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Literature Text
As the Pack and I wander through another vast parking lagoon, we eventually find our way to the front doors of the cineplex. I realized that today was the vernal equinox, with the moiety of night and day. The sign reads with a cursive script: " Welcome to the Nowhereland Mega Googolplex / Mojave Hotel and Casino Plaza!" As the cheap-looking paint job on the vaguely ziggurat-like structure with parabolic influences near, it absorbs me into its innards.
We enter into the ticket booth area. The walls are painted with the simplistic dissonance of a child's crayon drawings. The walls are flat -- lacking any features of dimension or reality. The paintings try to fool the eye so the brain doesn't protest at the bad taste of the place, yet they're so tacky and idiot-proof that any illegal immigrant from Brownpeopleland that the contractors could pick up off the streets could have painted it with his asscheeks. They ooze these cries: "Tear us down! Put us out of our misery! We weren't build to last, anyway-- our location is accessible only to the repugnant beasts that fill the lagoons outside. Everything is trying to imitate, to conform to standards set when people cared about how they built buildings, and even then we seem to have lost direct contact with the source -- we merely wander, aimless, without taste or integration. In short: plagiarism. We're shabby, too." We buy our tickets from the Eastern European employee with a bad accent -- "Do you take euro or dollar?" and descend to the next innermost circle. . .
A strange elevator drops untold stories. Slowing to a halt, we disembark. A labyrinth lays before us -- confusing signs pollute the landscape. We wander some more, and after a grossly indescribable amount of seconds pass, we find our theater.
. . . Entering the theater proper, I gawk at the vast screen, one of those IMAX screens, I guess. The theater itself seems to have been designed by a Dantean scholar (Jump through the colon. You can do it!): one begins at the top of a series of terraces which circle around the curved, shimmering screen, and as one moves closer to the center -- the master -- of the hellish netherworld, the descent becomes ever deeper, and the screen ever more imposing. Fires of eternal damnation threaten me at center stage. It seems that the Pack is compelled to sit in the front row. . . and I submissively follow, a kowtow to their power over my tempestuous mind.
As we take our seats, I sense that the screen relishes my awe of it -- a sort of sensation that one believes to have its origin in the mind. . . yet deep down you know that it's real, lurking incognito in your mind Denial. Death. Unconsciousness. Those types of things. The things that winnow down one's sanity until there is nothing left but a deleterious scab. And this. To the Pack, it seems, it is no big deal. They are too absorbed in their defanged frivolities -- feckless attempts at conversation that end up as vacuous drivel -- to appreciate its terrible grandeur, perched there in the twilight of the theater.
Lights begin to flickr. The ambiance is dulled. The movie is beginning. . .
Closeup of a beautiful woman, nearly pornographic in its portrayal. She bites her lips, giggles alluringly. Suddenly, the camera pulls back upward, revealing that she is sitting, alone, in the middle of a pristine freeway in an abandoned desert city bathed in the deep red rays of a sunset. Not a deciduous tree in sight. Long shadows of the buildings punctuate the landscape as more and more of the woman's surroundings are revealed. As the camera pulls back ever further, it reveals a massive zombie horde racing toward the woman with superhuman speed. She seems to not be concerned by her impending death, remaining in her spot, sitting with perfect aloofness as the pack of zombies consume her flesh -- graphically rendered with exquisite detail by the high definition film.
As I sit there in that theater watching this woman consumed by these zombies, I grow horrified, disgusted. Air is thickening, respiration becoming difficult. I vomit with vehement muscle contractions. Can't bear to watch. . . I look around and nobody else seems to be phased by this poor girl's horrible death. How could the film maker's have let her be eaten by zombies? A scene plays out in my head:
We enter into the ticket booth area. The walls are painted with the simplistic dissonance of a child's crayon drawings. The walls are flat -- lacking any features of dimension or reality. The paintings try to fool the eye so the brain doesn't protest at the bad taste of the place, yet they're so tacky and idiot-proof that any illegal immigrant from Brownpeopleland that the contractors could pick up off the streets could have painted it with his asscheeks. They ooze these cries: "Tear us down! Put us out of our misery! We weren't build to last, anyway-- our location is accessible only to the repugnant beasts that fill the lagoons outside. Everything is trying to imitate, to conform to standards set when people cared about how they built buildings, and even then we seem to have lost direct contact with the source -- we merely wander, aimless, without taste or integration. In short: plagiarism. We're shabby, too." We buy our tickets from the Eastern European employee with a bad accent -- "Do you take euro or dollar?" and descend to the next innermost circle. . .
