FROM HERE TO THERE
Thereís a long fence, tall and wiry with big wooden posts spaced
every so often. I happily walk along side it, whistling hymns, when suddenly a
tiny family squabble breaks out. Three tiny children cry as their tiny parents
argue over how to proceed.
I tiptoe around the spectacle, but inadvertently step on a
fourth child, the tiniest of the bunch. The baby screams and its parents stop
squabbling. They look at me with Nixonian contempt before charging, like two
tiny bull elephants. I kick the baby at them to slow them down, but itís no
use. The tiny family gives chase. Their miniature legs are slow, but their
rocket boots more than compensate.
The father lunges and nips my heel. I kick him loose and then
empty my pockets in hopes of increasing speed, but itís not enough. Those
rocket boots are just too fast. As the tiny couple prepare to pounce, I find a
hole in the ground and dive into it. My chasers gasp with fear and stop their
pursuit. They dare not follow me into the hole, as tiny people hate holes.
I crawl downward until my escape hole empties into a complex
sequence of spacious tunnels. I choose the nicest one and boldly begin my
spelunk. The dirt around me turns to mud, but it doesnít affect my stride.
Without much grandeur, the tunnel ends and opens into an equally muddy meadow.
I stand up to dust myself off, and am surprised to find my clothes cleaner than
before. The scrubbing power of magic mud, I suppose.
The ground is extra slushy. What little grass there was has long
since been trampled, causing a pleasantly spongy surface. I skip my way across
the meadow until I happen upon a driveway that leads to an inviting mansion on
top a nearby hill. The driveway is almost frictionless and makes walking an
even bigger chore than usual. I inch my way up the slippery slope, and notice
the closer I get to the mansion, the more it changes shape. With every cautious
step, the stately structure incrementally transforms into a broken-down, metal
shack. And then in a rush, I come to understand that this is the mid 19th
century and I am vegetable farmer.
The shack stinks of raw compost; the surrounding ground is
sprinkled with sawdust to help promote steadiness. I enter and find a young
farming couple waiting for me on the couch. The man is thin and wears a
polyester jumpsuit; the woman is dressed like a Victorian whore. They are both
covered in grease and spread their oily filth all over the plush furniture. We
exchange brief glances of mistrust before I tactfully excuse myself and walk to
the kitchen where the heat is unbearable.
I open the window and thick night air rushes into the shack. The
couple hiss loudly from the other room, instilling me with an overwhelming urge
to flee. I shimmy through the window and slide down the super slick driveway. When
I reach the bottom, I discover a long line of peasants eagerly awaiting their
vegetables. A chilling wave of panicky greed fills my spine as I sprint to the
front of the line.
Once there, I encounter a cute she-monk who is handing out my
vegetables (mostly eggplant and broccoli) to the peasants for free. Iím
outraged and threaten to expose her as a traitor to all farmers. The she-monk
grows nervous and quickly hands me twenty-dollars, in hopes the hush money will
keep me quiet. It does. I take the cash and kiss her gently on the face. With
nowhere else to go, I fight my way up the now sticky driveway, and back to the
The greasy farming couple are still hissing and stare at me with
more suspicion than before. They ask me where Iíve been. I clench the
twenty-dollar bill in my pocket and tell them nothing. Their accusations grow
so loud that I donít even hear the approaching van until it crashes into the
shack and lands in the makeshift living room.
The vanís backdoors open and without hesitation, I jump inside.
We peel out of the gutted metal shack and speed down the hill. I canít see the
driver, due to the five ugly, bucktooth girls who block my view. Each hideous
girl has an obvious crush on me and thwarting their gross affections keeps me
very busy. The van continues to drive, away from the 19th century
and onto a fast moving freeway.
I break away from the bucktooth girls and look out the window to
see a burly old biker with an extra grizzled face. As he speeds down the
freeway, a gorgeous woman squirms on the bikeís handlebars. She is amazingly
gymnastic, turning and twisting her naked body, while careful not to wiggle
right off the bike. The burly biker looks up and notices me watching. I
immediately turn away and try to appear occupied by something entirely
It isnít long before a loud crash erupts from the backdoors.
