Hall of Infinite Doors
You can't feel your feet. Or your hands. You wonder if there is a hidden exit somewhere nearby. A trap door perhaps?
Speaking of trap doors, one opens right in front of you. A midget muffin appears, holding a large bow and arrow high above his head. At the end of the arrow already placed on the bow is what appears to be a huge white marshmallow.
"The sacrifice of the Gods!" the little muffin squeaks, his stringy arms shaking under the weight of the bow. You take it from him, and he scurries off to the Muffin Man, who pats him approvingly on the head.
The moment you take up the bow, the subdued tribal song begins to pick up pitch and momentum. The chocolate babies dance in time around the fire of streamers, their grass skirts snapping back and forth. The delicate features of the little one in tethers have softened into something that reminds you of the resignation of the doomed. The audience holds its breath.
You are so taken with the dancing chocolate lovelies that you have failed to notice the Muffin Man approaching you. He is holding a torch, at the end of which burns a very real fire. His red-rimmed eyes give off a jaundiced sparkle. He seems to be looking through you as he roars,
"And now, the Rite of S'more!"
"S'more! S'more! S'more!" the babies cry in unison. Excited beyond self-consciousness, the audience takes up their chant. You can't feel your knees or your elbows.
Suddenly, your marshmallow is on fire.
"Shoot the damn thing!" the Muffin Man hisses at you, pointing to the tied-up chocolate baby who is now looking skyward and silently mouthing some prayers.
"But "
"Or I'll shoot you". He lifts up his jacket a little to reveal the same make of Caramel '38 that had so frightened you back at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread.
Chocolate isn't alive, right? I mean, you wouldn't really be killing anything. Right?
Taking quick aim, you shoot the flaming marshmallow into the air, closing your eyes tight the moment it has sprung free of the bow.
Thunderous applause shakes the ground under your feet. Opening one eye, you see that you have shot the poor creature right through the heart. She is slumped over the arrow, melting rapidly into the marshmallow. Smoke puffs out into the air.
You are a murderer.
But then the smoke reaches your nose. You see a vision of summer camp and bug bites, you and your siblings around a fire, mommy and daddy disappeared into the tent which is rocking around a lot even though it is not a windy night. You smell Eternal Summer. You smile.
Then you lose all control.
You don't even notice the Cracker Guard that has come somberly deathmarching in, bearing a large cracker between them. They try to pry you off of your prize so they can complete the great Rite of S'more. But your solid fleshy constitution proves rather immobile.
Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!
Up and down and all around, chocolate and marshmallow goodness! You bury your face in the swelling pool, breathing in the maddening mixture. You bathe in it, you devour it, you just love it love it love it!
Having finally succeeded in prying you free, the Cracker Guard places the mangled body of the dead chocolate baby onto the cracker. The other girls in the grass skirts prostrate themselves before their fallen comrade. Glitter and sugar sashay down from the ceiling, and the curtain sweeps shut amid furious applause.
However, you don't notice any of this because you are licking the floor desperately à recherche du chocolat perdu
A few hours later, you are still lying on the stage where you passed out. The theatre is empty and quiet, save the sounds of the cleanup crew. A stagehand kicks you lightly in the ribs.
"Yet another case of choco-tox. What is this world coming to? Best just let the poor blighter sleep it off."
And that is what they do. You fall into a deep, deep sleep
The next time you wake up, you have the feeling that it is morning. There aren't any windows anywhere, but it smells like a new day. Rising painfully to your feet, you see no evidence of the barbarism that took place here last night. In the absence of any obvious reminders, you decide that in fact it did not happen. You are not a murderer. You're a nice person.
You have one hell of a stomach ache.
Staggering a little, you find that elusive exit that you had hoped would save you from that ghastly ceremony from that from. There is a door in front of you. You go out the door.
Speaking of trap doors, one opens right in front of you. A midget muffin appears, holding a large bow and arrow high above his head. At the end of the arrow already placed on the bow is what appears to be a huge white marshmallow.
"The sacrifice of the Gods!" the little muffin squeaks, his stringy arms shaking under the weight of the bow. You take it from him, and he scurries off to the Muffin Man, who pats him approvingly on the head.
The moment you take up the bow, the subdued tribal song begins to pick up pitch and momentum. The chocolate babies dance in time around the fire of streamers, their grass skirts snapping back and forth. The delicate features of the little one in tethers have softened into something that reminds you of the resignation of the doomed. The audience holds its breath.
You are so taken with the dancing chocolate lovelies that you have failed to notice the Muffin Man approaching you. He is holding a torch, at the end of which burns a very real fire. His red-rimmed eyes give off a jaundiced sparkle. He seems to be looking through you as he roars,
"And now, the Rite of S'more!"
"S'more! S'more! S'more!" the babies cry in unison. Excited beyond self-consciousness, the audience takes up their chant. You can't feel your knees or your elbows.
Suddenly, your marshmallow is on fire.
"Shoot the damn thing!" the Muffin Man hisses at you, pointing to the tied-up chocolate baby who is now looking skyward and silently mouthing some prayers.
"But "
"Or I'll shoot you". He lifts up his jacket a little to reveal the same make of Caramel '38 that had so frightened you back at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gingerbread.
Chocolate isn't alive, right? I mean, you wouldn't really be killing anything. Right?
Taking quick aim, you shoot the flaming marshmallow into the air, closing your eyes tight the moment it has sprung free of the bow.
Thunderous applause shakes the ground under your feet. Opening one eye, you see that you have shot the poor creature right through the heart. She is slumped over the arrow, melting rapidly into the marshmallow. Smoke puffs out into the air.
You are a murderer.
But then the smoke reaches your nose. You see a vision of summer camp and bug bites, you and your siblings around a fire, mommy and daddy disappeared into the tent which is rocking around a lot even though it is not a windy night. You smell Eternal Summer. You smile.
Then you lose all control.
You don't even notice the Cracker Guard that has come somberly deathmarching in, bearing a large cracker between them. They try to pry you off of your prize so they can complete the great Rite of S'more. But your solid fleshy constitution proves rather immobile.
Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!
Up and down and all around, chocolate and marshmallow goodness! You bury your face in the swelling pool, breathing in the maddening mixture. You bathe in it, you devour it, you just love it love it love it!
Having finally succeeded in prying you free, the Cracker Guard places the mangled body of the dead chocolate baby onto the cracker. The other girls in the grass skirts prostrate themselves before their fallen comrade. Glitter and sugar sashay down from the ceiling, and the curtain sweeps shut amid furious applause.
However, you don't notice any of this because you are licking the floor desperately à recherche du chocolat perdu
A few hours later, you are still lying on the stage where you passed out. The theatre is empty and quiet, save the sounds of the cleanup crew. A stagehand kicks you lightly in the ribs.
"Yet another case of choco-tox. What is this world coming to? Best just let the poor blighter sleep it off."
And that is what they do. You fall into a deep, deep sleep
The next time you wake up, you have the feeling that it is morning. There aren't any windows anywhere, but it smells like a new day. Rising painfully to your feet, you see no evidence of the barbarism that took place here last night. In the absence of any obvious reminders, you decide that in fact it did not happen. You are not a murderer. You're a nice person.
You have one hell of a stomach ache.
Staggering a little, you find that elusive exit that you had hoped would save you from that ghastly ceremony from that from. There is a door in front of you. You go out the door.