“Rock? Why rock?”
“Soon enough, you will see.”
Her nose scrunched up as she lead me around the dancefloor, her hands riffling through all these pockets I didn’t even know I had. “So what’s your name?”
“You can call me Inga, you probably can't pronounce my name in low speech.”
“Low speech? Like in a videogame?”
“A what?”
“Nevermind.”
“I was watching you,” she said, moving on. “From the bar. I saw you come in through the front. I could tell you were different. All kinds of people come through here. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t even know this place existed.”
“It's hard to miss . . . you should eat more carrots,” she pulled one out of her bag and took a bite, stashing the rest away, then she pulled out a little golden pocket watch and nodded, giving the dial a crank before tucking it into her bra.
“I suppose I should.”
She pulled another carrot out of her purse and I took a big out of it before she stuffed the rest away like we just got away with something. “You’re kind of weird,” she said.
“Well, that’s just your opinion.”
“Well, I’m not the one dressed like some kind of vagrant.” She was right. I looked severely out of place. She poked a finger out to me, right near my forehead. “This is where you’re going to go bald. I can tell. You’d better be careful.”
I touched my hair. Maybe she was right. “How could I be careful?”
“I don’t know, are you stressed?”
“I don’t think so.”
“They say stress is the number one contributor to male pattern baldness. I would know, my father and my second boyfriend went bald, so I guess I have a lot of experience. And I’m kind of a clairvoyant, as in I can sometimes see the future, wanna see?”
“Sure,” I said, amused. She was really cute and her body felt great as we danced around the crowded hall that seemed to stretch on forever, her ample chest smashing into mine.
She kissed me on the lips again, her lips slightly parting: she tasted like blueberries and honey and cinnamon. “I knew that was going to happen.”
I smiled and she smiled and I touched my hairline. Maybe she was right about the stress. I couldn’t remember my last vacation. “There’s no way to prevent baldness you know.” It was like she plucked the thought right out of my head and I felt like I was forgetting something important, but it didn’t really matter anymore.
“When your time comes, that’s it. No more hair.”
We continued dancing in the strange hall, filled with the movers and shakers of the roaring '20s and we danced and laughed, talking about everything and nothing as she lead me deeper and deeper into The Twilight Exit.
It must have been a trick of the light or mirrors, but it looked like the stage stretched and curved into the horizon. She lit up a cigarette and offered me one. I wasn’t much of a smoker, but I accepted. She was too cute to refuse. “What if I told you this was your last day on Earth?” she smiled at me, apparently keen on flirty little games, but I played along. “I don’t know. I suppose I would live it up.”
“Tell me, Mr. Phillip.”
“I thought my name was Rock.”
“Let’s be honest, I think we both know you’re a Phillip.”
“Thanks, I guess—”
“But maybe someday you can be my rock.”
“Okay . . .”
“Do you have guts?”
“Do I have guts?”
She blew a smoke ring and watched it dissipate, then thumped at my chest.
“Maybe I do.”
“I think you would know. Wanna know my theory?”
“Sure?”
“I think you have guts, or at least curiosity. Why else would you have crossed over into this plane.”
“This plane?”
“I mean the club, The Twilight Exit. Can’t you feel it?”
“Feel what?” I did feel something, but it was non-localized, like the feeling of unreality that had been bugging me all night. It was nice someone else noticed it.
She seemed to ignore my question, and moved on: “Curiosity can coax bravery out, you know. For what its worth, I think you might have what it takes.”
“Thanks. Me too. I guess.”
She leaned in real close to my face. “I’ll see you on the other side, Alex.”
“I thought my name was Phillip.”
She smiled like she knew something I didn’t, then pecked me on the side of my lips, fishing around in my pocket a final time, somehow coming up with another carrot, which she quickly stashed away.
From everywhere and nowhere at all, strange, almost unnerving swing music played. It was odd, the timing was off, like every other beat skipped a step giving it kind of a syncopated feel. It reminded me of a deep learning experiment gone wrong: Sure it had all the components of music, but nothing worked in a contextual sense, bars would meander and seem to catch themselves drifting before returning to the motif that I wasn’t sure I caught in the first place. And yet at the same time, it really caught you by surprise and drew you in. It reminded me of those animations that zoomed in forever using the Mandelbrot equation; the more you focused on it, the more you were sucked into the loop, the music so visceral you could practically taste it. It had a quantum, action at a spooky distance vibe—like every time you looked away, it changed, having to no longer abide by your stringent sense of reality. I could turn my head towards the stage and hear one song, but as soon as I began conversation with one of the never-ending guests, it would be a completely different song.
And you wanted to hear it, it was like an itch.
“How the hell did we sleep on this place for so long?” Paul yelled between cupped hands. And the strange thing was, like a hasty patch superimposed on my memory, I did remember this place always being here. It was just never this busy.
“Where were you? Did you see her?” I asked, I could still taste her on my lips.
“See who?”
