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 metal shack.

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 unrelated.

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 disguise!

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

of happy transportation


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