Do not read this if you believe, even for a second, that I see this story as anyway near to reality. Many people can visit lala land. I live in lalalalalalala world, the source of my upheaval.
As posted on als-whaticantellyou.blogspot.com I feel it necessary to warn of bad words, a bad man and an appropriate conclusion- the only thing appropriate in the whole mess extracted from my cerebral cortex.
The day was particularly bright.
Rare sunlight burst through the doors as the keeper swung them wide, bathing the room with a natural glow for the first time in a thousand years. There was, of course, no scream from the hinges as they folded open, no skirling of dust as a breeze was inhaled, and no freshening of the centuries old air. None of this came as a surprise to the keeper as he rounded the doors- modern in design, well-oiled and perfectly true, silent and smooth. When he entered the sunlight, he did not squint. The brightness did not affect his eyes. He showed no emotion at first. After a few seconds, however, his brain began to change. Something about the sun, a sun he had never seen, had never felt, began a transformation. Wonderment filled his mind. It suddenly occurred to him that he never should have thrown the bolt, never should have turned the knobs, never should have exposed his world,……… but he had no regrets. As the sunlight touched his skin, pallid and gray, he could feel life’s energy absorb into every pore, drench every cell. It felt like electricity coursing through his veins, yet he knew nothing about electricity even though the area of his keep was drenched in light emitted by countless fluorescent fixtures, controlled by nary a switch. He had no idea that Pandora’s box now lay, strewn about, in pieces; its contents already infusing into reality- a reality soon to become a nightmare of epic proportions.
The room was flayed open.
The keeper never should have opened the doors to an outside world, a world where physics existed in harmony with nature and life ran like a clock- a clock wound and set by the happenings within the room. The keeper, a man programmed to perform a minimum of functions, designed with a minimal skill, a minimal intelligence, a minimal experience, had acted on an unexpected impulse and had swung the doors wide, both actually and figuratively, on universal chaos.
The dim bulb that was the keeper’s mind brightened as he stood in the doorway. For the first time in his life, he was aware of his surroundings. He looked out on a new world. A sidewalk, a street. Traffic lights flashing yellow. If he had any notion at all, he would have recognized the area as an industrial park. He had never seen a human being. He had no point of reference for anything and very little understanding seeped into his brain. While thought processes had begun to develop, his cognition was still low. In his mind, all he saw were things. That was, until he caught movement out of the corner of his eye as he turned back toward the room. His feeble brain barely registered the distant figure, a man, moving erratically closer, a few blocks away- not quite a curiosity.
The keeper turned back and assessed, with a new understanding, infantile yet growing, the only environment he could remember before opening those doors. The room- seemingly endless in all directions- made no sense to him. He knew he was a keeper yet he couldn’t remember what he kept. He knew, somehow, that he wasn’t the only keeper yet he had never met another soul. All of his new revelations came to him in waves. He knew he was responsible for something yet he couldn’t recall much of anything. It seemed the more his mind began to function, the less he could recall. He started to look around - in his estimation- for the first time. With any comparable reference, the sight within the room would have set new standards for strange. Every few seconds, the silence was interrupted by a crash, most distant, some closer, all punctuated by a tinkle of broken glass. Before today, the keeper could not recall ever hearing anything. A new word popped into his head as he looked, seemingly for the first time, at what filled the room. Symmetry. Then another- perfection. Lined up in both directions, for as far as the eye could see, were small round tables. At the center of each table stood a glass, a Champaign glass, (had he known), empty and glistening. Suspended, in mid air, over each glass was a hammer, a small sledge. A massive array of fluorescents overhead managed, somehow, to light each table with an individuality that made it appear as the center of its own universe. Apropos, as it turned out.
