I’ve been to many seedy underbellies in my time, from the slug fighting bouts in the sewers of Shreveport, to the mummified cat brothel in the hill of Missouri. You might even say that I’m a creature of the dark underground, a street urchin of grime, filth, disease, and disorder.
My name is Karl, and sin is in my nature. But I have never experienced the gutter like the Mormonia Temple.
Seated underneath the Great Salt Lake, this labyrinth of tubes, canals, chambers, valves, corridors, and ranges takes the proverbial cake in terms of debauchery, violence, menace, chaos, and depravity.
Why has it taken me so long to visit?
Despite popular perception, Mormonia has no relation to the Church of Latter Day Saints. The name is pure coincidence. While the Mormons might be from Missouri, Mormonians hail from a more normal place: the center of the Earth. When the last Ice Age in 1913 turned their cavernous home near the Earth’s core into a glacial mess, their king, Alda XIII, annexed the soil in Utah for his new kingdom. It was a proper fit, as the salt deposits made for excellent cooking (Mormonians have an average life span of 33 years, most dying of a heart attack) and the climate matched that of the core. This might be the only civilization to thrive due to global warming. Thanks Republicans.
So where does Abita fit in? How is she their Queen? Hell if I know. Shriss, Bill, and I have been stuck in an antechamber for days. The only entertainment we have is the solemn house music that blares through speakers on a constant basis. After three days, the beats blend together and your heart’s rhythm matches the sonic throbbing. Mormonia is a constant rave, and is lieu of cocaine fueled frenzies, this shift in heart murmurs acts as a natural stimulant. It’s like Wall Street in the ‘80s. I feel like I’m six again, although now I’m doing a lot less blow.
The only contact we had with the Mormonians was a brief glimpse of a Royal Soldier three times a day as he shoved a tube through a hole in the wall and sprayed us down with creamed corn. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all rolled up in creamy goodness. Normally I would have objected to this diet of starch and more starch, but I was so high all the time that the only thing I wanted to do was talk really fast about changing the world through capitalism.
Our only entertainment was conversation, and we were not very good at it. Sir Bill, who talks tremendous amounts to begin with, didn’t even bother with forming real words anymore, proclaiming statements like “Tan bechem shoe Mrs. Starburst? HAHAHAHA!” Shriss, who had probably done more cocaine than a crack whore, remained excited but unfocused, telling us stories she’s heard of Mormonia, filling us in on the detail of this society. Unfortunately, she told three stories at once with no sense of order or plot and never really finished any of them.
When we got a chance to sleep, 15 minutes everyday, the conversations never stopped, only simmering to quiet murmurs. Shriss, her stripper abilities kicking in, started dancing and stripping with her eyes closed. The house music does that to exotic dancers, it seems.
One day, the music stopped. We stood and looked at each other in confusion. Then we collapsed. We slept for three days.
We awoke with a man peering over us, two Royal Guards standing on either side of him. The man was dressed in glitter and bedazzled clothing, sequined jumpsuit, cape, even a sparkly pair of sneakers. His hands moved in continual motion, the fingers vibrating, pulsing, and shifting in magical ways. He had fingers like a Broadway star.
“Tiiiiiiiiime tooooo waaaaaaakkkkkkeeeee uppppppp.” He trilled each word, his voice lilting atonally. “Theeee Queeeen wiiillllll meeettttt yoooooou noooowwwww.”
The Guards pointed their sharp spears at us as we gathered our thoughts and rose. Satisfied that we were cooperating, the man nodded and twirled around, his cape flowing around him. He snapped his fingers. The house music started again. The Man clicked his heels together and boogied into an open doorway, shaking his hips and dipping low every few steps. The Guards motioned for us to follow, and we did, dancing along, unable to shake the funky rhythms.
The man led us through blood-lined corridors, deep canals of green gunk, and rooms filled with tables and chairs, slumped bodies of drunken louts resting their heads on mighty tables throughout the hall. We had missed a party, it seemed.
After an hour of seemingly aimless travel, the man stopped in front of a giant door. He twirled around, nodding his head to the guards. We stopped. The man clapped his hands and danced, shaking his legs and thrusting his hips, looking down at the ground or closing his eyes, lost in the rhythm in his head. I looked around at the Guards. The peered straight ahead, as if this were a normal thing to do.
The man spun in place, twirling numerous times, before halting suddenly and looking at us, his fingers still in constant movement. “My name is Juuuuuuuniooooooor. But yooo-oo-ooooou can call meeeeeeee Sliiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmm.” (He was fat). “We are abooooooooooout to enterrrrrrrrr the haaaaaaalllll of King Aldaaaaaaaaaaaa.” He began his dance again.
I leaned over to Shriss, whispering, “What’s with this guy? Does he have Parkinson’s or something?”
She replied out of the corner of her mouth, “No, I think he’s just a douchebag.”
I nodded in agreement, his medical condition making his erratic behavior seem more clear.
He twirled again in place, spinning faster and more vigorously than before. I looked at the Guards. They held the same gaze, although hints of boredom appeared in their eyes.
Slim stopped, thrust his hands in front of him, wiggled his fingers, turned around, and opened the doors.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment