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Once upon a time, there was a man, a very rich and powerful man who lived in a very big and opulent house. He had many powerful and important friends—And enemies.
One day, the rich man put on his Rolex watch, his Yeezy Crush 950 V25 sneakers, and a bright, red cap. He checked out his reflection in the mirror—tall, taut, no greys in his sleek brown hair, green eyes still piercing, a near-perfect specimen of prime manhood. Looking good! He pointed a proud finger at the immaculate image his mirror reflected before grabbing his golden golf clubs. A couple minutes later, he sprawled inside his big black car as his chauffeur drove off, flanked by his security entourage, en-route to a very famous and exclusive golf course.
Later, he planned to enjoy a sumptuous Haute Cuisine dinner before returning to his beautiful wife and even more beautiful tailor-made suits and designer leather shoes. He also planned to meet the most powerful people in the world for a very important conference to determine the fate of mankind.
He never did.
Something bad happened to him and he died—
Or so he thought…
He heard somewhere that rats know when people are about to die. They will leave a house enmasse just before the house owner dies, or abandon a ship before it sinks, dragging all to a cold, watery grave.
The man shudders, fighting the dark thoughts torturing his mind as a new tunnel rushes towards him with dizzying speed. At the sight, his head reels, panic quickening his heartbeats. A zillion thoughts buzz in his head like angry wasps—Holy fuck! When’s this nightmare gonna end? With renewed despair, he wonders if he will be devoured by this silent, spiralling darkness that oozes pure malignancy and bone-freezing terror. If only he had the instincts of the rat, he thinks; the foreknowledge of his own demise. Then he would’ve fought death with every drop of blood in his body. Instead, he’s been caught totally unprepared, and now he’s trapped in these dark tunnels, headed for… Jesus Christ!
A new tunnel rises out of the dark and sucks him into its chilling darkness. He groans, and his body quakes violently like storm-battered leaves, weakened by cold and fear. He continues to free fall, diving through dark tunnels and icy realms that seem never ending. Every bit of his body is iced up by the freezing air blistering the unknown worlds he’s been navigating since he started his escape several hours ago—Or maybe it’s been several days? Got no friggin’ idea. Not even sure it matters anyway. I could be stuck here for the rest of my bloody life.
A flush of self-pity engulfs him—I’m nothing now, zippo, zilch. Just a friggin’ bodiless soul on this shitty flight from death. He shudders again, fighting to rein in the panic threatening to steal his sanity. He senses its dark presence behind him, the fearsome hooded one, giving relentless chase. Its killing scythe swishes terrifyingly in the empty air, seeking its target—his soul. He makes the swift choice to veer towards the new tunnel to his right, the only tunnel not spewing hissing, black smoke. It is narrower than the rest, and a pale, blue light emits from its tubular entrance. His eyes are getting tired of seeing nothing but icy blackness—Damn things are now starting to hurt like hell on top of everything else. Shit!
Just then, a baby’s frail wail pierces the still air. It seems to come from somewhere to his left, another tunnel different from the countless ones he’s already plummeted through. His eyes open wide in disbelief, and he almost weeps with relief.
He takes a deep breath, says a silent prayer, and dives. His frosty and translucent form veers towards the baby’s cries, seeking it out as a moth to a flame. He has no idea what he’ll find at the end of this new tunnel, if the infant’s cries will be the harbinger of his own tears when he finally confronts his hooded nemesis. All he knows is that anything is better than this.
He squeezes his lids tightly as he spirals, fast and deep, till he hits something soft, something small, yet something so powerful that it knocks him out before he has the chance to open his eyes and confront his cruel destiny.
pigsty in a run-down rural farm. He is lying inside a room as black as a biker’s jacket. At first, all he can see is the dim flickering of a solitary candle burnt to half wax. The candle is atop a rickety, three-legged, midget table cluttering up an ugly room that is barely big enough to hold his gold-plated golf clubs, much less a grown man.
His eyes scan the gloomy surroundings with laser-like speed. The first thing he sees is a small, wooden window next to a dwarf door. The ridged window frame is supported by what appears to be red-mud walls—Huh? What the fuck?
His mind reels—Am I really seeing red-mud walls or are my eyes kidding me or what? He shuts his eyes and opens them again. This time, it’s not only the red-mud walls assaulting his vision, but also a low, thatched roof woven into an uneven mess that resembles a giant bird nest—Holy righteous shit! Something’s not right here! Scratch that; I ain’t thinking jack shit. I know something’s horribly wrong here; very bad indeed. It’s a nasty and revolting kind of wrong that makes his skin crawl.
His body shudders with revulsion as he feels his face flush with rage. He reaches for his concealed pistol—Someone’s stupid head’s gonna roll! Scratch that. Several dumb heads are gonna get the full force of my wrath for this mega screw-up. How on earth did I end up in this lousy, fly-dump place? Pansy-Pete had better have some damned good answers to give me or else…
His pistol is gone. No matter how frantically his hands seek its familiar smooth grip, the secret weapon is nowhere to be found. His heart starts to race.
