. They were led by superstar Babe Ruth and his 60 home runs—a record that would stand for 34 years—and by first baseman Lou Gehrig, who won the American League MVP and drove in 175 runs.

They don’t like you guys, and you guys don’t like them.

Your two groups square off in an unmarked Las Vegas alley, rendering tourists completely oblivious to the fact that at that very moment, the 1927 New York Yankees and Rat Pack are about to beat the living hell out of each other.

Which pinstriped oaf would you like to attempt to clobber?

You walked up to Babe Ruth to try to kick his ass, but he got scared and threw a bat at you. The bat broke your arm and sent you to the emergency room, ending your night on the town with Rat Pack, as that is a place where they are nowhere to be found.

As for Ruth, this all happened so fast that it rocked him to his very core. He left the fight, even though it was still in progress, and hitched a ride back to New York City, never once taking his eyes off his hands, the hands that had been responsible for so many home runs and the hands that broke your arm.

Babe Ruth retired from baseball the next day and spent the remainder of his living days staring at his hands, saying, “These hands...these hands are the arm-breaking hands, not the home-run hands.” This man, a Bambino so important to the evolution of baseball as a sport, never touched another baseball bat in his entire life, and ended up dying on February 9, 1986 as he stared at his arm-breaking hands in a dark nursing home room somewhere in Nebraska, the only light entering his room coming from Halley’s Comet as it passed overhead, making its first appearance in 76 years, on the night of the death of Babe Ruth, the man who died staring at his arm-breaking hands.

Also, Babe Ruth was clearly Frank’s to fight. Know your role.

You walk over to fight Lou Gehrig, the legendary Yankees first baseman who once made 50,000 diehard Yankees fans mourn to death after giving a speech where he promised to die. He holds no guns or knives, just a voice and an intention to use it.

After an enormous clearing of the throat, he begins.

“Soon, I’m a dead man,” says Gehrig, reciting his famously deadly speech. “Soon, I’ll just be bones and blood in the cold, hard sand.”

The tears run down your face and render your fists and feet totally slimy and useless. Gehrig continues:

“I’ll be moving to a graveyard soon, population dust and bones. If you want to see Lou in a couple of months, you’ll have to make me a couple of clones. Big or small, tall or wide, it doesn’t matter to me. As long as I have some clones, me is who you’ll be able to see.”

You let Lou Gehrig recite his “Soon I’m A Dead Man” speech for too long, and you mourned so hard that you died. Ultimately, you probably should’ve let Dean Martin take care of Gehrig, because he doesn’t have time for weepy, mawkish horseshit like this.

“You can’t fight me, friend! I’m not on the 1927 New York Yankees. I’m on Rat Pack!

“It’s okay! We all make mistakes. It’s just part of being human, like riding a bike or not eating delicious bugs.”

“If you punch me again, I will hit you over the head with this thing I just found. Is that understood?”

Looks like Lindbergh and this guy are already fighting. Try someone else.

You got publicly executed for trying to fight a dog. On the plus side, the crowd loved the way your body exploded.

“Hello!” says 13-year-old Joe DiMaggio, a beacon of light who illuminates the world around him with just a smile. “Would you like to play baseball with me? It’s my favorite!”

That boy had no intentions of ever playing baseball. Thirteen-year-old Joe DiMaggio beat you up so bad that you got this thing and died.

“Oh, really?” says the boy who can turn night into day. “That’s a shame. I was hoping someone would play baseball with me!”

You’re starting to regret thinking that you should fight a child, but you don’t want to let your new friends down.

You two do have some sort of incredible metaphysical relationship, and you use it to beat up the future Yankees legend in such a way that he dies in 1999, just missing out on the wonders of the new millennium. Awesome.

Frank says you’ve done your job and don’t have to fight anyone else. Rat Pack can take it from here.

What would you like to do once Rat Pack is done applying a beatdown or receiving a beatdown?

Ah, cards. A Las Vegas pastime as old as night and as bright as day.

Rat Pack are a group of legendary gamblers, so you’ve definitely got to bring your A-game. Just look at Frank shuffle. That’s the shuffling of a man whose thumbs have been around the block once or twice.

Which card game would you like to demand to play?

“Sorry, kid,” says Frank, not looking up from shuffling. “We’re not going to be playing that. Tonight we’re playing Rat Pack.”

“Rat Pack is also cards.”

You’ve only known Frank for a few minutes, but you’ve never seen this look in his eyes before. Something’s up.