“Never mind . . . “ The music was all at once warm and blood curdling and evoked feelings of nostalgia and the intangible and reminded me of love and loss and my first pet (Francis: the little black gerbil) and the first day of school and the smell that filled the crisp early-October air right before the book fair. Paul later confessed it reminded him of when he took Laura Sutton to the fair and had her in the stalls behind the ferris wheel. She lied and told him it was her first time, he lied and told her it wasn’t his.
It was odd, I didn’t remember him actually communicating this to me, it was more like the impression was left in my mind.
“Looking for me?” the lady with the Cheshire Cat Grin purred. There was something decidedly uncanny about her, otherworldly even, almost like she was wearing a mask. Or maybe it was her pupils that were split like a cats, but she probably had contacts in.
“Come on, Alex. I only bite when provoked,” she smiled again with that uncanny, catlike grin. There was, with all certainty something off about her, but I couldn’t really pin it down. Her entire aura and mystique seemed as fleeting and ephemeral as this place. She led the both of us through the borderline-supernatural club, and we clung to her like a lifeline. For some reason I had the impression that this place was dangerous, very dangerous and the only person who could get us through was her.
She was our guiding light.
Our goddess.
The queen of queens.
Goddess of the moon and stars and everything and all that is, if she had a title in any sort of official capacity.
I had nothing to give but my everything. I was in the presence of a living goddess and everyone clapped and cheered, patting us on the back as the crowd parted for us like The Red Sea.
She lead us for what felt like eternity, we passed through doorways and under arches, climbed through a few windows, and walked through a kitchen ran by a very high strung chef, who had no idea what we wer
e suddenly doing in his kitchen. I didn’t know either and each layer was like another atmosphere of pressure, it reminded me of scuba diving, like we had to perform the Frenzel maneuver crossing each pressure barrier, the pressure increasing about one atmosphere for every thirty feet of depth.
We may have well been in the Mariana Trench our surroundings were so alien. The club was filled, and yet I had the distinct feeling we were being dragged through a vast, empty abyss. Our only light being our queen of eternity and everything and all that is and cats.
She could have walked us into the eye of an active volcano and I would have been fine with it if it meant more time in her presence.
She was our queen.
The queen of queens.
And I would do anything for her. I would cut out my own tongue if she desired, if that was what it took to please her.
But I knew our queen of the universe and everything and all that is loved us as we loved her. It was a feeling so pure and all at once filled me with longing and plunged me into the deepest, darkest pit of despair I could ever conceive of.
What is this place?
What’s happening?
Did I finally get a bad string?
Is my brain melting?
And yet, at the same time, I felt more safe than I'd ever felt. The Goddess with the Cheshire Cat Grin introduced us to everyone and made us feel like royalty. But still it wasn’t getting through my thick head. How could it? If I had paid more attention, I would have noticed the abundance of magic going on all around us. The place was lousing with it, nothing was natural or normal, there were cats running around everywhere, everyone was interested in us, and there was even a dance floor where everyone was floating.
Yet deeper and deeper we dove as reality continued to unravel. It was hard telling how much time we spent in this strange liminal space, the backrooms of reality. If anything, I would describe the club as kind of a purgatory. A place that existed on the fence separating absolute elation and bone chilling horror.
The longer we walked, the lighter I felt, like I was being of unburdened of something. But I couldn’t figure out what it was, or what the function was.
But did any of it really matter?
Does anything matter?
Everyone was having fun. And every door we passed through the feeling in the pit of my stomach grew more severe. At one point I forgot it was even a game, which was super dangerous. It has happened before and us testers colloquially refer to it as the bends. Some games are intentionally designed to make you forget, but as testers, we had to continually remind ourselves as it was very possible for the AI to override basic safety features. People had literally explored until their bodies starved to death.
I squeezed my totem in my pocket, a small, thimble sized figurine of a swordsman with a sharp tip, usually the poke is enough to remind me. And yet, I felt a great revulsion towards even my own totem. There were so many red flags, I should have gotten the hell out of there, but I didn’t. Our queen had us wrapped around her little finger. It was like she picked up on my thoughts, which wasn’t something the inhabitants of the world were supposed to do. Too many people experienced PTSD-like effects after the AI mined their memories for content.
But as my queen gave my hand a firm squeeze, I knew everything was going to be alright.
We did it.
We found her.
That's all we need.
She's all we need.
I started to notice the queen of hearts symbols woven into every surface, heart-shaped cards fluttering down from the ceiling like confetti.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The music seemed to exist only to mark time. Like a metronome or great grandfather clock.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
When I really focused on it, it had all the properties of music, but there was something chilling about it. It kind of reminded me of water droplets and I had the morbid feeling I was being bled dry, my arm hanging over the side of a bathtub. We danced, but it was so out of time, and yet it somehow worked.
Drip, drip, drip, drip.
Faster and faster we danced, the scenery rapidly changing like a haywire slide show projection: We were in a great field with infinity stars above us, we were in my bedroom, and my graduation party, then the moon and a police station and my funeral. I was bowing, bowing before the alter of our queen, our goddess, the queen of everything and the universe the stars the moon and all that is. I felt like I was forgetting something important, but the idea seemed so far away now.
