You step on the button.

Ding.

All the dice are gone, into… whatever place things go when you press the button.

Instead, there’s a display fridge filled with beer.

Are you over 16? Wait, no, 18? Wait, no, 21? Why are there so many different ages?

Then no alcohol for you! Ha! Just push that button again, and leave that vice for another year!

Great!

…Wait, which one?

Really? Are you sure?

Riiiiiight

Ok then, I believe you.

It’s not opening.

You glare around you, then try the door again.

Still nothing.

You insist to the ceiling that you are, in fact, of legal drinking age.

Too bad you don’t have any form of ID on you, to prove it. Grey hairs? They prove nothing. Wrinkles? Eh, ever heard of Benjamin Button? Physical appearance is not a good indicator of age.

Besides, it isn’t not opening because I’m stopping it or something, nope, it isn’t opening because the door is glued shut.

You put your foot on the side of the fridge and put all your strength into getting that door open. This results in the handle breaking off.

Well done.

Glaring at the fridge, you kick at the glass.

Your toes hurt now.

You’re hit with inspiration! Going to the side, you push it away from the wall. It’s heavy, but not bolted down or anything. Slowly, carefully, you move the fridge a few feet away from the wall. Just enough for you to get behind it.

There’s a cord and electrical outlet back there. You ignore them. There’s also a layer of dust, which you also ignore. Instead, you get your feet up and tiiiip the fridge over.

With a crash, it lands face-first on the ground.

Over the button.

Ding.