The Cold Inclusive

You were naked, hiding/reading a magazine behind a leather couch, deep in a sub-basement of David Hasselhoff’s stately manor. You could hear him moving through the rooms, somewhere up above you. Frustration bleeding through the syllables as he called your name in a singsong voice. You wondered how much longer it would be before he found you. And how he would act, once he did. You were still so angry that you’d had to sign an NDA; if you could write about this you would definitely have the most popular blog ever.

You’d heard stories. Sure, there’d always been rumors. I swear to God, it happened to a friend of a friend and she had no reason to lie. Oaths between starlets, sworn to God between lines of coke in nightclub bathrooms. The veracity of the story listed as “Undetermined” on Snopes. The specifics always in flux, detailed just sketchily enough to ring plausible, yet dubious. Each time the story was told, the game had a different name. The Amazonian Gauntlet. Dream of the Parlour Songbird. The Foxyhunt.

And then, just hours earlier, you found yourself being recruited at a nightclub. A man pulled you down off the table and whispered beneath the bedlam. The offer too outlandish to be taken seriously. Looking down at the stack of bills he’d pressed into your hand. And now here you were: running naked around David Hasslehoff’s house, playing the game. Playing David Hasslehoff’s Game of Sexual Jungle Cat.

You saw the title of the game printed on the laminated instructions that were handed to you as you entered his mansion and thought: Oh no. And then the reassurance, asterixed at the bottom of the page: No Furry business, this is strictly on the level. This is not about anyone pretending they are an animal. This is about submitting oneself to the passionate, atavistic glory of the chase. Imagine a deep, dark rain forest. Somewhere deep within, two small creatures of the night meet and become as one. Does it matter? Yes. It matters more than anything. In fact, everything depends on it.

OK. You skimmed the page and familiarized yourself with the rules. None of the rumors even came close to this.

Hasslehoff strips naked and is led by his manservant into a large metal cage. He can get out, but he pretends that he cannot. You then enter the room, stand in the center, and undress. Slowly, and with your back to him. You hear him growl and rattle the cage. Then, your last item of clothing on the floor (29. Hat last PLEASE.) you do a half-turn, give him a wink, and run. Sprint. He will give you a head start of anywhere from 30 seconds to four minutes, depending on his needs. You are to run for your life — run anywhere in the mansion, and hide from him. Elude him for as long as you can.

35. You must remain at all times within the house proper. 36. You will not be given a map, if you get lost that is your problem, and kind of the point. 37. No giving clues or saying anything or making noises, no matter how much you hear Mr H begging. No nor matter how much your desire for him. 38. In certain cases he may offer money for you to reveal your whereabouts but that is a trick and no additional monetary awards, proffered in the midst of passion such as they are, will be honored. 39. When Mr H locates you he will immediately begin The Act with you, in whichever manner his mood fancies. 40. Afterwards (plan on consummation taking 2-10 min.) Mr H will retire to his sauna. 41. Arrows will light up along the baseboards; please follow them to the nearest exit in order to retreive your clothing and any personal belongings.

All fine and good. But now it’s 3 a.m. and he still hasn’t found you. There’s a gigantic TV down here, could you turn it on low or would that be considered against the rules. You’re not even hiding anywhere difficult, what is his deal. You’d think he’d be awesome at this game if he played it as much as he—

—Actually. You suddenly notice that it’s eerily quiet. You can’t hear him walking. And how long has it been since he last called your name? This is kind of creepy now. There isn’t one noise, anywhere in the house. Is this still part of the game?

Fuck it. You get up to go look for him. Creeping quietly up the stairs, peeking around corners. Moving through the rooms, stopping to listen for anything. Feeling more naked and exposed than you’ve ever felt in your life. And then you find him, sitting naked at a desk. He throws a wad of Kleenex into the trash and misses.

“I looked everywhere for you. I couldn’t contain myself any longer, so you missed out. You missed out big time.”

He turns his head away, averting his eyes from yours. You are going to demand a copy of the NDA because surely there is some kind of loophole here. He claps twice and the arrows light up.