What started as an innocent game night quickly turned competitive. It all started on what should have been a typical Thursday night at The Tipsy Badger, our local watering hole. The usual crew was there, Michael, the self-proclaimed darts expert, Martina, the quiet but deadly competitor, Sven, our perpetually unlucky friend, Rudi, who somehow always managed to surprise us and me, the guy who mostly showed up for the beer and occasional lucky shot.

We’d been playing the usual 501 games, with Michael dominating as usual, when he suddenly got that gleam in his eye that always precedes trouble. “Let’s mix it up,” he said, pulling out a worn notebook from his back pocket. “How about we play Killer?” The way he said it, with that mix of excitement and malice, should have been our first warning. But after a few pints, our collective judgment was impaired enough that it sounded like a brilliant idea. Little did I know this decision would lead to one of the most hilariously cutthroat nights of my dart-playing “career.”

Rules? What Rules? A Drunk Guide to Killer Darts

As Michael laid out the rules, I quickly realized this wasn’t some gentle pub game—it was Killer Darts, a brutal mix of strategy, luck and psychological warfare where only the sneakiest (or luckiest) survive.

Picking your number sounds simple, until you’re forced to throw with your useless hand and suddenly realize you have the coordination of a drunk toddler trying to thread a needle. The first test? Throwing one dart with your useless hand. Sven went first, his weak-handed toss flopping pathetically into the 5. Martina, annoyingly precise, nailed the 16. Michael, the showoff, slammed his into the 20 like he owned it. Rudi somehow hit triple 19, cheater’s luck, so we made him throw again.

Then came my turn. My left hand might as well have been a rubber chicken. I swung my arm like I was swatting a mosquito and—BULLSEYE. The room fell silent. “That’s… actually terrible,” Michael groaned. Turns out, the bullseye is both a blessing (nearly impossible to hit) and a curse (instant target on your back).

Becoming a Killer should feel badass, until you accidentally hit your own double and eliminate yourself in the most humiliating display of self-sabotage since that time you tried to impress your crush by skateboarding down stairs. The goal? Hit your own double to become a Killer, marked with a big, shameful “K”, then hunt everyone else’s doubles. Miss? You’re a joke. Hit someone else’s? They lose a life. Hit your own double again? Congrats, you’ve killed yourself and the laughter will haunt you forever.

Michael became the first Killer with terrifying ease, immediately picking off Sven’s sad little 5. He then turned into a dart-savant, analyzing everyone’s throws like a predator. “Rudi, you always go top-left on your third dart,” he mused before murdering him. Rudi retaliated by “accidentally” launching a dart into Michael’s beer.

Being the Unkillable Bullseye sounds cool until you realize you’ve become the human equivalent of that one mosquito that somehow survives an entire camping trip – infuriatingly hard to hit and making everyone around you progressively more unhinged with each failed attempt to take you down. Meanwhile, I was the cockroach of the game, annoyingly alive behind my bullseye shield. Every failed attempt to hit my double fueled the group’s rage. “Can we just pretend he’s out?” Michael begged after his fifth miss. Martina and Michael briefly teamed up to take down Rudi… until Martina betrayed Michael the second he relaxed. “You always go high-left on your third dart,” she whispered before eliminating him with a smile.

The final showdown was going to be my moment, right up until I pulled a classic ‘Leeroy Jenkins’ and spectacularly faceplanted into defeat, giving the entire bar front-row seats to my humiliation. Eventually, it was just me and Martina, the unkillable bullseye vs. the silent assassin. By sheer dumb luck, I finally became a Killer, setting up my glorious victory. Then, in the most perfectly humiliating moment possible, I immediately hit my own double bull on the next throw, eliminating myself in front of everyone. The laughter could’ve shattered windows.

And that’s how I learned: In Killer Darts, there are no heroes, only survivors and the fools who take themselves out.

The Final Verdict on Killer Darts: Nobody Wins, Everyone Loses Their Dignity and We Can’t Wait to Do It Again

The pub door swung shut behind us, the night air doing little to clear the adrenaline still buzzing through our group. Killer Darts had left its mark, both on the scoreboard and on our friendships. It’s funny how a simple game can strip people bare. Michael, the calculating tactician, had revealed himself as a ruthless dart assassin. Martina, quiet and unassuming, turned out to be the most cold-blooded backstabber of us all. And me? The accidental bullseye king, less a skilled player than a human-shaped frustration magnet. That damned red center spot had been my salvation and my curse. For three hours, I’d been both untouchable and utterly alone, watching as my friends’ glares grew darker with every failed attempt to take me down. There’s a special kind of loneliness that comes with being the one everyone wants to murder.

But the real magic wasn’t in the wins or losses, it was in the way the game twisted us together. Alliances formed and shattered like cheap glass. Inside jokes were born from spectacular misfires. And when I’d finally, gloriously, eliminated myself in the most humiliating way possible, the roar of laughter had been the kind that sticks to your ribs.

Now, as we wandered toward the next pub (because of course the night wasn’t over), I couldn’t help but eye Michael’s retreating back. He thought he was safe. He thought his little “strategic tips” wouldn’t be remembered. But I’ve been practicing. Not just my aim, my poker face. Next Killer night, that smug bastard won’t see me coming. Well. Assuming I don’t take myself out again. Some things, after all, are tradition.

Darts fever, because why not practice more, aim higher and laugh louder!

Sid Waddell, “William Tell could take an apple off your head, Taylor could take out a processed pea.”