The Hungover Games File

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

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.

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

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.

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 Hungover Games: no one really wins

In the final showdown, it came down to him and the woman in the sequined tube top. They stood ten feet apart, swaying slightly.

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

“Fine. You both win. But you have to watch a recap of everything you said last night on video.”

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 rules were clear now.

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