The last thing Shawn remembers from last night is kissing Mr. Boots goodnight and locking his apartment door. That must be when whoever put him in this damp, disgusting bathroom jumped out of the shadows, drugged him, and dragged him to this awful place, where the floor is littered with broken glass and the door handle is scalding hot to the touch.

“Hello?” he says to a large mirror positioned on the wall across from the stalls. “Is anyone in there? Let me out of here! We can talk about this!”

Turn on the TV. A voice crackles through a speaker in the roof.

Shawn didn’t notice the TV. It’s positioned on a rolling table, facing the corner. He limps over to it – his leg feels like it’s been run over a couple times – and turns the television away from the wall. He plugs it into an uncovered electrical socket. Sparks fly out and the television buzzes to life.

Shawn is greeted by a ghastly sight: the face of a ventriloquist’s dummy. It speaks to him as it rides around on a miniature bicycle. It’s all really fucked up.

Hello, Shawn. Welcome. In this room you are going to find two objects: a pistol loaded with one bullet, and a copy of the Saw video game, which came out this week. Both are your tickets to freedom. Which one you choose is up to you.

Shawn reaches into a basket and pulls out the gun and the video game. He checks the chamber. There’s a single bullet. He sets it on top of the television and reads the back of the video game’s box.

“Well, this looks awful,” Shawn thinks. “But it can’t be worse than death. Right?”

He pops the game into an open laptop attached to the television by a dusty AV cord. He positions the television so that he can sit on the toilet seat and play from there. Within minutes, he’s in more agony than he’s ever been in his life – and he’s had kidney stones.

“What the fuck is this?! I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemies!” he screams and tosses the laptop across the room. It clatters across the drywall-littered tile and lands on its face against the door.

You shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t get to the first save point!

A trap door opens in the ceiling and a few dozen laptops spill out. Shawn leaps out of the wall and scrambles up against the wall. “You’re insane! You bought thirty copies of that abomination? What have you done!? They’ll make a sequel!”

It’s already in the works, because they’re so cheap to make!

There’s a terrible chattering noise. “Oh, God!” Shawn yelps. He bolts across the room and grabs the gun, tearing a ligament in his leg. He places the gun against his forehead and squints his eyes. “See you in hell, you sick fuck!”

I’m proud of you, Shawn.

Shawn opens one eye. “You are?”

Very.

The door creaks open. There’s a glimmer of daylight on the other side. Shawn puts the gun down and limps towards it. “You’re just gonna…let me go?”

Yes, but I want you to think about something before you go. The world you step out into is one in which a film series about a man sadistically torturing random people has made over 650 million dollars worldwide and shows no signs of stopping. These films are badly made and have no artistic credibility whatsoever, but they continue to out-gross films that do. Your grandchildren will be watching Saw 27 instead of visiting you in your hospital room, and then you will die, and Saw will continue to go on, forever and ever, propelling its shittiness into eternity.

Shawn stands in the doorway for a moment, mulling this over. His face turns dark red. “FUCK IT! YOU’RE RIGHT! THIS IS BULLSHIT!” he screams and crosses back towards the television.

Shawn grabs the gun, puts it in his mouth, and blows his brains out over the bathroom mirror. It’s a fantastic display of the kind of sweet, delicious gore that makes the audience hoot and holler without fail.