I awoke–or, rather, came to–on the floor of a long hallway. There was no natural light, but I could still see.
My head was fuzzy, and my face hurt: I had been hit. I had been struck, and repeatedly. My phone was gone.
As I looked around, I realized that it was not a hallway I had found myself in; no, I was in between parallel shelves reaching ten or twelve feet up. It was like the stacks at my college library, but with less drug dealing and clandestine gay stuff. There were books, but there were also cardboard boxes and record albums and was that an oud? and a shopping bag with “Billy’s I.O.U.’s” scrawled on it.
At the end of shelves, in the dimness, was a pair of maroon sweatpants with the elastic holding on out of sheer duty and a size XXXL black t-shirt. The clothes were suspended in the air in a human shape with no visible means of support.
Like this crazy bullshit Batman used to pull:
how the fuck did Batman even do that? There’s a lot of craftsmanship in that thing, and technology, too, it seems. Is this how Batman takes his mind off being Batman? By using his advanced Morgan Freeman stuff to permanently turn the judging glare of the teenager he pretty much murdered on him while he worked? Did he wear the Batman suit while he worked on it?
Also, at one point–stick with me here–Batman had to be molding the crotch of that thing and, seriously: don’t you take a breather and reevaluate things? You’re a grown man in a pervert suit making a voodoo dead kid in a cave and maybe law school?
You had an idea. You were doing so well and developing things and being a big grown-up writerly writer–
Yeah, those first few sentences were killing it, thank you.
—and then you squander your energy and their time–
If they’re reading this, they have nothing better to do.
—on Batman nerd-porn. Stop it and get back to the story about how you found yourself…
…sitting between the shelves when I heard footsteps. There were two of them, one lighter than the other, but they had the gaits of soldiers. They walked like men of violence and my hand went to my already-bruised face and I was frightened; most of all, though: confused? What had I done to deserve this. Besides all the things I’ve done to deserve this. Like, if there were a vote: it would be a runaway that I thoroughly need and merit a solid thrashing, but it isn’t a democracy. I’m the only one who gets to vote.
When the two men came around the corner, I could see that one was lanky and tall; the other, almost perfectly spherical in dressed in old-fashioned tweeds and a matching eye patch. He made it work, you had to give it to him.
Both of them had dangerous, drug-fueled lightning flashing in their eyes and I feared for my life. I snatched a random manuscript off of the shelf and, rising to my feet, made as if to tear it.
Don’t come any closer! I said.
The men stopped.
“NO!” the short one cried. “That is the only remaining copy of Bobby’s aborted 1978 novel, Who Is Clive Davis and Why Does He Keep Grabbing my Ding-Dong?” You mustn’t destroy it.”
His voice was plummy and flutey, yet manly. Clearly educated.
Bobby? I asked. My god…I am in–
“You are in THE VAULT, my dear boy. We have brought you here to–”
Who are you calling ‘boy?’ I said. There was a second of silence.
“Are…you…um. This is a rude question, but–”
What difference does it make?!
“because you’re allowed to say–”
ALLOWED? Check your privilege, son! I said
And then Billy leapt from the highest vantage point and punched me in the dick.
As I sank into unconsciousness, the one in the suit stood over me.
“My name is The Reverend Dr. Sir Nicholas Aloysius Kensington Flensington Jamiroqui Rothschild Baracus–
I then passed out.
TO BE CONTINUED…
(Honest. I know I’ve done this before. I wish Elvis would come back, too, but there’s MORE TO THESE STORIFICATIONS, Enthusiasts!)
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