Within sight, a hammer dropped, smashing the glass below to smithereens and scaring the keeper half out of his developing mind. Little did he know that at the very instant the hammer crushed the glass a four year old girl, Lindsay, (unfortunately named after Lindsay Lohan), died upon impact with a Silverado
Taz Williams, known lovingly by his bar buddies as the Tasmanian devil, was feeling particularly good, though lost and loaded as he lurched and swayed to the whiskey beat. The night had been kind to him, what with the friendly idiot, some new guy, buying drinks and trying to sell lame conversation; buying the good stuff, Crown and such, normally above Taz’s pay grade. It was too bad he’d already hitched a ride with the bastard before he found out the bum was queer. Now he was God knows where after jacking the puke in the mouth and clearing out of his car at five in the morning. For a fleeting moment he wondered if the fag would have coughed up some dough to get off. Only for a moment. He wasn’t that drunk. Actually, he was. He was glad he punched the guy before he had time to consider.
Taz was lost, and not for the first time. Little did he know it would be his last. H e usually had good directional instincts and generally found out that choosing a direction and sticking to it was sure to take you somewhere (though a couple times he got rolled by dudes just for invading their turf). Looking around he found himself in some kind of industrial abyss, where nobody was going to beat him up but just as likely an area where nobody was going to pick him up. He wondered if that guy had brought him out here to kill him. If he’d had a gun, he could’ve put a round in Taz’s head pretty as you please. Taz considered maybe that wouldn’t have been all bad.
The Crown Royal was seeping through his skin, and the aroma, mixed with his sweat, extended his intoxication. He was reeling from the feeling. Good shit was good shit, even the second time around. Old Tazman was feeling no pain. He was also feeling no shame. The piss soaked the crotch of his Levis, rolled down his left leg and filled his Converse. Without as much as a hesitation, he continued down the deserted street. Had he been aware of it, even Taz would have marveled at a guy who could take a leak while walking. Supernatural, he would have said. Supernatural.
Taz saw the open doors about a block ahead and decided he’d find his ride out of this wasteland. Little did he know that the keeper had never seen a car. Besides, once he encountered the keeper, a ride out would be the last thing on his mind.
The keeper found himself wandering, exploring the redundancy in the arrangements as if they were fascinating and wonderful. At some level, his mind compelled him to believe these tables, these hammers and glasses were his children, his responsibility to protect. He was a hundred yards deep within the building when the sunlight entering the room dimmed, moved. He could barely see a shadow blocking the infusion. The keeper did not move, but instinctively grasped the table in front of him, momentarily panicked when the glass shifted ever so slightly. He had no idea that the glass held the spirit of Barrack Obama.
Taz strode up to the open doors, the piss in his shoe pruning his toes, odor wafting to his nostrils. He glanced down at his crotch- wet on the inside but drying on the surface, the tinkle streak down his leg all but gone and his shoe stained slightly darker than the other,- inhaled deeply, sniffed an arm pit and shrugged. The Crown took over everything as he belched a tasty air bubble. Now it was time to find a guy to get him out of this hellhole. He turned into the open doorway and hollered “Hello!” without as much as a glance inside. Silence. Taz had no way of knowing that someone, standing frozen a football field deep in the building, had never before heard a word uttered. The keeper stood stock still, instantly terrorized. The booming sound, so unlike the breaking glass, came again, louder, the light from the open doors brightening again as the intruder left, or worse, much, much worse, entered the building. His building now. He was sure of it.
Taz took a couple steps inside and let his eyes adjust to the change of light. His crotch itched and he was growing agitated. Nobody was in sight, the Crown was going sour on him and his buzz was morphing into a massive headache. The room was full of furniture. No, wait, just tables. A shitload of them. Something more… fancy glasses, Champagne glasses. Not really on the Tazman’s list of beverages, Champagne. Anyway, these glasses were empty. He picked one off of a nearby table, glanced at it, hollered one more time, heard nothing but distant crashes, rolled his eyes and let the glass slip through his fingers and tumble to the concrete floor, shattering into a million pieces. At the same time, a 56-year-old woman in Pakistan dropped dead at her kitchen sink.
