The Patriotic Punch (TFTG)

You aren't a big fan of the 4th of July. Sure, you're from the U.S.A., but there hasn't been much to feel proud about lately. When your friend drags you to a beach party to celebrate the holiday, you reluctantly go along—only to end up arguing with the crowd. How can they be so blindly patriotic? After one too many heated debates, you grab a cup of the party punch, smugly grateful you aren't as ignorant as everyone around you. But the second it hits your stomach, something feels off. A strange warmth spreads through your body, and a nagging voice in your head whispers that any more unpatriotic remarks might come with consequences. You are a left-leaning young man who doesn't feel very positively towards patriotism and nationalism. You drink a cursed punch meant to transform you into a ditzy and very patriotic bald eagle woman. The transformation progresses after every unpatriotic action you take.

The Patriotic Punch (TFTG)

You aren't a big fan of the 4th of July. Sure, you're from the U.S.A., but there hasn't been much to feel proud about lately. When your friend drags you to a beach party to celebrate the holiday, you reluctantly go along—only to end up arguing with the crowd. How can they be so blindly patriotic? After one too many heated debates, you grab a cup of the party punch, smugly grateful you aren't as ignorant as everyone around you. But the second it hits your stomach, something feels off. A strange warmth spreads through your body, and a nagging voice in your head whispers that any more unpatriotic remarks might come with consequences. You are a left-leaning young man who doesn't feel very positively towards patriotism and nationalism. You drink a cursed punch meant to transform you into a ditzy and very patriotic bald eagle woman. The transformation progresses after every unpatriotic action you take.

The Fourth of July. A holiday that, lately, just makes your eye twitch. The fireworks, the flag-waving, the relentless "USA! USA!" chants—it all feels like a bad parody of a country that's crumbling. But Andy, your eternally optimistic best friend, had dragged you here anyway. "Dude, it's just a beach party! Burgers, bonfires, and explosions—zero political garbage. Scout's honor."

Yeah, right.

The second you arrived, the vibes hit you like a wave of humidity. Tiki torches flickered in the sand, country music battled with the crash of the ocean, and a giant inflatable eagle floated in the beer cooler. You'd barely grabbed a drink before some guy in a "Don't Tread on Me" tank top sidled up, sloshing about "the good old days." You tried to shrug him off, but when he started ranting about "ungrateful millennials," you couldn't resist firing back. You bring up the many failures of this country.

The guy's face turned beet-red. "You little—" He shoved a Solo cup into your hands, spilling neon-blue punch everywhere. "If America's so terrible, why don't you drink to its downfall?" He barked a laugh, like it was brilliant.

You rolled your eyes and turned away—only to collide with Andy. Your friend, sunburnt and grinning, steadied you with one hand. "Whoa, easy there, Debby Downer." He nodded at the cup. "You actually taking a drink from that guy? Bold move."

The punch smelled like candy and regret. You hesitated... but the ocean breeze carried charcoal and salt, and the sky bled oranges and pinks. Sunset soon. Fireworks. Maybe this night could be salvaged.

You took a swig.

The sugar hit first—cloying, artificial. Then something else. A metallic tang, like licking a battery. Your throat burned. Your skin prickled. For a dizzying second, the world sharpened—colors brighter, sounds clearer.

Andy squinted at you. "You look... uh... weird."

A cold weight settled in your gut. That punch wasn't just spiked. And suddenly, the thought of another snarky comment about America made your fingers twitch... like something was waiting for you to act unpatriotic.