A strange elevator drops untold stories. Slowing to a halt, we disembark. A labyrinth lays before us -- confusing signs pollute the landscape. We wander some more, and after a grossly indescribable amount of seconds pass, we find our theater.
. . . Entering the theater proper, I gawk at the vast screen, one of those IMAX screens, I guess. The theater itself seems to have been designed by a Dantean scholar (Jump through the colon. You can do it!): one begins at the top of a series of terraces which circle around the curved, shimmering screen, and as one moves closer to the center -- the master -- of the hellish netherworld, the descent becomes ever deeper, and the screen ever more imposing. Fires of eternal damnation threaten me at center stage. It seems that the Pack is compelled to sit in the front row. . . and I submissively follow, a kowtow to their power over my tempestuous mind.
SILASI feel something wet on the back of my head. Whatever.
Ah. . . . . . . . . . . Ah. . . . . . . Ah. . . CHOOOO!!
MUMMY
(Overreacting, with a shrill New York accent) Awwww, Soylas honey yeh sneezed awl ovah the place! You cuhva yohwah mouth next toyme owah oweim gownna take yah mouse away!! >:-[
SILAS
:-/
As we take our seats, I sense that the screen relishes my awe of it -- a sort of sensation that one believes to have its origin in the mind. . . yet deep down you know that it's real, lurking incognito in your mind Denial. Death. Unconsciousness. Those types of things. The things that winnow down one's sanity until there is nothing left but a deleterious scab. And this. To the Pack, it seems, it is no big deal. They are too absorbed in their defanged frivolities -- feckless attempts at conversation that end up as vacuous drivel -- to appreciate its terrible grandeur, perched there in the twilight of the theater.
Lights begin to flickr. The ambiance is dulled. The movie is beginning. . .
Closeup of a beautiful woman, nearly pornographic in its portrayal. She bites her lips, giggles alluringly. Suddenly, the camera pulls back upward, revealing that she is sitting, alone, in the middle of a pristine freeway in an abandoned desert city bathed in the deep red rays of a sunset. Not a deciduous tree in sight. Long shadows of the buildings punctuate the landscape as more and more of the woman's surroundings are revealed. As the camera pulls back ever further, it reveals a massive zombie horde racing toward the woman with superhuman speed. She seems to not be concerned by her impending death, remaining in her spot, sitting with perfect aloofness as the pack of zombies consume her flesh -- graphically rendered with exquisite detail by the high definition film.
As I sit there in that theater watching this woman consumed by these zombies, I grow horrified, disgusted. Air is thickening, respiration becoming difficult. I vomit with vehement muscle contractions. Can't bear to watch. . . I look around and nobody else seems to be phased by this poor girl's horrible death. How could the film maker's have let her be eaten by zombies? A scene plays out in my head:
UWE, THE DIRECTORI demand of the pack a reason why they are not as shocked as I am. Response:
(German accent, excessive hubris) Alright Michelle, now for zis shot I need you to sit in ze middle of zis empty highvay. If you zee anyzing zat might make you vant to run, don't. It iz not real, and you vill ruin ze shot.
MICHELLE, THE WOMAN
(With trepidation) A-Alright. . .
THE PACKIts fatuous answer is unsatisfying. I fall asleep.
Dude, it's, like, not real. It's, uh, like, a movie. They're just, like, using special effects to, uh, like. . . yeah, you know?
Novella-in-progress about a man in a fugue-like state who wanders with a mysterious "pack" though the bleak "Nowhereland." Strange perceptions. Fetishes unleashed. Let the horror of the situation wash over you, like pulses of energy from the electric chair.
© 2009 - 2024 kronik29
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