Malaria Mondays – Un Will Fully

March 4th, 2008

The contest for building the best robot brought in all sorts of competition to a gray city like environment. Top engineers from around the globe, arrived to showcase their best designs for the venue.

I stumbled wildly out from a dark alley, feet were moving but they felt heavy, arms were comatose, body was sluggish and swaying drunkenly; I was completely out of control and not quite myself. The third person view exposed me as Will Farrell, dressed in a white lab coat. “Go to hell!” I commanded a small street urchin, realizing even my voice was throaty with a hint of whine, just like Will’s.

On the way to the competition, I knowingly gathered bits of wire from the street, hunkered down at a truck-stop and impetuously assembled an electronic creation, hiding it under my coat.

“It was a device of the grandest design,” I thought with monomaniacal grin. “Sure to win me the competition.”

My bulky self arrived carrying a heavy covered bulge. I sat in a small plastic school chair on stage and carefully waited my turn to speak. The announcer pointed and I stood, brought out the device from under my labcoat with blinding speed, revealing a huge ticking time bomb! The crowd gasped… except one small boy.

“They want you to have a job substitute teaching,” said the small boy watching the spectacle.

“OK!” I said excitedly, dropped the bomb on stage and walked off.

The gleaming wide eyed children seamed to shudder when I entered the classroom. One kid asked what my name is. (This is where I experience what it is like to be insane.) I had no idea what my name was… then a thought bubble appeared above my head. Making the sound of a slide whistle as It projected my father, calling me a “bitch” and beating me.

“Uhhh… my name is Mr. Bitch.”

After much laughter from the students, a girl asked me how long I would be here teaching. Yet another slide whistle and a thought bubble appeared showing a birthday cake with some fat girl blowing out candles shaped like the number 16.

“16 fat girls”, I replied.

The classroom sequence kept repeating: A child’s question, followed by a random thought bubble, finishing with an obscure reply.

What are you going to teach us? — Pretty dwarves in dresses.

Why are you dressed in a lab coat? — MST3K (mystery science theater 3000) rocks!

As if a small amount of time passed in a photo montage, I was magically whisked away to an underground car park, surrounded by my stolen cars. Mark, and some very skinny shady Burt Reynolds look-alike thief, and I (remember I still look like Will Ferrell) were looking at a very cartoonie map of my hometown of Quincy (like the colorful maps at a theme park) and plotting our routes to transport my stolen cars to a different location. YES… we would transport the cars through Gullpie ranch road. The thief hopped into a car, Mark and I into another. We drove behind the thief through the car park and to the exit. He took a wrong turn and headed into downtown Quincy.

YOU IDIOT! Stay off the main road! That way goes past the police station!” I screamed to him from the other car.

He stuck his mustached face out the window and laughed, “No cop can catch me! YEEE HAWWW! Petal to the metal good buddy!”

We had no choice but to abandon him and turn the opposite way, So, after a few seconds of driving Mark made a call from his cell phone and I had a bad feeling and didn’t trust him.

“This map is terrible, we are lost,” he said. “I’m calling for directions.”

“That bastard must be calling the police,” I thought paranoidly.

“Yeah, they said our turn is around here some where.”

“Dirty stinking backstabber,” I mumbled inaudibly.

“There it is… but something’s wrong. The Gullupie Ranch sign has changed!”

The regular rectangular sign measures 1m x 2m, and has the words “Gullpie Ranch” in large brown letters with a friendly cream colored background. The other off shooting roads, have quaint carved wooden signs with cutesy names like “Willow Branch Way“. Now, the words “Gullpie Ranch” were crossed out with ominous red letters saying “Decrona Drive“ and the wooden signs were replaced by ruff metal ones repeating “Decrona Drive“ on every side street.

(For those of you who have no idea what Decrona is… I will give you some insight to my days before leaving Quincy. I was courting a nice Capricorn with the last name Decrona, who’s father is the Lt. police officer and chief of the local SWAT team. Kind of a scary guy for a derelict like me. — So, in order to not lose face, I called this girl and told her the dream. Then, asked if she wanted me to change the name or hide some details. She said, “It’s funny, go ahead and tell the dream.”)

Baffled and feeling double crossed by Mark, we drove up the road until reaching a large dark spooky house on a barren red clay hill. I scurried out of the car (no longer Will Ferrel but myself again). Ran up to the large front door of the house and threw it open without knocking. Within the doors there was a very odd series of doors with different ways of opening. (Like MST3K) Some would slide with a whoosh when pressing a button, others would open like clunky gates with a creak, but every door had some sort of mechanism that I could manipulate to release the door. After 6-8 doors I ran into a room with hundreds of dorm bunk beds. The boys that occupied the room were all shirtless, with shaved heads, speaking what sounded like German amongst each other. I backed out of the room slowly trying to figure out what was going on… an army of young German boys. I got to find my Capricorn! I finaly reached the living room. There I saw her covered with gray dust, forced to build a massive 6 foot gray brick structure, that resembled a large brick oven. The father was drinking a tropical umbrella drink in an easy chair, reading the newspaper. I grabbed her hand and she stopped working.

“We got to get outa here,” I said quietly, so the father wouldn’t hear me. “Something weird is going on.”

She simply stood there and blinked unknowingly as if brainwashed.

“Come on. Let’s go!” I pleaded.

I looked into her eyes, the windows to the soul, they cast a dull a glossed over, blank, foggy stare back at me. She was gone. My efforts were futile and I released her hand.

“Goodbye,” I whispered into her ear.

Then, exited the way I came in, through the many doors of the odd German concentration camp. Never looking back.

Entry Filed under: Malaria Mondays,Thailand