“Pete! Where the fuck are you?” he screams in rage. “Get your bitchass over here at once, do you hear me? And while you’re at it, where the hell’s this gawd awful place? And why are we in friggin’ darkness? Hell! I’m surrounded by a bunch of morons, paying you clowns decent taxpayer’s money to sit on your lazy butts and take advantage of my kindness while—"
He stops abruptly, like a rapper cut off in mid-rant—What the hell? The plaintive wails of a newborn baby that has dogged his angry cussing ceases as well, plunging the room into a strange kind of silence. It is the silence of a tennis court, the hushed breaths of riveted spectators as the players slug out a tense point, the only sounds being the hard thuds of the balls and the adrenaline grunts of the antagonists.
A deep frown furrows his forehead as he cocks his ears, his body tense—Nothing. Almost total silence. Pete is equally silent and invisible, just like the mysterious crying baby in the gloomy room. All he hears are the thuds of his racing heart and some heavy breathing close by. A weird noise to his right catches his attention. It sounds like soft moans, female sighs—Heaven help me! That’s all I need now; some cheap broad getting herself banged right next to me in this stinky shithole. Fuck! He is ready to explode, and his body is quivering with ill-suppressed rage—This insult is beyond pardon. Am I POTUS or AM I FRIGGIN’ POTUS!?
POTUS? His brain scrambles for several dizzy seconds as he tries to recall a distant memory that flits in and out of his fuzzy mind like the dim flickering of the half-candle fighting a losing battle against the all-devouring night.
POTUS! That’s his name alright. POTUS! He’s not sure if it’s his first name or his last name, but he knows God-sure it’s his name. Something flashes in his mind—a coin-shaped, gold-lettered seal with some weird bird surrounded by blue stars. Before he can make sense of the image, it vanishes in a wink, replaced by a rush of images in dazzling colours that leave him disoriented—a great white building with loads of opulent rooms and long, wide halls teaming with important people all desperate to see him; lush, green golf courses and expensive golf carts weighted with
equally expensive clubs and bags; an impressive motorcade with flashing lights, fluttering flags, blaring sirens, and a super-plane called… Air Force One? Or is it Air Force Two? Fuck!
His head is suddenly pounding, and he is starting to suspect he’s coming down with something pretty nasty—Surprise, surprise, considering the filthy state of the hovel I’m trapped in. Even his mind seems incapable of stringing any rational thoughts together. But one thing he knows for sure is that he has no business being in this vile dump—Goddammit! I’m done with this farce. Pansy-Pete seems to have mysteriously disappeared, just like the rest of my security detail. Well, if Mount Rushmore won’t come to POTUS, then I’ll damn well race to the friggin’ place!
He lunges towards the shut dwarf-door across him like a quarterback at full charge, and instantly, he collapses back onto the floor—Huh? His brows clash tightly. He attempts another forward thrust and again, the hard floor holds him immobile with a Jacob Marley chain, a prisoner of an unseen jailor that wields a frightening power over him. He feels the blood drain from his face. His heart starts a maniacal race.
“Pete! You no-good mouse, where the fuck are you?” he roars. The invisible baby wails again, right on cue, its cries angry and frustrated. An icy chill coats his skin with goosebumps.
“Pete…?” This time his voice is weak, almost a whisper. The baby whimpers softly as well. The sound is so close he can even feel its soft breath near his lips. He tries to turn his head and find the pesky infant, but his neck has become an iron rod, rigid and uncooperative. Try as he may, he can’t seem to see beyond what lies directly in front of his gaze.
And now, he is seeing something else standing
in front of him, something big and black that hulks directly over him. The figure leans dangerously low, blocking out his vision with its mammoth bosom—Oh, sweet Mary and the apostles! A bla…black giantess! Before he can blink, the giantess pushes something into his mouth, something that looks suspiciously like a pinkie, a smelly, grubby finger that tastes of 1000 MGO pure Manuka honey! Holy shit!
His lips clamp on the finger with the frenzy of a blind bat, suckling greedily, shamelessly—Wow! I can’t remember being this hungry, ever. I could suck this damn pinkie for the rest of my life! The black giantess roars, her laughter like the boom of some native Tom-Tom. It quakes her mammoth body like a sea of roiling, soft flesh, almost dislodging the sweet finger from his suckling mouth. She looks at him with rheumy black eyes and babbles something unintelligible into the gloomy room. He hears a weak voice moan softly once more in the familiar sound he’d initially mistaken for an orgasm. Now, he realises it’s a moan of pain. Nobody can mistake the agony searing every hushed groan emitting from the invisible woman’s lips now.
The giantess pulls her pinkie from his mouth, and he reaches out to grasp it—Come on! I ain’t done yet, not by a long mile. Again, she chuckles that booming laughter, mumbles something under her breath and lifts him up whole from the floor in her sturdy arms—Holy righteous shit!
His heart sinks right to his feet, and lands smack on the warm, soft body of the giantess. His head is swimming and his eyes are so goggled he thinks they’ll drop right out of their sockets—No friggin’ way! The mammoth freak has lifted me as easily as if I’m made of flimsy chicken feathers. Me, POTUS, six feet tall and some three hundred pounds of good American flesh to boot! His heart is pounding so hard, he thinks he’s going to dishonour the American flag and faint—Yes, that’s what I’ll do; faint before the monster gobbles me up. Good thing there’s no one around to witness POTUS’ humiliation, nobody to spill the beans about my ignominious death. Oh, please, Jesus! I don’t wanna die, don’t wanna die…
