Hey Professor, It's Not So Bad Down Here.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

Hey, Professor, this fucking rabbit hole is DEEP.  I mean, really really fucking deep.  Weird things go bump in the dark down here, and if you're lucky, they don't do it to you.  But it's warm down here, and it's more fun than pretending to be like your neighbors.  If you can avoid caisson sickness, you can stay down here pretty much forever, and some people do.

One thing to remember, though, is that it's a hell of a lot easier to get IN than to get OUT, so you should really decide in advance just how much you can take.  The pressures can be enormous, but who ever said having a good time had to be easy?

Everything's relative, after all...the "normal" people that I now hang out with would make most Americans crowd over to the other end of the bus, and the people who really interest me would have them scrambling for their cell phones, so the cops could come by and tase them for scaring the locals.  

It seems that I have reached the bottom, and guess what I found?  A manhole cover.  The bottom isn't the bottom.  I am beginning to suspect that there ISN'T a bottom, just an increase in how surreal everything is.  Isn't that a fucking hoot?  Meeting Zalgo in the bathroom of a courthouse isn't as weird as it gets, apparently.  Watching Kaz murder a pigeon for shitting on his coat - while cops walk by laughing - is merely passing strange.

I have to see how bad it gets, for reasons that are not even clear to ME.  I have to see just how fucking strange this town gets, and I'll do it, by God, even if I have to drink every drop of coffee in this town, just to stay awake so I don't miss anything.  Your safari idea was brilliant; I merely carry it one step farther.

Call me Ahab Alice, Professor, for I seek the white whale rabbit.  And I won't stop until I find it or die trying.  For exactly the same reasons.

Or Kill Me.

[Cramulus]

it's funny that you're taking the plunge DOWN, while so many of them are trying to claw their way UP

Weirdness is a little like leprosy. It'll infect everyone you're close to, so wash your hands before they fall the fuck off. And even in leper communities, there are subcommunities of grimier, nastier lepers. Roger is trying to find the most abhorrent coven of them. I can't figure out if the journey is more like Lewis and Clark, or more like Dante. With each circle, you go deeper into the soul. And when you get to the end, you can only hope that a beatific light will guide you back out.

Or maybe your patron is Ishtar, whose symbol is the familiar eight pointed star. Ishtar, like you, descended into the underworld. She was determined to meet its queen, Ereshkigal. On each step of Isthar's descent, she must give up an article of clothing. He bracelet, her earrings, her crown. With each step, she sacrifices some part of herself so that she may enter the darkness.

When you get to the bottom, you will be naked. Naked, amongst the darkest, deepest lepers of civilization.


I do not have to tell you how they will look upon your naked body.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

There are no beatific lights, Cram, only neon.  Neon and black lights, to better show the splashes of body fluids up the walls of the filthy dens they call "clubs".  And then sometimes there are lights down the alleyways, but you do not want to follow those will-o-wisps, unless you want your head caved in with a lead pipe, your wallet taken, and your body left amongst the oozing garbage bags that missed the dumpster from 6 floors up.

But this is the last place Curly was seen, so down I go.  Everything went wrong since he vanished, and I may as well try to at least discover his fate.  There is a river of shit just a few figurative yards beneath your feet, Professor, and it was there that he was last reliably reported.

I do not need air.  Just as in Vonnegut's Sirens of Titan, I have pills for that.  I have a reputation for armor, and a tolerance for weirdness.  I can do this.

[Richter]

They've got tunnels too, if you notice.
I found them one day, and thought they'd be a good shortcut, but they surprised me.  The offices, workshops or warehouses only go up so high, and the rabbit hole goes down, down down.  I though they'd be separate.  Guess not.  I walked right in through the tunnel, strolled out of the basement garage that no one ever seems to use and went right in like I always do. 

Well, not ALWAYS like I do.  I didn't notice, but I never decompressed.  No screaming seltzer blood as I remember where I am, or greyface as my neurotrasnmitters all play "red Rover" at once trying to adapt.  It all jsut STAYED weird.

So now i'm sitting here among RAW experiments in action, fellow incarnations of trickster gods, archetypes, fears and laothings.  My co workers don't seem to notice.  Not that I'd expect, with a case of the Cackling TExas as bad as one of them has it, or as sucked into the Cult of the Cancer Survivor as another is. 

Only HR may care, and then they'll fly out of the west like Mongols, riddle my car with arrows and chop of my head with a saber. 

Until then I'm just here.  Still weird.  Still sinking in it.

It's up to my chin, and I'm sampling the brain bending sludge with a sippy straw. 

[Payne]

And lo! Girt in naught but the e'er lasting remains of his past deeds did The Good Reverend set upon his pilgrimage. And in the towns through which the Revered One pass did the people cry "Whyfor must thou travel such?" for sore wroth were they and not understanding of the import of his labours. And in the towns through which he passed he said unto them "I must go, if not for your kind, then for mine own". And so saying would he up his feet upon the hard packed clay of the towns and would push on.

