Chapter 3: Monetizing Madness

An unease crawls from the underlayer of my scalp to the roof of my mouth and into my lymph nodes as I step onto the approach, dragging my practically pristine rolling suitcase behind me. Who would have thought that everything I’d need to face the end of the world could fit neatly into a piece of carry-on luggage?

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A whimsical parody of a street sign leans into view around the corner of the old brick facades, a slight angle, an imperfect green rhomboid, white text stretched at a nearly sub-perceptible degree. R’lyeh Boulevard. My hand flexes at the knuckles, a phantom of closeness, in memoriam of shared anticipation.

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I shake my head, pressing the memory of my previous visit out of my brain by force of tightly squeezed eyelids. Instead, I relish in the rankour of freshly boiled Hastur-dogs and deep fried Cthulimari invading my olfactory nerves. My body convulses in a shuddering, desirous wretch, an unmaking of carnal imaginations. I could cram myself so packed full of cheap meats that the resulting gaping oblivion would carry me sweetly through this infernal realm. But instead, and against any semblance of inner kindness, I select a delicate abstinence. A fasting of joy. No indulgence for this transdimensional emo kid in middle aged athleisure wear. I will subsist entirely off the tears of my potential selves.

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Delicious.

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I lick my lips in haughty defiance. Hey, this is quality hiking gear from REI, it’s classy yet defiant of societal business chic standards. I’m outdoorsy and butch, a dignified daddy-type with the silvery sheen of worldliness crawling up my temples. Meanwhile, there’s people here in fucking pajamas.

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Pajamas! Like the kind with buttflaps. Would you rather I wore a fart-absorbant onesie to the park? Would that be edgy enough for you?

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Your vegan leather “trailrunners” have never touched a grain of dirt in their pristine lives. You sit on your weathered old futon, one side caving in from the crushing weight of your solitude, reading French existentialism and ignoring your cats day in and day out. You barely spare a glance out your filthy window or you’d realize that your yard is overgrown with weeds a mile high and your garden chairs are corroded with age.

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That’s called raw nature. I’m contemplating the unstoppable chaos of existence, the grand decay of all life and meaning. The inevitable march of time, the fact that mortality is the anchorpoint of all human behavior. For without death, why would we do anything at all? Our ephemerality is the key to our greatness. Even as we pass… as we lose those who pass on before us… it gives us reason to… to…

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Nevermind that. Let’s make the best of this, shall we? After all, the likelihood of getting a second chance to return to “the funnest place in the multiverse” after this is approaching nil. The Gisnep Corporation has invested trillions of dollars into fabricating the most inconceivably enjoyable tourist attraction known to mankind. We can’t let pithy little complaints like grief and trauma ruin all the fun. It would be a crying shame.

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A crying shame. Is that what you’d think of me, were you still here?

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Don’t be difficult. Put on a smile and look around. Look at that vibrant purple inflatable tentacle posing for pictures with laughing children! Adorable. 

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Look at those teenagers decked out in full 1920’s investigator cosplay, and the one with eyes streaked with smudged black eyeliner. What is she supposed to be? Is that what she thinks a Nightgaunt looks like? Aw, to possess such innocence, even in this world. Even after existing for tens of years in the life we’ve wrought for our species. Yep, she’s even wearing a shirt, fist-scribbled grindcore lettering spelling out the words Night Gaunt, but as two separate words. If only those musicians, their fans, the entirety of sapient existence could even know the true horrors which are the subject of their whimsical fancy. It’s absolutely endearing.

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I take my own advice and walk up to the vendor booth at the corner. A stretched and flickering neon sign in wildly capitalized letters that compel my inner voice to scream out the words in my mind while reading “IN’S-MOUTH DELICATESSEN!” The rickety structure seems held together by binder clips, even while affecting the appearance of nautical paneling with black and green spinning barber poles at each corner. At the register stands an avatar of fast food service: a male human of unidentifiably transitional youth age, strands of shiny black hair that in an afternoon of work in a cramped food service booth have themselves transitioned from intentionally gelled to cracked and limp and sticking with sweat to a pale and freckled forehead. His attire, a parody of soda jerk recolored, a green and black pin striped shirt and purple slacks topped with a folded paper hat printed with one ominous purple eye. Great green human eyes with oddly lush, clumped eyelashes peer brightly at my approach from his prison of flesh and bone, the smiling face with which I must converse. There is no turning back now.

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“Curses and madness unto you, friend! How can I convey unknowable pleasures to you this day? We are running a special, Deep One dipped cones two-for-one, or a Young One’s combo meal with your choice of Nyalarthotep or Azatoth poseable figurines.” He gestures at two plastic abominations on the counter between us, their front sides faded by daily exposure to sun and the untamed, greasy fingers of children.

