500 Finger Fillet

My hand is splayed on the table, held at the wrist by a contraption showing a glowing green number. This number counts the amount of times I need to press a button to make a machine holding a knife stab hopefully between, but possibly into, my fingers, before I get to choose a delicious roguelike upgrade to help me for the rest of my run. The blade wavers between flesh and wood. Time is running out. If I hit my finger, there’s a chance I’ll sever it completely. This can be a good thing; it’ll trigger the bonuses on some of the rings I’ve bought and it makes the rest of the stabs easier. But I’ve already lost three fingers and the blood loss is becoming untenable.

Ursa, the bear-masked, arm-bodied woman watching the whole affair, asks an important question: Are you having fun?