He continues shuffling and finishes a few minutes later. Once he’s done, he motions for the rest of Rat Pack to stand behind him. Fucking hell. What is going on?

You try to scream, but you’re so unnerved that the best you can do is say the word “mountain” in a normal tone of voice.

“Nice word,” says Frank. “So, the card game of Rat Pack is one where the goal is to build the Washington Monument out of playing cards. If you can successfully build the Washington Monument, you win the game, and your prize is that you’ll be in Rat Pack...for good.”

“We all had to do it to get in,” says Dean. “That’s why this game is called Rat Pack.”

“I had to do this before I decided to even make Rat Pack,” says Frank.

Whoa. This is a big deal, and you definitely don’t want to screw this up, unless you do.

You try to think about the word “escape,” but you’re so unnerved that the best word you can think of is “mountain.”

“So, the card game of Rat Pack,” says Frank, “is one where the goal is to build the Washington Monument out of playing cards. If you can successfully build the Washington Monument, you win the game, and your prize is that you’ll be in Rat Pack...for good.”

“We all had to do it to get in,” says Dean. “That’s why this game is called Rat Pack.”

“I had to do this before I decided to even make Rat Pack,” says Frank.

Whoa. This is a big deal, and you definitely don’t want to screw this up, unless you do.

“Now, the card game of Rat Pack,” says Frank, “is one where the goal is to build the Washington Monument out of playing cards. If you can successfully build the Washington Monument, you win the game, and your prize is that you’ll be in Rat Pack...for good.”

“We all had to do it to get in,” says Dean. “That’s why this game is called Rat Pack.”

“I had to do this before I decided to even make Rat Pack,” says Frank.

Whoa. This is a big deal, and you definitely don’t want to screw this up, unless you do.

“Yes,” says Charles Lindbergh, emerging from the shadows. “You only get five tries to build the Washington Monument.”

“...”

After 35 minutes, you finish your first attempt at building the Washington Monument out of playing cards.

This tiny tragedy is what decided to come out of your hands. Good Blaster chases his or her own tail out of sadness.

You were much closer this time, but at the same time, further away than you’ve ever been before.

In the distance, you hear Charles whisper to Dean, “This would be worthy of acceptance if it were not totally wrong,” which makes you feel good, but at the same time, like your entrails have just been ripped out of your body and used as a lasso by someone who will being using the lasso for trouble.

“You seem to have built me by mistake,” says Sammy.

This is as far away as you’ve ever been, and you recently built Sammy Davis Jr.

Only one more chance left. Are you gonna get it together?

You did it! You built the Washington Monument out of playing cards, and you’re now in Rat Pack!

Everyone comes over to congratulate you. Frank beams with blue-eyed pride, Dean makes a couple of good musical noises, Sammy does a celebratory dance, Charles does his thing, and Good Blaster bites your ankle. It’s the best moment of your life.

“Come out to the hallway real quick,” mutters Frank. “I want to show you something.”

“You might as well go home,” says Frank. “It’s going to be weird having you around now.”

Ah, shit.

John F. Kennedy is alive and well, so Charles Lindbergh is going to fly you all to Washington, D.C. Soon, you’re going to get to meet and then raise hell with one of the most iconic people in the history of the United States.

Awesome.

Unfortunately, you got stuck sitting shotgun. Want to use this time to crack the nut of Lindbergh?

“Hello. Mind if my son sits up front? I thought it would be good for him to meet the president. He is not the Lindbergh Baby.”

Oh, boy. This is going to be much harder than you thought.

“Just look at this kid! He can touch hats just like his pop, me.”

Jesus Christ on a wooden cross, this is excruciating.

“He’s going to drive the plane for a little while. God, I love this kid. Do you have any children of your own?”

Well, this is clearly a lost cause. Time to wrap this conversation up.

Rat Pack thought you were dead, so they strapped a parachute to your back and dumped you out of the plane somewhere over Indiana. Oh, well.

You’re finally here! Wow, President Kennedy has quite the digs.

Rat Pack spent the entire plane ride getting primed for a night of mayhem with the president, while you did the opposite. How do you want to get yourself quickly riled up so you can keep pace?

John F. Kennedy is alive and well, so Charles Lindbergh is going to fly you all to Washington, D.C. Soon, you’re going to get to meet and then raise hell with one of the most iconic people in the history of the United States.

Awesome.

Unfortunately, you got stuck sitting shotgun. Want to use this time to crack the nut of Lindbergh?

You got so riled up that you now think the White House looks like this, which means you are totally ready for a rip-roaring time of bacchanalia with the president of the United States.

