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"Wh-what if a gh-gh-ghost gets me?" you ask yourself, resigning to the go nowhere attitude of your loser friends. You join them at their little party, and appearently the glossy vampire epic of Wesley Snipes was still too much a fright for them, as they're howling like dogs at a Dane Cook comedy special instead. They clear a spot for you on the couch, and you gladly accept, happy to be safe and warm, happy to wallow in cowardace. Laughing at the 30th "my girlfriend" joke on screen, you are unaware of the fact Frankenstein lurks outside, filthy sick of the ratshit routine he hears from within. He punches the house until it collapses, leaving you to die in a pile of mask wearing jackalopes and ultra dweebs, thinking thoughts of the mighty adventure that could have been.
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