They break inward and the motorcycle jumps into the van. It pops a wheelie, the
front tire crashes into my chest and then pins me to the floor. The burly
biker, sans woman, peers down at me from above the handlebars and grumbles,
ďDonít ever spy again!Ē. Iím paralyzed with fear and gasp as he continues,
ďIíll kill you. You know who I am and I will kill youĒ. I feebly mutter Ďokayí
a few times as he glowers at me with raging bug eyes.
After a few unbearable moments of quiet, the burly biker slowly
rolls his bike backwards. He keeps his eyes on mine and as he attempts to jump
back onto the freeway, he trips and crashes badly. The bucktooth girls quickly
close the van doors and turn their attentions back to me. ďYes, Iím fine,Ē I
reassure as they shower me with their annoying concern.
Soon after, the van stops and public noises seep in from
outside. The back doors open to reveal a giant soup party in progress. Thousands
of eager eaters crowd together as they slurp down sizable gobs of soup. I step
out of the van just as a parade of cute warrior women march by. They shout demeaning
orders at one another, like ďShock me up with your undersized wit!Ē The whole
scene scares me more than it should.
Frightened and a little aroused, I walk past the sexy warriors
and into the very center of the soup fest. The overall aroma is unmistakably
cheap. Half empty bowls of green chowder with big chunks of brightly colored
cheese litter the landscape. One particularly soup stained lady offers me a spoonful,
but before I can decline it, a faceless friend approaches from the left. He
tells me to follow him and Iím happy to do so. We splash through puddles of
spilt soup until we come upon a dark plantation house. The porch looks haunted
and is covered in prickly thistles, yet Iím anxious to get inside. As we enter,
the faceless friend tells me about a group of decrepit millionaires who will
pay us a fortune if we pretend to let them slaughter us.
Seconds later, Iím enclosed by a circle of several thin-limbed
millionaire men with flimsy aluminum swords and big mason jars full of
imitation blood. They launch their pretend attacks, and my friend immediately
plays along. Iím surprised by how much he hams it up. Soon, multiple toy swords
tap my shoulder and when I turn around, a trio of attackers throw their blood
on my clothes. Eager for my fortune, I play injured and lay helpless on the
floor; their victory hollers echo throughout the dark house.
I continue to lay still, while the thin-limbed men argue over
how to proceed. The argument and the voices sound frightfully familiar. I open
my eyes a sliver and watch as they start to undress. Itís my worst fear come
true. They arenít thin-limbed men at all, but instead the tiny family in
I scream with boyish terror and stumble out of the house. The
chowder bash is gone, but the van remains. As I sprint towards it, the tiny
family once again chases me with their rocket boots. Fuck rocket boots. I used
to think they were cool, but not anymore.
When I approach the van, it teases me by rolling back a little.
I shoot it a determined look and it obediently stops. The mystery driver is
gone, so I jump behind the wheel and drive the hell out of there. The five
bucktooth girls are still in the back, only now they act cold and unreceptive.
I try to flirt, but it gets me nowhere.
Rocket boots are no match for a van, so with the tiny chasers
well behind me, I relax into an uneventful drive. My tranquility is short lived
as the road eventually changes into a rollercoaster track. Despite my worries,
the van takes nicely to the tracks. Unfortunately, itís a really boring coaster
with only two small twists and a weak-ass loop. I try to break free from the
track, and when I do, the van flips over. Iím sent flying through the
windshield and land on my neck near a mound of loose dirt.
An admittedly clichť death, but before I kick it for real, I
crawl to one side of the dirt mound and extend my unbroken arm. It wisps away
some forest debris until a large enough area is cleared. I pause to sneeze, but
donít. Then with a shaky finger, I scrawl these final italicized words:
Shot from the cab
into furyís belly,
from which none shall speak
the easy thoughts