More Story! I Don’t Even Mention Hemingway This Time.
As you may recall, last week I started a story. Today, I continue on with it. Here it goes…
The more I looked around, the more ferrets I realized were kept here. I began to wonder what ferrets ate. I mean, I’d seen 80 distinctly different little guys running about, and more seemed to be resting in the balconies above my head. That required a lot of food, presumably, and a lot of cash. Actually, this whole place probably did. Was this a club? It was only six miles from my place, so I would probably have heard of it. Except, I don’t go anywhere that requires me to walk in this direction. This route leads to the “serious business man” side of town, and I’m not that. Except I do carry a satchel, but that’s here nor there.
As I wondered that myriad of ultimately useless thoughts, I began to notice a steady bass beat. I didn’t spot any speakers initially, and with a quick look around, spotted no more. I decided to chill in one of the pews at this point, to catch my bearings. I stepped over and quietly sat down. As soon as I made contact, I noticed that the “pews” were, in fact, stadium seats retrofitted with velvet padding and what appeared to be candies in the cup holders. I began to feel very uncomfortable. I needed out. The gaudy walls were thumping with a techo beat, and closing in on me. The music was growing louder, and the air began to smell like cinnamon. I needed out,I rationalized as I hopped of the row of seating and made a dash for the door, because this wasn’t my “scene.” Sure, I’m all about colors, art, and paint, but this was somehow sacrilege to both my and… whatever religion this used to be. Catholicism? Pastafarinism? Who knows. It was just wrong.
I made contact with the door, and immediately noticed it was without a handle on the inside. So, I pushed, hard. To no avail. After a few more seconds of panic, I decided I needed to bolt as fast as humanly possible to the doors at the other end of the room. Because, obviously, those are exits, not doors deeper into the freaky place. Except the complete opposite of that thought was reality. Really, I had no concept of what the inside of a church was like, much less remodeled, cinnamon scented, rave factory one. As I grabbed a door knob, a deep voice, as velvety as the weird stadium seats, asked “You seem to be confused, my friend. Perhaps I could give you a hand?”
Then, I immediately freaked right out. I may have screamed in terror. I did scream in terror. I’m not proud of that.
Good cliff hanger, I think.