Climbing the wooden lattice, which separates front and
backyard, is very easy after Frank's attempt tips the lattice over. He fell
backwards onto his arse. When assured that Frank was okay, everyone broke into
laughter.
The backyard, slimmed by the property's subdivision, is a
patio. The fence is green, tall and good-neighbour. James points out a
fifty-by-thirty centimetre fishpond, nine bricks high.
'That's how you get in. The bottom looks solid, but it
gives way. You swim down.'
You guffaw politely: 'Fuck off, you go in.'
(Frank: 'You fuck off, you laughed at me. My feelings
hurt more than my arse.')
James is serious: 'We can't. It's a one-use-only thing.'
Goldfish swim in the pond. That goldfish leapt in flames. Your hands go in first, then your
head.
You cannot see, but the pond's bottom bricks seem to
float past your sides. You pull yourself down through water, hands grasping the
pond's descending edges. Buoyancy gives way to gravity - you are falling,
sliding down a chute.
The slide grows horizontal and slows to a halt. Bioluminescent
cave walls stand widely around you. A tall humanoid, made of clay, points a
hairdryer at your dripping clothes.
It raises voice: 'Did Chris put you up to this?'
Panic in your tippy toes: 'Uh, no, James did.'
'Figures. I'll tell you what I told him. Go up the
stairs, then through the hole. If I see you again, you're dead.'
Up the stairs. A microwave blocks the hole. It crashes
onto the floor of the kitchen you crawl into.
'Fuuuuuck!' You unlatch the backdoor. 'You said this
wasn't occupied!'
'Not by people.' James corrects. 'That thing down there
is technically a hairdresser.'
You garnish with:
No comments:
Post a Comment