Hall of Infinite Doors
Whatever this Gingerjuice is, it can't be all bad, right? Candyman has obviously had plenty of it, and he's in awfully high spirits for a man who's rotting in a jail cell. Of course, being completely psychotic probably works in his favor as well as he wiles away his hours in this dank antithesis to all things cheery and sweet. Gingerbread Land is a fake. It may look tasty, but it's a stale confection that will break your teeth, and then your soul. An unexpected feeling of camaraderie beats in your chest as you sit down next to the pungent Candyman and reach your hand out for his flask. He smiles a huge gaping grin and gives it to you, wiping the mouthpiece with his shirtsleeve as he does so. How thoughtful.
Not wanting to ponder the situation any further, you close your eyes, tighten your stomach muscles, and take a big swig from the flask. Immediately, a fire spreads through your throat and you reach your hands up desperately to your neck. Gasping for air, you cry out in pain and anguish at this very stupid decision you have made. The Candyman smiles softly, rubbing your back in a sensual circular motion.
"Easy now," he whispers. "The first time is always the worst time. Just close your eyes and soon you'll be in dreamy land."
Speechless with pain and fear, you just stay fixed to your spot next to Candyman. The drink has taken every last ounce of energy from you, and your hands drop heavily to the floor. You close your eyes in an attempt to silence a low buzzing that seems to be coming from beneath the cell door.
Maybe some time passes, and mice scurry up walls and down floors.
You open your eyes again.
What you feel, you're not sure because you can't quite feel. As you run your tongue across your upper lip, you wonder if you're actually running your tongue across your upper lip. After all, you don't have any evidence of your hands or feet. A sound comes from somewhere around your left back, but when you turn around you realize it's just your hair being blown by the wind created as you shake your head back and forth, grooving to the music that isn't there. Maybe there are clouds in the ceiling swinging around in big gyrating circles. Candyman looks vaguely at you through a big cloud of question-thoughts. His smile is big, with little fire-powered sprinkles shooting out of his nostrils. Realizing your necessity, you quickly take your pulse. It's beating out the melody to Toy Land, so you kind of sing along, but this is hard because you don't know the words to this song. Your cheeks burn, and suddenly not caring about your filthy conditions, you drag your right cheek along the cold wet floor. In doing so, your head refuses to get up and you slump forward with only your ass left swinging in the wind. You want so badly to tell Candyman how awesome the world really is. Even if he's hurting, he only has to remember that it's all someone else's hurt that he accidentally inherited. He needs to know that you're both in a secret sugar bubble bursting with popcorn. But you can't seem to open your mouth. You just sort of moan at the secret subliminal frequency that you know Candyman can understand.
The Candyman can understand, the Candyman can indeed, you can-can do it too-can candy
Not wanting to ponder the situation any further, you close your eyes, tighten your stomach muscles, and take a big swig from the flask. Immediately, a fire spreads through your throat and you reach your hands up desperately to your neck. Gasping for air, you cry out in pain and anguish at this very stupid decision you have made. The Candyman smiles softly, rubbing your back in a sensual circular motion.
"Easy now," he whispers. "The first time is always the worst time. Just close your eyes and soon you'll be in dreamy land."
Speechless with pain and fear, you just stay fixed to your spot next to Candyman. The drink has taken every last ounce of energy from you, and your hands drop heavily to the floor. You close your eyes in an attempt to silence a low buzzing that seems to be coming from beneath the cell door.
Maybe some time passes, and mice scurry up walls and down floors.
You open your eyes again.
What you feel, you're not sure because you can't quite feel. As you run your tongue across your upper lip, you wonder if you're actually running your tongue across your upper lip. After all, you don't have any evidence of your hands or feet. A sound comes from somewhere around your left back, but when you turn around you realize it's just your hair being blown by the wind created as you shake your head back and forth, grooving to the music that isn't there. Maybe there are clouds in the ceiling swinging around in big gyrating circles. Candyman looks vaguely at you through a big cloud of question-thoughts. His smile is big, with little fire-powered sprinkles shooting out of his nostrils. Realizing your necessity, you quickly take your pulse. It's beating out the melody to Toy Land, so you kind of sing along, but this is hard because you don't know the words to this song. Your cheeks burn, and suddenly not caring about your filthy conditions, you drag your right cheek along the cold wet floor. In doing so, your head refuses to get up and you slump forward with only your ass left swinging in the wind. You want so badly to tell Candyman how awesome the world really is. Even if he's hurting, he only has to remember that it's all someone else's hurt that he accidentally inherited. He needs to know that you're both in a secret sugar bubble bursting with popcorn. But you can't seem to open your mouth. You just sort of moan at the secret subliminal frequency that you know Candyman can understand.
The Candyman can understand, the Candyman can indeed, you can-can do it too-can candy