I've written numerous What Would You Do tribute stories, where an unfortunate contestant plays a game, loses it, and gets destroyed with messy punishments in spectacular fashion. This story is a little bit different. It's darker, more sinister, more invasive, and just as messy.

The primary subject is male, but a female audience member is given a "treat" as a demonstration. If that's not your thing, you'll know when it's coming and can skip past it. Skipping it won't detract from the overall story.

If you like what you see, the full, uncensored version is posted on my Patreon (patreon.com/Hooliham). I hope you'll consider becoming a patron today -- it's only $3/month!

Happy reading!

Note: The cover image accompanying this post is AI-generated.

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[PLAYBACK COMMENCING: RECONSTRUCTING SUBJECT PERSPECTIVE...]

THE AUDIT OF MERIT

You remember the cold, filtered air of the executive elevator. You were mid-sentence, tearing into a subordinate about a "mathematical oversight" that had cost your firm a fraction of a percent of sales last month. "Precise accounting is the only thing that separates us from the animals," you'd sneered, adjusting your bespoke cufflink. Then, a flicker of the lights. A sharp, clinical sting at the base of your neck.

Darkness.

You wake to a sensory vacuum. A heavy, coarse fabric hood smells of industrial cleaner and the lingering scent of someone else's salt-streaked panic. You try to move your hands, but your wrists are locked behind you in cold steel. Your ankles are shackled to the rungs of a high, unforgiving stool.

"Specimen #7492-J," a voice boomed. It is perfectly synthesized: rich, masculine, and terrifyingly calm. It is a voice that sounds like a machine trying to emulate a human god. "Social Credit Audit: Initiated. Charge: Interpersonal Malpractice."

"Where am I? What is this?" you demand, your manager-voice cracking in the void.

"You are here because your social etiquette toward your colleagues is deficient," the Machine responds. "You've spent your career looking down on 'morons' from your glass office. Tonight, we see how your 'superior' intellect handles a different kind of accounting. We have brought you here for an audit."

You feel the cold air on your skin and the restrictive pull of synthetic fabric. You have been stripped of your suit and processed into a bright pink sports bra and a matching set of shiny pink leggings. They cling to your toned physique like a second, mocking skin. Beneath the leggings, unseen but felt with every shallow breath, is a skimpy red lace thong--a final, hidden layer of humiliation designed to strip away the last of your professional dignity.

The hood is yanked upward by a mechanical pulley.

The transition is violent. You are squinting into the blinding, white-hot intensity of studio floodlights. Ten feet in front of you, a massive digital screen flickers to life. It displays a stark, 4x4 grid of sixteen blank squares, each one marked with a cold, glowing placeholder:

[ ? ]

Beyond the lights, you can see the audience, a mob of masked observers in the shadows, their eyes gleaming with hunger for your ruin.

"I'd like to play a game," the Machine's voice echoes. "We've all played that old computer game, Minesweeper. It's a simple game. You avoid the mines, you win. I'm going to make it even easier for you. This game is called "Piesweeper." In the original, if you hit one mine, the game is over. Here, I'll give you three chances. Scattered around the grid in front of you are seven bombs, each representing one of the Seven Deadly Sins. If you hit one, we will punish you. You will receive a nice treat to teach you a lesson."

The studio is plunged into a heavy, expectant silence for a heartbeat before a single, harsh spotlight snaps to the side of the stage.

The beam catches a young woman sitting in a sturdy wooden chair. She's been sitting in the pitch black for minutes, and the sudden light is an assault. Her breath hitches--a sharp, audible intake of air--as her pupils struggle to adjust. She squints, her face contorting against the glare, her hands tied securely behind the chair's back and her torso lashed flat against the wooden frame.

She looks pristine, wearing a periwinkle tank top that complements her tan, paired with navy blue yoga pants. Her heathered white socks are pulled up slightly over the ankles of her trainers. She looks like she belongs in a park or a trendy cafe, not here. She is trembling, the realization of her "bad luck" finally setting in as her vision clears.

A masked stagehand steps into the light just five feet away. He's balancing a massive, overstuffed cream pie. Through the translucent, wobbling peaks of the whipped cream, the dark, staining juice of a heavy blueberry filling begins to weep down the side of the crust.