And far did The Good Reverend roam, and in seeing the towns and dwellings he did see that all were as one in flaw and in design. And rail did he upon the simple folk of the land and did at length hold them to account for their lack of sin and lack of grace and in all eyes he did see the cold and flat grey of the forever not-saved and the eternally not-damned. For yea, within their very veins did flow naught but the sand of crushed monolithic dreams.

And in one such town whereupon The Good Reverend did seize upon the crowd did one step forward and say unto him: "Good Reverend will you not wander the land for e'er more? There is one who has done such as you and his name: it was Curly". And in that moment did The Good Reverend decide that he too must step the step of him that had gone before him and did enquire upon the way, and the speaker did tell him the way was not o'er land as The Revered One had travelled thereunto, but did go down amongst the cracked and parched foundations.

Set his heart upon this dreadful task did The Good Reverend, for the path lesser travelled is the one more fraught. And in his pass'ed wanderings had he not passed as does the flood o'er the land? And so did he find the crack in the foundation and parched it was as had been told unto him. And all around it was desert and sand as had flowed through the veins of those he had spurned and rejected from his heart.

And setting down before the deep did he divest himself of all he had carried, taking with him but a weapon and sturdy boots and a set heart hard to those he passed beyond the reach of, and harder yet to those he might yet encounter...

[The Good Reverend Roger]

And lo! Girt in naught but the e'er lasting remains of his past deeds did The Good Reverend set upon his pilgrimage. And in the towns through which the Revered One pass did the people cry "Whyfor must thou travel such?" for sore wroth were they and not understanding of the import of his labours. And in the towns through which he passed he said unto them "I must go, if not for your kind, then for mine own". And so saying would he up his feet upon the hard packed clay of the towns and would push on.

And far did The Good Reverend roam, and in seeing the towns and dwellings he did see that all were as one in flaw and in design. And rail did he upon the simple folk of the land and did at length hold them to account for their lack of sin and lack of grace and in all eyes he did see the cold and flat grey of the forever not-saved and the eternally not-damned. For yea, within their very veins did flow naught but the sand of crushed monolithic dreams.

And in one such town whereupon The Good Reverend did seize upon the crowd did one step forward and say unto him: "Good Reverend will you not wander the land for e'er more? There is one who has done such as you and his name: it was Curly". And in that moment did The Good Reverend decide that he too must step the step of him that had gone before him and did enquire upon the way, and the speaker did tell him the way was not o'er land as The Revered One had travelled thereunto, but did go down amongst the cracked and parched foundations.

Set his heart upon this dreadful task did The Good Reverend, for the path lesser travelled is the one more fraught. And in his pass'ed wanderings had he not passed as does the flood o'er the land? And so did he find the crack in the foundation and parched it was as had been told unto him. And all around it was desert and sand as had flowed through the veins of those he had spurned and rejected from his heart.

And setting down before the deep did he divest himself of all he had carried, taking with him but a weapon and sturdy boots and a set heart hard to those he passed beyond the reach of, and harder yet to those he might yet encounter...

This.

I think I understand "normal" people.  I need to see more.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

They've got tunnels too, if you notice.
I found them one day, and thought they'd be a good shortcut, but they surprised me.  The offices, workshops or warehouses only go up so high, and the rabbit hole goes down, down down.  I though they'd be separate.  Guess not.  I walked right in through the tunnel, strolled out of the basement garage that no one ever seems to use and went right in like I always do. 

Well, not ALWAYS like I do.  I didn't notice, but I never decompressed.  No screaming seltzer blood as I remember where I am, or greyface as my neurotrasnmitters all play "red Rover" at once trying to adapt.  It all jsut STAYED weird.

So now i'm sitting here among RAW experiments in action, fellow incarnations of trickster gods, archetypes, fears and laothings.  My co workers don't seem to notice.  Not that I'd expect, with a case of the Cackling TExas as bad as one of them has it, or as sucked into the Cult of the Cancer Survivor as another is. 

Only HR may care, and then they'll fly out of the west like Mongols, riddle my car with arrows and chop of my head with a saber. 

Until then I'm just here.  Still weird.  Still sinking in it.

It's up to my chin, and I'm sampling the brain bending sludge with a sippy straw. 

And the cars in that garage, Richter...near the top, they're modern looking, but a little dusty.  You go down a few ramps, and you'll see Caprices and Pintos, sitting on rims and the ragged, rotten remains of tires.  Yesterday, I saw a burned-out Studebaker.

And there's another ramp.  There's always another ramp.  I have not, however, seen an Exit sign.

[Payne]

I need to dedicate an entire day to writing the rest of this, I think. I just kinda shat that out, but it seems I can take it somewhere. Gimme some time.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I need to dedicate an entire day to writing the rest of this, I think. I just kinda shat that out, but it seems I can take it somewhere. Gimme some time.

Yes. 

I will, if you wish, send you updates via email or PM, when I begin the journey (Dec 26th).  You can me my Luke.   

More like John of Patmos, but you get the idea.

