Choose Your Own Nuthouse
Section 37
(Paul)
You
tackle the Skull-head man. “What are
you all about?!” you shout.
The
Skull-head hearse driver shoves you away, stands, and brushes himself
off with
skeletal hands. “The Benjamins,” he
says, and you think he might be smirking but you can’t really tell
because his
head is a skull. At any rate, his
response sails well over your head.
This skeletal man seems to sense your confusion.
“Look,” he says, lighting up a smoke and
offering you one from an ivory (you hope) cigarette case.
Against your better judgment, you
accept. The cigarette is the deepest
black you’ve ever seen. Skull-head extends
a Zippo engraved with a dark sigil or heiroglyph of some sort, and
sparks the
flint. There is a distant cry, as of an
immortal soul in agony, and a dark purple-black flame leaps from the
wick. The flame, you notice with no small
amount
of amazement, is shaped like a skull.
You light the cigarette. “You’ve
probably got all sorts of questions, and I’d be happy to answer them. I am, however, a bit lost.
Some guy just got himself creamed by a van
over near the Ravine of Unspeakable Peril.
Hell, that’s the second time this evening someone’s been hit by
a
van. Thing is, though, I think I took a
wrong turn at the Pit of Insufferable Misery.
Now I’ve got no idea where I am.”
“Well,
if you follow the road that way, you’ll eventually reach Lake Doomhole. This is a fucking excellent cigarette. So, who was this guy who got hit by the van? Stephen King out jogging again?”
“Actually,
Stephen King was the one driving.
Probably under the influence of a Brain Monkey.
Guy who got hit was some young dude. Your
age.
Got his name somewhere…” Skull-head fished in the pocket of his
suit
jacket, which seemed to be woven from the night itself.
“Ah, here it is…huh. That’s odd.
Both guys who got hit had the exact same name.”
“Oh?”
you say. Then, despite the fact that
every rational instinct in your body is screaming otherwise, “What name
would
that be?”
Of
course, just as you had to have known, it’s your name.
You manage not to react.
“Yeah. That’s pretty weird.” Equally as weird is the fact that your
cigarette hasn’t gotten any shorter, despite the fact that you’ve been
dragging
on it pretty heavily.
Skull-head
notices you noticing this. “Yeah, it’ll
never smoke out. Won’t kill you,
either. When you’re done, just stub it
out. It’s relightable.”
You are in heaven. “Anyway, you
need a lift?
Hop in, and I’ll drop you off somewhere.”
Once
again, your instincts begin to scream at you.
Decline,
citing allergies to hearse upholstery – 79
Pickpocket
that insanely cool Zippo, and bolt in very reasonable fear. – 80