“I was kidnapped from my boat,”
is what the man with red glasses told the nearest pair of hobnail boots, a dull shine in the moonlight marred by the scuffs of months of enuii
. The owner and occupant of these shoes happened to be a nonplussed customs official that just stepped aside to pack his pipe.
“I was sleeping in the cabin, below deck. They invaded my boat, stole all of my things, and dumped me off here.”
“That's quite unfortunate, but there really isn't anything I can do; that isn't my department. Do you remember where you were from?”
“Yes. Yes, wait. I don’t.”
The customs official was becoming slightly irate at this strange person, but he liked to think of himself as the type that did not falter merely because of an improper response. He absentmindedly dropped his pipe on the planks of the dock and regained composure.
“I really can’t do anything for you. You’ll have to be detained until you remember where
you were from.”
As he said the word detained, three guards dressed in drab brown uniforms strode over to the man. He looked at the first guard, the customs official, and to the door. The guards escorted the man to first level security with a light, yet commanding grip. He did not try to resist.
They walked down the halls, military installations that were designed with the intention of making whoever walked down their corridors feel cold and unwelcome in all possible ways. The body of guards and strange man turned the corner at the right, skirting the visibly aged but very likely excellently capable bone china pot of tea. They passed billboards, vents, and doors with thick frosted glass with half chipped off names of forgotten lonely people on them. They walked on, down the hall, in a long and intricate path that hinted of a bored architect who decided to squiggle on the blueprints one day and call it good. These squiggles were visibly irking the guards, who were accustomed to watching broadcast television soap operas, taking a nap or two, and eating coffee and doughnuts. The walls turned from their dreary grey to uncomfortable colours of rust and chipped black paint gradually as the path dragged on.
It was apparent that this was the wrong place; judging from the disrepair of the walls and flooring, nobody had been here in many decades. The guards stopped suddenly, and the strange man was jerked back as he distractedly continued the march forward. The three guards convened amongst themselves for a short while, and the group turned around.
The party was walking the other way, but a vague feeling of dread began to wash over them. A clink sounded in the distance, and a hollow whisper emanated from the walls. They turned another corner, cautiously, and walked a bit faster. The grunge on the walls was turning worse: not only as they progressed, but as they watched. This forgotten corridor was alive, and was not used to visitors. Suddenly there was a knock, bang, and a clock ticking echoed in the hall. The walls started to paint the guard’s faces black and purple pinstripes, and the floor was trying to have a chat with them. Everyone continued to walk forward, and the clock was charging right at Everyone. The guards and man were compelled to walk forward to see into the elevator. The clock decided to have a bit of tea, and the walls were busy painting the floor. An elevator suddenly appeared and swallowed (all present) entirely.
It soared up into the sky; it soared so high! The hammers in the clouds were dancing around trying to hit it down, but they fell asleep so suddenly and violently. The strange man was no longer wearing his glasses— this made the guards furious. They all fell from the elevator, onto a facade of an anvil, and threatened the man with his life if he did not cooperate. A fierce hatred rose among the stranger and the guards, and they went to opposite sides of the anvil. Suddenly, The Godfather rolled by in a black Lincoln limousine. It was a classic drive-by shooting, all dead, and as the car left, someone shouted…
You should have stopped for tea on the way in!