[Payne]

I need to dedicate an entire day to writing the rest of this, I think. I just kinda shat that out, but it seems I can take it somewhere. Gimme some time.

Yes. 

I will, if you wish, send you updates via email or PM, when I begin the journey (Dec 26th).  You can me my Luke.   

More like John of Patmos, but you get the idea.

YGPM (in a second)

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I need to dedicate an entire day to writing the rest of this, I think. I just kinda shat that out, but it seems I can take it somewhere. Gimme some time.

Yes. 

I will, if you wish, send you updates via email or PM, when I begin the journey (Dec 26th).  You can me my Luke.   

More like John of Patmos, but you get the idea.

YGPM (in a second)

What?

[Payne]

I need to dedicate an entire day to writing the rest of this, I think. I just kinda shat that out, but it seems I can take it somewhere. Gimme some time.

Yes. 

I will, if you wish, send you updates via email or PM, when I begin the journey (Dec 26th).  You can me my Luke.   

More like John of Patmos, but you get the idea.

YGPM (in a second)

What?

You Got Private Message (in a second).

I was trying not to shift focus off the thread too much.

[Vaudeville Vigilante]

This all sounds exciting.  I look forward to following this thread.

[Richter]

They've got tunnels too, if you notice.
I found them one day, and thought they'd be a good shortcut, but they surprised me.  The offices, workshops or warehouses only go up so high, and the rabbit hole goes down, down down.  I though they'd be separate.  Guess not.  I walked right in through the tunnel, strolled out of the basement garage that no one ever seems to use and went right in like I always do. 

Well, not ALWAYS like I do.  I didn't notice, but I never decompressed.  No screaming seltzer blood as I remember where I am, or greyface as my neurotrasnmitters all play "red Rover" at once trying to adapt.  It all jsut STAYED weird.

So now i'm sitting here among RAW experiments in action, fellow incarnations of trickster gods, archetypes, fears and laothings.  My co workers don't seem to notice.  Not that I'd expect, with a case of the Cackling TExas as bad as one of them has it, or as sucked into the Cult of the Cancer Survivor as another is. 

Only HR may care, and then they'll fly out of the west like Mongols, riddle my car with arrows and chop of my head with a saber. 

Until then I'm just here.  Still weird.  Still sinking in it.

It's up to my chin, and I'm sampling the brain bending sludge with a sippy straw. 

And the cars in that garage, Richter...near the top, they're modern looking, but a little dusty.  You go down a few ramps, and you'll see Caprices and Pintos, sitting on rims and the ragged, rotten remains of tires.  Yesterday, I saw a burned-out Studebaker.

And there's another ramp.  There's always another ramp.  I have not, however, seen an Exit sign.

I wake up parked in that garage, from time to time.  I just come to at the wheel, no memory of the drive or where I went in, and nothing to do but grab my lunch and head in.  I'm always in the same spot too.  What else can I do?  I pick up the container of my lunch, and as it belches random smells that would be classified as chemical weaponry by some, I head up to the office. 

Where I prk bugs me though.  My spot is always right next to an ancient, bombed out shell that looks JUST like my last car.  Could've sworn I scrapped the thing, handing it over to a bunch of car yard loonies who were drooling and becoming aroused over the chance to get vintage parts off of it, but it got down here some how.  I wouldn' have beleived it myself, but there's the foglight missing from when I decided that boulders were jsut as effective as brakes.  I kept a copy of the keys.  Out of sentiment, mainly.  Did I sleep drive the thing down here?  After sleep walkign into the scrap metal part of town, sleep stealing it and sleep crossing half a state?

For that matter, how did I get a car down here?  Twice?

Blur the edges enough and ANYTHING will blend together.  That's what's going on here blurring.  The weird of life outside, and the strict, self parodying state of the office will NEVER reconcile though, so it's all turned into one great out of focus mess.  Tangible only for appearance sake.

It's all shot through underneath.  Rabbit holes and tornadoes are thigns for country estates and farms.  The law and stature of the City will never have them.

Here, sublevels, subterrane garages, loading docks connected to nothing and pipe filled hallways.  Maintenance levelss that go down and down, ferrocrete giving way to brick, to cut granite or fieldstone arches.  The air circulates down father and longer than anyone suspects.  Steam pipes and sewers clash with the natural cool of the earth, and the whole thing breathes in slow sighs.  The strange breath os scented with more than radon or ozone. 

[The Good Reverend Roger]

There's a place like that in every city, Richter.  In Portland, it's those white vans.  Stay away from them.  In Boston, it's the subway system...strange tales are told of that subway, going all the way back to weird things dug up by the "sand hogs" that excavated the Park Street Station, all the way through the horrible "accident" just recently, the "texting" one, where unconfirmed reports talk about some of the dead and not so dead going missing right after the accident, and screaming noises somewhere below.

  <--- They thought they were safe, too.

In Tucson, the city itself is a trap, is a parking garage such as we describe...and there's no exit signs.  There's no way out.