You overdosed and died right in front of John F. Kennedy’s house.

Wow. There he is. A president.

Frank introduces you by saying, “Johnny, this here is someone who is hanging out with Rat Pack,” and those famous JFK eyes light up like a Vegas night in November. It’s clear that he respects Rat Pack.

“Hello, and welcome to my house on November 21, 1963!” he says. “Would you like to meet three beautiful women?”

You leave the rest of Rat Pack, and President Kennedy brings you to a room where three beautiful women sit in a small pyramid.

“These are the three beautiful women, my wonderful wife Jackie O.”

You think about saying “ah-ooga!” but you don’t, out of kindness.

“Thank you for not saying ah-ooga,” says President Kennedy. “I love my wife Jackie O. She is my light and my stars, and I love cheating on her. C’mon, I cooked you all up a big dinner, and it’ll turn into ice-cold dinner if we let it sit any longer.”

As you walk through Kennedy’s incredible home, you stumble upon a man-shaped hole in the wall and decide to peek through it.

In one room, you see Frank Sinatra chasing a cop. In another, you see Dean Martin getting married and having his own funeral. In another, Sammy Davis Jr. is kissing a trophy that isn’t his. In another, Lindbergh’s son is missing. And finally, in another, Good Blaster is barking, barking for you.

This is for sure a night you’ll tell your children, should you ever decide to have any, about.

Look at this spread! President Kennedy really knows how to use a stove. He rings a large bell, and the rest of Rat Pack come storming outside.

“It is so nice to have a night with my friends,” says the president once everyone is seated. “And, of course, one new friend.”

Jesus. The leader of the free world just called you “one new friend.” When you found $50 earlier today in your one-colander town, there’s almost no way you could have imagined this happening.

“And, of course, whenever I feed a new friend,” he continues, “I allow them to choose the food I eat first. New Friend’s Food Choice, as I’ve always called it.”

Everyone stares at you and smiles. This is the proudest moment of your life. Go ahead. Tell the president what to eat.

The Secret Service killed your body because they thought you were trying to kick the president to death. What a drag.

“...”

Okay, well, looks like Frank can’t take a joke about Good Blaster. Just give a real answer.

You told the president to eat way too much, and he choked to death. If it’s any consolation, this is the final smile he made before passing away.

In the distance, a dog barks. It’s Good Blaster saying he or she found Lindbergh’s son. But that’s not important right now.

“The American public is going to hate you for this, kid,” says Frank. “You dug this hole, and now you gotta get yourself out of it.”

“But be warned,” says Sammy, “there is nothing deeper than a hole dug by someone who indirectly killed the president.”

This is bad. How do you plan on making sure that no one knows you were involved with the death of John F. Kennedy?

They’re mourning. Looks like you’ll have to find another option.

Within moments, the Mafia are at the White House ready to help in their classic frightening way.

“As far as we see it, there are two ways to solve your conundrum,” say the Mafia. “One is to fake the infamous Kennedy assassination. Another is to dump the president’s body somewhere over Indiana. Each will cost $1,000,000. If you do not have that money, we strongly advise inventing the home computer to get it.”

“Thanks for the $1,000,000,” say the Mafia. “Now let’s make some history.”

“Thanks for the $1,000,000,” say the Mafia. “Now let’s make some history.”

The Mafia dump the body of President Kennedy out of a moving plane somewhere over Indiana, and the next day, the nation receives the tragic news.

“The president got dumped out of a plane last night,” says Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson. “His body is somewhere in Indiana, and also I’m the president now.”

And that’s that. No one ever finds out that you were the indirect cause of Kennedy’s death, but the core members of Rat Pack still decide that you probably shouldn’t be seen with them, just to be safe.

So, you go back to your two-bit, one-mailbox town and get laughed at by some yokels for losing $50. But at least you still have the memories—both the good and the bad—of the night you spent on the town with Rat Pack. And that’s worth something.

And it might just be worth $50.

The End.

Lindbergh flies you all to Dallas to fake the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and the mood is decidedly less jovial than on your last flight. There’s a good reason for that.

Once you arrive, the Mafia introduce you to the man they are going to pin the whole thing on. He seems fine.

They go on to say that the plan consists of holding a phony parade in the president’s honor where he’ll be driven in an open convertible while wearing makeup that makes him look like he’s alive. At some point during the parade, Kennedy will be shot in the head by the Mafia, but since he’s already very dead, he won’t feel a thing. They also took the liberty of notifying Jackie O.

These guys, as creepy as they are, are very good at their job.

