Make your way to the Dunk Tank booth where the tiger-striped girl sits waiting.

Lucky Draw Booth (fading), Madame Lilith's Midnight Carnival, at 12:30 AM on Wednesday November 1, 2024

You turn away from Celeste's booth just as the paint begins to run—colors dripping down the wooden slats like mascara on a crying whore. Behind you, the whole structure shimmers, dissolving at its edges into that warm, thick air. Celeste's rounded belly, her cum-slicked thighs, her heaving tits—all of it folds inward like a pop-up book closing. Within seconds, there's nothing but empty sawdust where the booth stood.

Your legs carry you toward the dunk tank, sneakers crunching over the ground. The green glow intensifies as you approach—that sick, bioluminescent light pulsing from the vat like a diseased heartbeat. Up close, the liquid inside is thick, viscous, almost gelatinous. And beneath its surface, those purple tentacles writhe in lazy spirals, their suckers opening and closing with wet little pop-pop-pop sounds.

The girl perched on the seat above the tank swings her bare feet, heels kicking against nothing. Up close, she's younger than you first thought—maybe nineteen, twenty at most. Her hair is fucking wild: thick bands of orange and black alternating from root to tip, like some exotic predator's pelt, falling in choppy layers around a sharp-jawed face. Her eyes are narrow and mean, lined with smudged black eyeliner. Her body is compact and curvy—thick thighs, a tight little waist, and a pair of perky tits barely contained in a cropped tank top that reads "BITE ME" in faded letters. She's wearing cutoff denim shorts so short the pockets hang below the hem.

"Oh great," she says flatly, looking you up and down with undisguised contempt. "They sent me the fucking nerd." She picks at a hangnail on her thumb. "Name's Marissa. You gonna play or you gonna stand there with your dick in your hand?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Push your glasses up. "I—how does—"

"Jesus Christ." She rolls her eyes so hard you can see the whites. "It's a dunk tank, genius. You throw balls at the target—" she points to a circular bullseye painted on a lever mechanism to her left— "hit it, I go in the soup. Tentacles fuck me, lay eggs in my cunt, breed me. You win tickets. Simple enough for your little brain?"

She leans forward, those perky tits straining against her tank top. "One token per throw. Three balls per game. Hit the target once, I go in, you get five tickets. Miss all three, you get nothing and I get to laugh at you." A cruel smile spreads across her face. "But here's the fun part, birthday boy. You can bet more tokens to multiply. Two tokens per ball, tickets double. Three tokens per ball, they triple."

She kicks her feet again, deliberately provocative. "Course, you look like you couldn't hit a barn with a fucking shotgun. But that's your problem, not mine."

Below her, the tentacles stir, rising slightly toward the surface as if sensing a potential meal. One of them extends a tendril above the green liquid, tasting the air near her dangling feet. She flinches—just barely, just for a second—before that bratty mask slides back into place.

"So what's it gonna be, four-eyes? You gonna try to dunk me, or you gonna wander off and find a game more your speed? Like, I dunno, a fucking coloring book?"