"Twenty-three dollars," he's saying. "Twenty-three dollars for the best dream of your life."
You don't know his name or anything -- he's just the guy you always meet at parties thrown by people you've never met. He's nobody's friend, exactly, but everyone knows who he is when it's time. Probably doesn't even have a name, probably has bagged groceries at some godforsaken Shopper's Food Warehouse since high school, but who cares? He's here to help you in your hour of need.
"What do you say?" he asks, holding up a repurposed cough syrup bottle with something green inside. Green like candy almost never is.
2nd place (out of 36) in the 9th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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