Back in his living room, the rift closed. Marty landed on his couch, breathless and covered in soot. He popped a tab, took a long swig, and looked at the scorched floorboards.
Marty took a breath. The heavy metal riffs began to swell in his ears, vibrating through the soles of his shoes. He took his first step, and the world blurred.
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The air in the pits of Hell didn’t just smell like sulfur; it smelled like burnt rubber and broken keyboards.
"You want your brew?" a booming, distorted voice echoed from the crimson clouds. "You’ve gotta earn it. Under par. No mistakes. No stopping." Back in his living room, the rift closed
He chased the beast into the rift, but instead of a fiery abyss, he found himself in a neon-streaked nightmare of floating platforms and spinning sawblades. This was the Gauntlet of the Damned, the ultimate obstacle course for those who didn't have time to die slowly.
He wasn't just running; he was flying. He vaulted over pits of molten lead, used gravity-defying portals to sling himself across impossible gaps, and threw fireballs to ignite boosters that launched him into the stratosphere. Every second mattered. 15.4 seconds... 14.2... if he hit 13.0, he’d earn a medal. If he hit 12.5, he’d earn his beer. Marty took a breath
"Worth it," he muttered. Then he looked at the clock. "Wait... I think I can do that run two seconds faster."