Arvid Dunsten groaned as he held his over-sized head with one hand balancing his elbow on the table for support. He read the card he had just drawn, "Your head is now as really as big as you thought, but despite the size it is empty. You are out of the game, Mr. Bobblehead!"
He stepped back from the game using both hands to control his huge head. He staggered toward the dresser and was pleased to see in the mirror that his head was starting to shrink. It wasn't until his chin reached the dresser top that Arvid realized his body was shrinking too. He pulled himself up on the dresser and watched in horror as he became smaller and stiffer. His arms pressed tight against his sides. Arvid's head bobbed back and forth on his narrow springy neck.
When John Helmer, one of Arvid's roommates, returned he discovered the cool new bobblehead wearing a tiny College Sweatshirt emblazoned with the school's mascot, and he discovered Arvid's new game.
John, unlike Arvid, was an extrovert party animal type guy. If the university allowed it, John would have pledged a fraternity his freshman year, but university policy only allowed sophomores to join the frats. John couldn't wait until next year. He was horrified to find that the university in its quest to provide a diverse college experience had matched John up with three losers for roommates. Losers with a capital L.
Arvid was the stereotypical, loner nerd, Rod was the super jock athlete and Billy was queer as a three dollar bill. John was sure that one day, he'd see Arvid led away in handcuffs after some violent killing spree, it always was the quiet ones. Rod always woke everyone up with his 5am early morning work out routine, it really irked a night-owl like John who went to bed at 3am, and Rod considered his body a temple, so he wouldn't touch beer, just wheat grass juice. Billy was the worst, he wanted everyone to know he was a fag. He wore rainbow colored tee shirts with off-color slogans, they weren't risque, they were lewd and rude.
Whenever any of John's party dudes were around, Arvid would stare at them like a paranoid freak, Rod would treat them like furniture and ignore them, and Billy would hit on them, touching--no, groping them.
But none of them were around, just this cool new board game. John grabbed his phone and put out the party call. Adding at the end of each call to a bud, "Bring beer!" Within fifteen minutes five guys bearing cold 12 packs were seated around Arvid's special game.
At the magic shoppe, the old man smiled. Arvid's paranoia had been justified, someone had been plotting to use him. The old man had used him as a messenger to deliver the game to its intended target, one of the six men now seated around the board. The old man was notorious for his collateral damage. He had had to replaced the walls of his shoppe with asbestos after his fire insurance was cancelled. The old man had a habit of swatting flies with lightning bolts and fire balls. He even went fishing with lit sticks of dynamite. The occupant's of John and Arvid's dorm were about to discover what it was like to become collateral victims.
"The instructions are easy: 1) select a token, 2) place it on start, 3) roll the dice, 4) advance on the board, 5) follow the instructions on the square or card if told to draw, 6) first one to the winner's circle wins, 7) once started game must be completed."
"You heard the rules, we gotta play until somebody wins," Stu shouted, grabbing the dice, "I go first!"
He rolled a seven, shouting, "Lucky Seven!:
Eddie laughed, "You mean craps!" He pointed to the seventh square.
Stu read, "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, turn to stone for 2 turns, so that calmer heads may pass you."
"Man, they print an awful lot in a small spa--" Stu's sentence cut short as his flesh turned the dark gray of granite like the statues in the university's quad.
The other players gasped. Roger Morehouse, ladies man, prided himself on knowing when to retreat. Discretion was the better part of valor. He was sitting to the right of statuefied Stu, and his turn was next. He rose to leave, but as soon as he stepped out the door, he found himself seated back in his chair. The dice rolled of their own accord.
"Five," read John.
"Where in hell did you find this haunted game?" Roger asked in wide-eyed terror as his token advanced without his help to the fifth square.
John answered, "It was just here."
"Draw a card," read Eddie.
After about thirty seconds, the card drew itself floating toward Roger. He read nervously, " 'A Coward Dies A Thousand Deaths, Only 999 to Go Before Your Next Turn'--- hey, the drawing of the hooded executioner is getting bigger." He dropped the card on the table as a giant hooded executioner rose life size out of the card wielding a battle axe.
Every tenth of a second for about 2 minutes, the four human players and statue watched as Roger was disemboweled, garroted, drawn and quartered, stabbed, shot, dismembered, drowned, burned, and executed a thousand different ways. As soon as he died, he was reconstituted to live and die again.
Finally it stopped. They stared barely breathing at the bruised and bloody visage Roger had become. He was whole, he was alive, he was breathing, but he bore the healed scars of his thousand deaths. Each waited for the next axe, fireball, dart, grenade or sword to fall. After about, 30 seconds, Roger breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the dice and handing them to Eddie said, "Guess, it's your turn now, bro."
Eddie took the dice from Roger's cold hand. He swallowed nervously glancing at the living Frankenstein's monster sitting next to him. Roger had the scars and appearance of a corpse that had been sewn together from spare parts. All that was missing was the bolts in the neck, and the neon green skin. Though it had a pale greenish tinge now that really creeped Eddie out. He rolled the dice. Two fives. A ten. He advanced his token. The square said, "Roll again."
So, Eddie did. "Four."
The square said, "Not foolhardy, but brave. You shall have the physique you crave." Instantly, small lanky Eddie expanded outward becoming a muscle hunk. He grew 8 inches in height, and added sixty pounds of pure muscle. His pale skin darkened to a golden bronze tan. His balding head blossomed with new curls. His shirt ripped to reveal massive pecs, and a rock hard eight-pack of abs.
"Maybe this game isn't going to be as bad as I feared."
The others stared in awe. Stu had been transformed in a statue. Roger had died a thousand deaths. Now, Eddie had become a super stud. John thought inwardly that Billy was going to regret missing this hunk. At the thought who should enter, but Billy, and one of his many boyfriends.
"Oooh, a stag party! I'm in heaven," Billy cooed picking up the game's lid.
"Up to 10 players, and in looks like we're just in time. You're just starting, I'll take the pink token, and slave will take the black..."
"Sir, you promised not to call me that in public!" the red faced youth admonished Billy. Then to the others, he said, "I'm Pete."
"Slave, this isn't public. It's my dorm room, and John there is my room mate, and these are his friends. Erik, John, uh, I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure uh,--" Billy extended his hand with his drooling mouth hanging open to Eddie.
"It's me, Eddie," the hunk answered.
"Eddie? Eddie, of course, it's been too long, you've really um filled out in the last few months since I saw you. And, Roger? Did you just come from a costume party? Or are you getting a six month jump on Halloween? And--why on earth would you dress a statue in clothes and put it at your table like a player? I'll never understand how heteros think, will you, Petey?"
"That's Stu, Billy," said Roger in a lifeless monotone.
Eddie handed Erik the dice.