I adopted a habit of carrying a spare sock with me everywhere. I don’t do this out of some misplaced desire to recreate that children’s story about one lonely mitten. It’s because of my new lifestyle. A new era is upon my dorm. Assassin has begun.
The mission is simple: Use a balled-up sock to hit your assigned target. Whenever you successfully kill your target, you assume his or her target and continue the rampage. The coveted title of Super-Duper Assassin — a title I just made up, for lack of more technical terminology — indicates this individual has a true gift: the awe-inducing ability to hit others with flying socks while avoiding the same fate. As you can imagine, it is the highest of honors.
Buzz was building. People waited impatiently to know on whom they would unleash all their pair-less socks.
Soon, I received an email entitled “YOUR MISSION.” Just like the CIA! I opened it with bated breath. I wondered whose fate lay in my hands. Large, red font appeared on my screen with a name: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _.
Chills.
Yes, that is the accurate number of letters. Those so inclined are welcome to figure it out.
The game officially began at 4 a.m. Wednesday. Since then, the actions I have taken have involved: 1) Still being asleep at 4 a.m. on Wednesday, 2) Continuing to sleep until 8:45 a.m., at which point I realized I had a 9 a.m. class, 3) Forgetting entirely of the game’s existence, 4) Being very confused when people were throwing socks everywhere, 5) Realizing that I was a part of it, 6) Being too preoccupied with catching up on “The Mindy Project” to care that my life is in grave danger and I may be eliminated at any moment.
I have found my careful strategic planning paying off, as I can proudly say that — for now — I remain in the game.
Some people put all my efforts to shame, though. They have become completely consumed by the game — which I realized last night, when a joke of mine severely traumatized a friend. Possibly forever.
It all began when I noticed him standing in our dorm lounge with an aura of accomplishment. No, he hadn’t just won a Nobel prize — he had just killed someone! I thanked God silently for allowing me to miss the gruesome encounter.
While on the subject, though, I decided to casually remove my sock. Within 0.234 seconds, he was on the other side of the lounge, writhing on the ground in acute physical pain from his presumed death.
“OH MY GOD, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU! THIS GAME MEANS SO MUCH TO ME AND YOU KNEW THAT! WOW. WOW. THIS IS SUCH A BAD NIGHT.”
I had not thrown the sock. Furthermore, I was not his assassin.
I’m fairly certain his false death almost caused his real death. He may have broken some critical bones, and his blood pressure was certainly not at a healthy level as I told him I was joking.
I stepped toward him. He sprinted through the lounge, down the hall and out of the doorway without a second thought. As I peered out of the window, I saw him eat it, taking two bikes down with him.
When he eventually, and ostensibly calmly, reentered the building I tried to approach him again — hoping to re-emphasize I was really not his assassin — but he tried to attack me with a “CAUTION, WET FLOOR” sign and proceeded to run into the open elevator.
He apparently did not realize I too could walk into the elevator. Realizing his fate, he sank dramatically into the elevator corner, and protected himself in the best way he knew how: rolling around on the floor.
Deciding to be beneficent, I threw the sock and put the poor guy out of his misery. His body went limp. He looked up at me, very misty-eyed and disappointed.
I am really not his assassin.
After several minutes of insisting he was not dead, he finally believed me. It took him a while to calm to socially acceptable levels of anxiety, but I doubt he will ever be able to fully recover. I can only imagine the distress that will materialize from his actual assassination, and I will wait patiently for this day.
He may have narrowly escaped death for now, but to my real target: watch out. I’m coming for you.
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