Monday, August 27, 2012

Chapter Twentythree.

Tired of the cliché that is 'Don't walk towards the light' you decide to do just that. As the music gets stronger you can distinguish a few words of what has the feel of a negro spiritual of old. For some reason you get nostalgic, like a distant memory from your childhood is trying to reach the surface but falls a few steps short and sees your conscious thought leave them behind, laughing like a crazy feller.
'Rump-a Lump-a skippedi deen
we'll find a diamond fit for a queen
Rump-a Lump-A doobedy dome
and maybe she will let us home'

At the end of the tunnel there is an old corroded copper grate and on the other side you see a huge room, cut out of the rocks. Along every wall you see people. At least you think they are people, only a quarter the size of a normal big fat American dude, and wearing nothing but silly T-shirts. You can make out some of the texts.
'I'm with stoopid','My other shirt is 100% cotton' and 'I wish I could afford pants'
In your excitement over seeing all these tiny rumps you lean a bit too far against the grate and with a lod crack it gives way and falls to the floor with you soon after. On the floor you find a loose thread, just lying there. You decide to leave it be.
The song has suddenly fallen silentand you see why when you lift your head.
Towards you walks 40-50 pantsless midgets, tiny wieners flailing. They look very cautious and nervous. One of the midgets, wearing a 'Rumpa Lumpa Foreman' T-shirt and actually short shorts are the one that dares come closest.
You think to yourself. 'In the land of the pantsless, the guy wearing shorts makes the shots'
And he clears his throat....

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