Perhaps Herman has a point. After all, everyone knows that Disney is pretty much the scion of evil. You agree to his terms, however maniacal they might be, and he gleefully tells you to follow him out to his garage.

You’ve never heard anyone describe the back of their shed as a "garage," but you’re beginning to think that the less you talk to Herman, the better. The important thing is that he has a car, and you both need to get to the Epcot center, and it matters not whether you need to get there to find treasure, or blow something up.

He leads you around to that oh so familiar white van, which still bears an outline of you impressed upon its grill. Seeing it brings back painful memories, mainly of you being creamed on the highway, but you manage to put it all behind you long enough to get in the front seat. Herman manages to squeeze his costumed head into the driver’s side with a little work, and before you can ask him if he can see well enough to drive, you’re off.

For the most part, the drive is uneventful. Passing motorists do tend to gawk at Herman’s bizarre getup as they pass, but other than that, nothing much really happens. You can’t believe it yourself. You expected a rampaging lunatic on a motorcycle, or an overturned truckload of maple syrup, or some other comically unbelievable bit of misfortune to impede you in some way. But no, nothing of the sort. Looks like you’ll have to chalk this one up to sheer luck.

"Man, am I glad you decided to come with me to the Epcot center. Good thing you didn’t shrug at the choice, though, because if you had, I’da killed ya!" Boy, that Melvin sure is a kidder. Hopefully.

A short while later, you arrive at the Epcot center. "Remember where we parked," Herman instructs. That shouldn’t be hard, considering that Herman chose to park fairly close to the ticket booth. Two feet, to be precise. That, combined with his Dale headgear proves to be a good enough explanation for the ticket takers to let him in. You manage to cover your own admission by telling the ticket takers that you’re Mr. Melville’s psychologist, and that this is an important part of his therapy. One of the ticket takers asks you about your ticking briefcase, but you divert his interest by telling him that you’re just keeping track of how much time Herman has left in his session. Fortunately, he doesn’t notice your cold sweat as you are reminded of the almost certain doom that lies inside the briefcase.

You follow Herman for a while as he makes his way deep into the park. Suddenly, he stops you and tells you that you’ve arrived at the very center of the park. Feeling a sudden rise in your level of unease around Herman, you drop the briefcase and excuse yourself to go get some overpriced Disney food. Herman asks you to bring him a soda, but judging from the way he’s leering at the briefcase, you don’t think he’ll need it anytime soon.

As you grumble about your $8 nachos, you hear a deafening explosion. Wait, can you hear something if it’s deafening? Wouldn’t you be deaf? Anyway, you finish your nachos and head back to where you left Herman. Sadly, there is nothing of Herman except a wide crater and a dozen bloodied scraps of his Dale head floating to the ground. One of the larger scraps lands on your shoe. As you pick it off, you notice a tag on the back: Made in Georgia. That’s it, you think to yourself. That’s the location of the Popeye’s Chicken & Biscuits where you’ll find the next clue to your quest! Finally, progress!!

Your self-congratulations is cut short, however, as the Disney authority-types are beginning to move in around the area, and since you are (or were) Herman’s alleged psychologist, you just know that they’ll try to implicate you in this whole "explosive vendetta" mess. You’ve got to get the hell out of here, and fast.

You decide to:

• Distract the guards and take the monorail.
   
• Fight your way out.
   
• Accuse an unsupervised child of causing the explosion.
   
• Start shouting about how you’ll sue the park.