I was sitting in my room one day, not doing
anything in particular. Listening to Black Sabbath while I stared at
the ceiling. Suddenly and for no apparent reason, an extra
dimensional, rose colored portal opened up near my closet, spreading
a waft of hot air around and knocking over my potted plant. A goat
faced fellow with hooves stepped out. I knew immediately it was an
extra dimensional portal from my extensive internet readings. The
goat-man pronounced himself Jim and demanded I follow. "Hey
feller," I started, before being rudely jerked up by the arm and
dragged into the pink hole. “Did Georgia O'Keeffe design this
hole?” I asked, expecting big laughs from Jim. Not a goddamn
giggle. Feminist type, probably. They don't take jokes well.
On my way out I noticed the upset plant
had spilled dirt on the carpet. "I certainly hope he will clean
that up upon my return," I thought. I was going to ask but then
there was a pull and I was presently whirling through what looked
like the inside of a gay tornado. The walls of this fuchsia passage
were lined with posters of that shitty Kevin Costner Robin Hood
flick. "This portal certainly has poor taste in movies" I
thought at Jim. I assumed the creature would be able to read my
thoughts. He gave me a dirty look. Just no accounting for some
peoples' proclivities.
After what seemed like a long time but
probably wasn't, we were spat out of the portal onto a hard surface.
Ground. I, being unaccustomed to wormhole travel, fell flat on my
face. Jim didn't seem to care. "Don't worry, I'll just help
myself up.” Brushing red dust off myself, I noticed that there
were a whole bunch of shabby looking persons milling about the giant
blood colored cavern we were now in. The joint was mostly on fire,
and the sad looking people had to constantly dodge flames falling
from the ceiling. "You should really think about installing fire
sprinklers in here,” I told Jim. Some people were chipping away at
the cavern walls with pick axes, while being watched over by
similarly goatish people holding whips. " I will call them
Goaties" I proclaimed to no one in particular. If anyone
stopped axing, they were whipped by the goaties. “That is some Jim
Crow shit right there, I said. “I wonder how their PR dept. handles
all the complaints.” Stone faced Jim didn't respond and dragged me
by the sleeve down a sloped hallway leading out the cave. "Seriously
you could up productivity a lot if people didn't have to walk around
the fires,” I proffered on our way out. My helpful suggestion went
unacknowledged.
We passed quickly through to another
big cavern where more dejected folk were at individual copying
machines reproducing what I thought were "Heathers"
posters. “Winona fucking
Ryder” I muttered. Too loudly, because I got the business
end of a whip delivered right to my ass by a near-by goatie. Before a
super clever retort could be given, we traipsed out of that dump and
into a very large, dark, globe-shaped place, where the walls were
lined with fire.
In the center of the room a dais of
black stone supported a throne composed entirely of human bones. Upon
the throne, clothed in scarlet, holding a trident, was seated
Christian Slater.
"Goddammit." I said.
“Surprise!” yelled Christian.
“Not really, I told him. Should have
figured this out years ago. Who else?”
The hack bounded down sprightly from
his perch. “Have you seen True Romance?” He blathered at
me. “I got to touch Patricia Arquettes' boobs! I carried that
movie man I FUCKING carried it!”
“Don't trip over your big gay cape
there, guy.” I was slapped. Christian/Satan kept babbling.
“And Fern Gully? I rocked
that shit, man! Best voice acting in history, and what do they
talk about? Fucking Robin Williams, the bastard.”
"Look, friendo, I explained, I'll
give you The Name of the Rose. But that was all Sean Connery.
Also I saw your butt in that film, and that sucked.”
“Want to see it again?”
“No, not really. Um, why am I here?”
“Well, honestly, I sent my messenger
over there to go pick up Wynona Ryder. My one true love. Somehow he
mistook you for her. Sorry.”
“Goddamn Winona Ryder ruining my
life again, I thought. Out loud
I told him that that happens all the time.
“Anyway, you're going to have to
stay here for...ever, he told me. Got to talk to someone about my
movies.”
“JESUS CHRIST NO! I screeched.
Somebody fucking save me! Or just kill me! Please!”
Suddenly, the room started shaking.
Through cracks in the ceiling, a bright white light began to filter
down into the dark, before a large hole opened up top and an ethereal
glow suffused the room. A figure clad in white robes and hippie
sandals descended to the ground by my side. I saw that the person
resembled exactly Michael Fassbender in the film Inglorious Basterds.
You know, with the mustache.
“Thank you thank you thank you, I
stammered. Get me the...hell...out of here!” Picking me up and
cradling me like a baby, Angel-bender and together we shimmered out
of the gloom and back into my room.
“Hey thanks, guy.” I said.
“Don't mention it.”
“But, um, as you can see, the goatie
that picked me up here knocked dirt all over my floor, and honestly,
I don't even own a vacuum cleaner. Someone has to clean up that
shit.” I stared meaningfully at him. Sighing, he magicked up a
vacuum and took care of the mess. “Anything else? He asked. “Drei
whiskey!” I exclaimed, and we shared a laugh. THE END
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