"No... wait," she begs, her voice small and cracking with desperation. She tries to lean back, but the restraints hold her firm. "Don't do it, please! I'm meeting my sister for her birthday after this... I didn't do anything! Don't--"

The stagehand doesn't hesitate. With a violent, practiced snap of his arm, he launches the pie. It hits her with devastating accuracy and force. A wet, heavy crack echoes through the studio. Her plea is silenced instantly as the pie explodes across her face and chest. She lets out an agonizing scream.

The periwinkle tank top is ruined in a second, buried under thick mounds of white cream and a violent, spreading bloom of deep purple blueberry juice that's slowly seeping inside the top. The stagehand walks away without a word. The woman hangs her head, the heavy, colorful mess sliding off her hair and chin, dripping onto her lap and staining her navy yoga pants in a permanent, sticky ruin.

You stare at her, the reality of the violence finally sinking in. Your heart hammers against the pink fabric of the sports bra.

"Accumulate three of those, and your audit is a failure," the Machine continues, ignoring the sobbing woman. "You will be discarded, and the real fun begins. One last thing. Lust is the deadliest of the sins. There are no strikes for Lust. If you trigger that bomb, the game ends immediately, and you lose."

The screen in front of you pulses once, a cold, expectant glow.

"Let's play."


THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS

You're on the stool. The studio lights are hot, and the air smells faintly of graham cracker crust and anticipation. The Machine takes its first opportunity to mock you.

"You look adorable in that pink outfit, player. Truly. It's a shame it's only a strike away from being trash. Since you're so convinced of your own intellectual superiority, why don't you stop peacocking for the camera and actually make a move? I'm dying to see if you can handle the sensation of cold pudding hitting that vain face of yours."

"I just want you to know I'm not happy to be here, and I'm determined to show every one of you cretins why I'm the smartest guy in the room, you just don't know it yet. Turn over A1."

You sit there on your stool, chest puffed out in the sports bra, giving off a 'powerful businessman' arrogance despite the objectifying outfit. It's a bold strategy to insult the person holding all the power.

The audience leans in, hoping for an immediate explosion of pudding.

A digital ping echoes through the studio. The square at A1 flips over. It reveals a "1". You breathe a sigh of relief. For now, you remain clean.

"You found a safe square. Congratulations. You've effectively walked into the casino, found a penny on the floor, and started acting like you own the vault. Which square are you going to 'logic' your way into next, or are you too busy admiring your muscle definition in the studio monitors?"

"Trust me, if I wanted to be, I could be a fitness influencer. But I've got bigger fish to fry in my life. Looking around, though, I bet this audience doesn't know a damn thing about superfoods or whey protein. No wonder y'all throw desserts around this room, everybody in the crowd just wants to eat 'em. Turn over A2."

"Typical. You're not here for the money, player; you're here because your vanity wouldn't let you turn down an audience, even if that audience is a group of 'cretins' who think 'whey protein' is something you use to patch a tire."

You sit there, sneering at the crowd while your pink sports bra strains against your chest as you puff it out. You think you've got "bigger fish to fry"? Well, the only thing getting fried right now is your dignity.

The digital screen doesn't just ping; it emits a sluggish, distorted groan as the word SLOTH flashes in a muddy brown. The studio lights suddenly cut out. You don't even have time to register what's happening before--

THUD.

From the darkness of the studio, a heavy graham cracker crust loaded with a chocolate pudding and whipped cream goes airborne with predatory speed. It catches you square in that vain face of yours mid-smirk.

The force of the hit snaps your head back, the tin buckling against your brow and nose. Dark, cool, and thick chocolate pudding erupts on contact, painting your ears, neck, and hair in a viscous, sugary mud. The whipped cream, slick and oily, slides down your throat and into the collar of the bra. You gasp loudly, and a glob of chocolate-heavy cream slides right onto your tongue, forcing you to taste punishment for the first time. The pink fabric of your bra turns into a heavy, sagging, translucent weight that clings to your athletic frame as pie remnants ooze down your front.

Strike 1.