What was it?
What am I doing here?
Who am I?
The room was filled with dancers wearing all black and were all at once elated and mournful. On stage was a casket.
My casket.
Everyone was dressed in funeral attire and waltzing.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
One. Two. Three.
I was dancing at my own wake and a little silver string connected from my bellybutton to the middle of my forehead dab smack at the place that was thought to be your third eye.
I was having the most thrilling conversation with one of the guests, but I didn’t quite catch her name.
And I think she was dead.
But she was telling me this long story. She was in France . . . Paris, actually, the city of love. She had just finished the most fabulous wilted duck confit salad she'd ever had, and had to admit, she was probably a little tipsy, and after she settled her bill she left and crossed the street and was hit by a car. A nice little old lady got out of her car and hustled to the back, grabbing out a bottle of wine, pouring her a glass. No sorry, it’s okay, she said and didn't notice the blood leaking out of her ears before it was too late.
We danced and talked and she smelled kind of like good dirt, the dark cold stuff that you compulsively had to dig your hands (or feet) into. The blunt, primordial rot as appealing as the smell of gasoline.
It was hilarious seeing my cold, dead body. I couldn’t stop laughing. I had to excuse myself from . . . What’s your name again?
But it didn’t really matter.
Nothing really mattered.
I was both looking out from inside the casket, and I was on the dance floor doing the tango with corpses. I could feel their cold, clammy skin, which made me laugh even harder, despite their touch making my skin crawl, their flesh occasionally giving out under my fingers, squishing around like moldy chunks of hamburger mixed with oily, rotting fish carcasses.
I had to periodically check if I was screaming. I didn’t think I was, and sometimes I caught myself drooling. But I was laughing so hard and everyone was so nice. The punch was great, nevermind that’s how they got you in literally all folklore.
It was a party.
Tonight was going to last forever. I was like a celebrity, everyone pitching ideas to me, asking my advice on financial matters, wondering who my tailor was and why I never married. And for a moment I had to stop and thank about it, all of it, but it was so god damned funny. I was laughing, borderline hysterically . . .
Laughing, laughing laughing. Almost choking.
But my lady of sorrows and darkness and cats and everything there is, was always there when I needed her most.
Paul got up on stage and everyone cheered and chanted for him to make a speech, but their voices echoed like we were in the bottom of a well or in a crowded mausoleum. It was like I was alone in an empty swimming pool, the air thick with lye and bleach and embalming fluid and burned my sinuses. It was a beautiful speech and he told all about my life, shared fun little anecdotes about all the stupid shit we did, like the time we built a jump so big my bike frame cracked in half.
I always went first.
The entire time I was screaming at myself to abort, to wake up, to get the hell out of there and file a report, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I couldn’t even find a menu or exit button. After he finished speaking, I was looking out of the coffin again.
I was
no longer dancing.
But everyone was partying.
Alex my darling, your soul is all I desire. Your soul and we could be together forever and ever. Your queen of darkness and the moon and stars and all that is.
My soul? But don’t I need it?
My love, everything you need and desire I can provide.
And still it wasn’t getting through my thick skull. The room was spinning and it was like I was in one of those fun houses packed with the optical illusions, or maybe it was a hall of mirrors. The club was packed, but it was like we were the only ones in residence. Everything was dark and gloomy and dreadful, an air of lethargy thick as pea soup.
I remember someone talking to me for a half an hour about what happened after we died, then they explained to me in gruesome detail how Paul dies. At the end of our conversation, she glided away, and that was when I noticed the massive gash in her back. I could see her insides and I could smell the fetid and coppery scent of spoiled blood climbing my nostrils, settling in the back of my throat, acid rising and it felt like the only one who could make this go away was my queen of infinity and the universe and everything and all that is.
You fucked up, buddy. Now you did it. This is on you.
My coffin started sinking into the stage as everyone stood around me cheering and laughing and clapping and having a good time. Paul was the first to throw a shovel of dirt. It landed on my face and got in my eyes. I tried to protest, but deep down I knew it was the right thing to do. The lady with the Cheshire Cat Grin was next, followed by the assortment of half-dead patrons taking turns until dirt filled my lungs, little bits of rock and insects and earthworms lining my throat.
There was nothing but The Lady with the Cheshire Cat Smile, my goddess, the queen of everything and all that is and darkness and sorrow.
I wanted to tell her something, but I couldn’t remember what it was.
She smells like Christmas—no, that can't be it.
I noticed her cat ears twitch again. Cat ears? I felt stupid for not noticing sooner, or did I? “Too busy staring at my tits?” she opined, and Paul nodded in agreement. We were back at the club, sitting and sharing a drink watching a troupe of performers walking around on stilts. They were all wearing creepy white animal masks. But it didn’t really matter. The music was almost too quiet to hear now.
Void.Net: Wonderland Page 3