Taz started strolling down the aisles smacking glasses off tables, bitching to himself, talking out loud ”If there ain’t nobody here to help me, I’m gonna trash this dump!”. He grabbed a glass from a table just before the hammer came crashing down. The hammer hit the table with a dull clunk. Taz looked up “What the f…?!” In Delaware Pete Saban, 42, his head smashed flat under an end loader track, stood up, and when asked, said he was fine, even though his skull was shaped like a discus and his mouth was now under his ear. Taz dropped the glass and Pete fell dead. Until now, Taz hadn’t noticed the hammers, even though they glowed in the light over every table. He grabbed the fallen sledge and wielded it like a machete. Around the planet, people were dropping dead wherever Taz struck. In a matter of 5 minutes, he was a mass murderer with over 30 victims under his belt. He never saw the keeper coming….
Rage, a brand new emotion, sprung from the keeper’s brain. He could see the intruder, wreaking havoc upon his children, his babies. Fear, another new emotion, short lived, was already a distant memory. He would have screamed at the intruder, strangely familiar, but the keeper, unknown to himself, had no vocal cords. In fact, he had no mouth. His face simply had eyes. He could hear through a hole in his temple. He was, in fact, human, but barely. He was a man, but bore no genitals. His head was small because his brain was small, though now it threatened to explode with all the recent input. His anger, oozing from his minuscule brain, set him running pall mall, a silent guardian exploding through the tables, destroying those he was determined to save, inwardly screaming in confused insanity as he torpedoed toward his enemy. A hundred souls were dashed by the time the keeper had covered 50 feet..
Taz was coming off a drunk, not the first time, had pissed his pants, also not the first time, but still he was somebody not to be regarded lightly. He looked up, hearing the bull rush coming his way and smiled, thrilled at having gotten someone’s attention, good or bad. A freight train was coming. As Taz’s greeter closed in, a trail, strewn with scattered tables, hammers and broken glass followed. It occurred to Taz that this guy had less regard for property than himself. It also dawned on Taz that this guy might just have bad intentions. He decided to fight fire with fire. He began to blaze his own path of destruction.
The keeper’s mind melted 100 feet from Taz. The juggernaut of his progress was now in full auto mode. About the same time, Taz actually saw what he was up against, and instantly pissed his pants again.
100 feet away, Taz stopped cold. The man slamming through tables was no man at all. It was a monster. Its face was a blank board, a paper sack penetrated by a pair of huge eyes. No nose, no mouth, hell, it had some kind of port in its temple. Bald, lumpy, hideous. Even beyond his own complex odor, even 100 feet away, the stench was overwhelming. Death. Rot. Gray and sallow. And, obviously, pissed. The gap was now 50 feet and Taz knew he couldn’t win this one. The thing had no clothes! No balls either. Nothing to target. He thought about running, but the way it was coming……….. there was no chance. 25 feet now, nothing to do….
In a feeble attempt to stand up to the beast, Taz, hammer in one hand, grabbed up the nearest glass……. And the creature stopped dead in its tracks. Taz raised the hammer, thinking he might have actually intimated the thing, but got no reaction. In a pathetic move, Taz pulled back to throw the glass. The thing flinched! Amazing! In its run, it must have crunched a thousand glasses. Now it cringed at the sight of a single Champagne glass in Taz’s hand.
No fool, Taz wielded his glass but would not release it. This glass just might have been magic. The creature, now cowering 20 feet away, did not advance an inch. Taz waved the glass left and right in a taunt, the thing swayed to and fro. Finally, he put a full swing into it, only pulling up at the last second and retaining the glass. The monster went tilt, its huge eyes spelling terror. It flailed, tipping a nearby table enough to lay a glass sideways, slowly rolling toward the edge. The thing tried to catch it, but the glass shattered on the floor. Taz looked up, and the bastard was dead. Just like that. JUST LIKE THAT!
Taz chucked his glass at the corpse. It bounced on the body and rolled off to the floor, intact. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!” So he ran up on the glass and punted it. Taz dropped dead on the spot, and just to complete the cycle, shit his pants. Seconds later, the doors slammed shut and a broom could be heard in the distance………………
