Year One, continued

Once again, I present a worthy and instructive excerpt from the annals of a humble up-and-comer in his earliest days, far from his native land and still an eternity from his destiny of conquest:

26 JUNE 1995 - Brave new world

My brother and I have been “guests” in this spacious, bizarre tower for more nights than I can count -- if the boys back home had search parties out for us, those efforts have surely been called off by now. It would seem that we are meant to forge some kind of existence in this loud, manic dystopia. So be it. Banish now all thoughts of Mother, and assess.

I have now reconnoitered and inventoried the entire unit. Stark white walls, high ceilings, multiple subchambers, ubiquitous gray carpet (presumably to obscure the coating of nastiness), oppressive lighting, minimal furnishings, no grass or greenery of any kind, anywhere.

There are windows and viewports aplenty, which reveal our position to be a considerable distance in the stratos. This vantage provides a comforting distance from the grinding hell of stink-belching machines that prowl the filthy streets below; but it also means we are trapped here -- no escape possible except for that purchased by a great plummet onto rubber-smeared concrete.

As prisons go, one could do worse, I imagine. There is adequate padding, space to maneuver, and the food is abundant, if unappealing. The absence of grass will be a nuisance. The locals have povided a kind of sandbox, which I take to be intended as some manner of "terra faux" for our use.

I find this distasteful, and have commandeered a large white bag-chair for my personal use. It is the closest thing to organic material to be found in this place. Besides, my bumbling brother spends entirely too much time in the sandbox and I need some personal space.

The locals are an unbalanced, sedentary lot, and there is a lot of traffic in and out, such that I'm not certain which are fellow immates and which are our keepers. The dastardly Slim Spectacles has not been seen since our arrival -- I suspect his role in this scheme was little more than that of a mule. The Pleasant Smiling Lady makes regular visits; I find her agreeable, if insignificant. The Shrill Blonde occasionally storms the place -- I seek shelter during those squawking raids.

There are many other “regulars” here: the Warbling Bird-Lady; the Tattooed Grumbler; Pops von Hausfunken; the Towering Redhead; the Unwashed Camper; and the unnerving, unflinching Sinister Shadow -- it's a rogues' gallery of grotesque characters. And then there's the pathetic triumvirate of inert lumps around which all this seems to revolve: the half-witted Administrator Schmul; the torpid Goateed Narcoleptic; and the nubilose Doctor Poupolis, a mad scientist of uncertain calibre.

I confess that I am uneasy at the prospect of making a life among the likes of these. Everywhere I turn, lethargy and incompetence. The road ahead appears dark. And filthy.

ADDENDUM: It appears my mama's-boy brother was not adequately weened. Repeatedly and shamelessly, he attempts to suckle the clothing of the local rabble. I try not to watch, lest I share in his humiliation. They have taken to calling him “Fabbee-oh” -- no doubt some local term for “idiot”.