No one talks for about 15 minutes, until you decide to break the silence with a “What’re we doing after the assassination hoax, fellas?”

Dean Martin looks at you and makes a kind of noise you’ve never heard out of him before.

“Kid, you should go,” says Dean. “This is not an acting noise, nor a comedic noise, nor even a musical noise. This is a real noise.”

“Listen to him, kid,” says Charles. “He’s right.”

“Why do you think we behave this way?” continues Dean. “Why do you think we run around drinking drinks big and small, chasing ladies big and small, screaming and hollering always big, seemingly without a care in the world? This is no way to live.”

“We do it anyway, because it’s the only way we can deal with things,” moans Frank, horrifically drunk. “We’re terrible men. We’re miserable men.”

“But there’s still hope for you,” says Sammy. “You’ve only hung out with us for one night. I know you may have had fun, even though you killed the president. But if you continue hanging with us, your soul will become permanently stained. Go back to your hometown, even if it sucks. Help it get better. Help your fellow man, instead of just yourself. Learn from our mistakes.”

Good Blaster puts his or her head between his or her paws.

“Just get out!” screams Frank. “If you don’t leave, we’re gonna make you.”

“It’s been unclear whether or not Good Blaster actually likes you,” says Sammy. “So if you don’t leave, we’re gonna have him or her chase you the hell out of here.”

Kennedy’s already-deceased head explodes on November 22, 1963, and a nation mourns.

There’s a funeral. The man the Mafia pinned the assassination on gets killed by some other guy. JFK Jr. salutes his father. Lyndon B. Johnson becomes president. Jackie O. marries Greece. A conspiracy theorist correctly guesses that you were the one who indirectly killed JFK, but the great American joke that is the Warren Commission clears your name. Life goes on.

However, you were the one who was responsible for the death of JFK. You were the one who told him to eat more food than his weak, decaying body could handle. You never see Rat Pack again, and for days, you feel horrible—a combination of the fury you have at them for how they treated you during your final hours together and the guilt from indirectly killing one of the most iconic people in American history.

But slowly, things get better.

You decide to spend the remainder of your days trying to help your fellow man. You work to make your town a better place. You travel the country and attempt to lift people out of poverty. You build houses for the poor. You establish a nonprofit that focuses on advancing human rights. You work to improve the health of people around the globe, eventually helping to eradicate Guinea worm disease. You win the Nobel Peace Prize.

The perfect American.

You never end up seeing any Rat Pack members again, but you wish you do. You’d tell them that although they think they only lived for themselves, their impact on you was enormous. What they said just before the JFK assassination changed you for the best. You survived a night on the town with them, and it was the most important night of your life.

On your last day on earth, the day Joe DiMaggio dies, a piece of paper is slipped underneath your nursing room door. You never open it, but you can wager a guess as to what is contained inside:

“Nice job.”

You die, as any human is wont to do, but you die with the knowledge that your life meant something, not only to yourself, but to countless others. And that’s thanks to a certain famous, horrific group of showbiz men.

Rat Pack.

The End.

Since you are currently in the past, no one has invented the home computer yet. Incredibly, you stand to make $1,000,000 if you do.

With the help of Rat Pack, after a couple hours, you have built this thing. Looks good!

It’s a hit! Everyone in Rat Pack now has $1,000,000.

What do you want to do now?

“Now that you’re in Rat Pack, I’d like to introduce you to some very important people. This is the Mafia, my best friends.”

“Rat Pack are my best friends. But so are these guys. They’re just...a different type of best friends.”

“We are good at getting you out of what is called a ‘conundrum,’” say the Mafia. “But it always comes with a price. A price of $1,000,000.”

“Let’s just say that’s a price I’ve had to pay many times,” says Frank. The whole room laughs, except you. Frank Sinatra’s friends are frightening, and they make you shout out a sentence indicating the activity you’d like to do with Rat Pack next.

Rat Pack thought you were dead, so they gave you the traditional Rat Pack sendoff of strapping a parachute to your back and dumping you out of a plane.

The End.

You leave and get happily heterosexual-married and never think about Rat Pack again.

The End.

It’s a hit! You now have $1,000,000 to pay the Mafia. Nice!


“Congrats on inventing the home computer. Once you give us your $1,000,000, we can go forward with whatever option you’d like.”

Since you are currently in the past, no one has invented the home computer yet. Incredibly, you stand to make $1,000,000 if you do.

With the help of Rat Pack, after a couple hours, you have built this thing. Looks good!


I am 18 or over and willing to view sexually explicit material