Jack and the woman looked at each other in pure, unadulterated horror. They both sat down on the cold concrete, held their heads in their hands, and waited for the inevitable shame to begin.
The rules were clear now.
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 arena went silent. The voice overhead paused, then sighed like a disappointed game show host. The Hungover Games
Then he heard it: a soft, wet ah-choo from across the arena.
“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 and the woman looked at each other
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.
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.
In the final showdown, it came down to him and the woman in the sequined tube top. They stood ten feet apart, swaying slightly. A spotlight hit the center of the arena,
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. You both win. But you have to watch a recap of everything you said last night on video.”
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.
They stared at each other. Then, simultaneously, they both said, “Truce?”
“I don’t want to fight,” she whispered, wincing.