The Inner Sanctum of the Bizarre and Unnormal

You enter the building. It is dark; the lights are turned down low and thick wooden bars close off one of the many corridors. An eerie voice from out of the shadows booms deeply, "Welcome to the Inner Sanctum of the Bizarre and Unnormal. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Your shoes squeak softly on the well-polished linoleum. You look down and see your reflection in peach monotone in the dim light.

Ceiling beams loom over your head. Who knows what creatures may be lurking in the rafters, waiting to jump out on the unsuspecting victim.. perhaps it will be you next....

You look around the vast entrance. All is quiet except for the occasional beating of a tribal drum in the distance. The natives are restless once again...

Suddenly, you hear the laughing of the insane about mediocre things. They surround you with their delusions and drag you to their world of strange and wondrous and just plain stupid things.

A captive audience they have, they being the chanting natives and you being the explorer in the stew pot. No way out, no escape. No transportation. You're trapped on the island with a bunch of insane, tribal warriors.

The rooms are white and gray. Modern type fonts adorn the doors. Gray chairs, gray tables. All gray, broken only by the cool aquas and tarnished bronze of a Fayoumi hen doing a dance upon a piece of papyrus. A bleak landscape, in what is supposed to be an exciting and colorful landscape.

You forgot your watch. Time passes slowly. A minute, an hour, a day, a year? The measure of time is in the eyes of the beholder. You wish you could swing from the ceiling beams to safety like Tarzan. You manage to escape to the stainless steel kitchen. There was a clock on the stove, but it melted into a shiny puddle. An alien in a brightly colored flying armchair goes by. In his hand, he holds a book that unlocks the secrets of the pyramids and Stone Henge. A rooster named Darrell from a chicken farm near Lansing, Michigan, built them all in 1951.

Mustering up your courage, you walk down the endless white corridor. If it weren't for the huge windows, you would feel like you were trapped in an endless labyrinth. Out of the fire, back into the stew pot.

Drum, drum, drum, they drum propaganda into your head like the natives banging on their drums. At least you get to watch the telly for free. There they go again, with their senseless chatter. Blahblahblahblah, you couldn't care less. Suddenly, right in the midst of an envigorating discussion about foot powder, miniature pillows from Iraq and plastic flowers, a black monolith comes from out of nowhere, falls down, and crushes them all.

Yes, West Virginia, there really IS intelligent life in the universe.

You push open the heavy glass doors and walk into the night. You don't ever look back and keep on walking on the elaborate outdoor floor tiles, which are really part of a giant mosaic of the U.S. dollar going up in flames. You still have your sanity, but it has suffered a great blow, for you can write stories like this one in third person of all things. As for the monolith, it goes back to Jupiter. The natives return to bonging on their drums once again. You live happily ever after, that is, until your next visit to the Inner Sanctum of the Bizarre and Unnormal.

Index