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I respond by silently scanning the burned wood menu panel over the cheerful server’s head. His gaze unwaveringly holds to my eyes, like two harpoons rooted beyond the optical nerve and deep in the motor center of my brain. His smile, a freckle-pocked spectacle of greasy, uninhibited youthfulness, grows slowly from the ending syllable of his opening salvo into a progressively more and more stretched maw, widening further up his cheeks like a lit fuse until the anxiety that if I fail to answer his head will crack in half and topple into the deep fryer behind him.

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“I’ll just have a can of Mi-go and, uh, that King in Yellow balloon.” You can’t visit a site of cultural significance without collecting some sort of artifact. At least, white people can’t. And in spite of my Ancestry.com certified 22.5% South American indigenous genetics, I am still very fucking white.

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A puff of relief escapes me as the ever-encroaching borders of the demoniac soda jerk’s mouth-slit halt in termination at the apex of his cheekbones. His eyes glisten and unwaveringly maintain their barbed anchorpoints in my face as he punches his wobbly fingers into the old-timey cash register with a series of chittering clacks.

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“Perfection. That’ll be thirty seven dollars and ninety eight cents.”

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“Thirty sev-!” I rustle in my pocket to produce my wallet, dumbly as if this is the first realization that the conclusion of this interaction would be payment. A throat clears behind me. I glance back with a darkened glare to see a man with an unimaginable number of chins, portly fingers laying atop the head of an even more morbidly rotund little girl, the mouth of which is so spattered with the neon residue of several unrecognizable forms of processed carbohydrates. Yeah, yeah, hurry up and wait, you pestilent infection upon this miserable orb. Speed along to your doom, shoving past your brethren on your frenetic dash towards unending suffering and desolation. Do you even know where you are headed? Has your diminutive mind ever stumbled across even an iota of speculation as to what awaits you at the grand destination? What kind of terminal must you envision this mortal ride dumps your wriggling, fleshy meat suit onto as it careens by at the speed of human extinction?

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Calm down, jeez. It’s not like you have to feel beholden to the cadence of ignorance. Pay as slow as you like. This is a family vacation spot. Relax. Enjoy your…

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I pass a handful of crumpled, oddly moist bills and reach for the moderately cold tallboy on the counter, suddenly obstructed as he plunges his cracked, cash-filthy fingers onto the lip-edge of the can and cracks the key open. I look up at the server with an eyebrow raised before grabbing the can along with the neon green plastic wrist fastener attached to my balloon.

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“Regulations. All drinks must be opened before leaving the cart. It’s, like, health code or something.” He shrugs his bony shoulders, their pincer-like crests threatening to skewer his head on their way up.

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Health? Health fucking code? Those tainted, accursed fingers, absolutely crawling with the most virulent of bacterias, festooning the future location of my mouth with… I suppress a shudder and reach down to pump a glop of hand sanitizer, which oozes out into my open palm. It’s dayglo green and leaves a galaxy of crusty streaks and nodules on my hands and the can. I’m just going to utterhave to be ok with this. I take a deep breath and walk away, fastening the balloon clasp over my left wrist. When I bring the can to my lips, the balloon ribbon flutters in my eyes as it twirls about in the mellow wind, winding back and forth as if some unseen specter strains to wrap it around my neck and liberate me from this whole fiasco.

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But all that dissolves as the cool liquid pours across my teeth and along the sides of my protracted tongue, gushing down my throat in esophagus stretching gulps. Mi-go used to be one of my favorite drinks. The toxic sweetness with a sinister underscore of bitter amino acids and B vitamins arouses a slight nostalgia. Even the unsettling acridity in my otherwise empty stomach feels comforting.

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Have you wrought enough misery upon yourself to have a good time yet, Professor Vergana? 

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Not yet, but it’s a good start.

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It’s at least enough to brace me for the next interaction, this time with the ticket booth. I savor the dental-paste aftertaste and stride forward with a mimicry of classic white “yes, I belong here.” I’ve been emulating normal human behavior for so long, I’ve almost got myself convinced I do belong here. Were it not for the constant reminder that this world is a twisted mockery of joy, I might have even been able to settle in and have a pleasing end of life experience.

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The ticket booths are each individual tents of tattered saffron canvas embellished with wildly arching glyphs and sigils, including the ever-present elder sign with its horrible purple eye at the center. Once public domain, now trademarked a billion times over. I still can’t believe they used the characters drawn from the original Necronomicon for their marketing and decor. Whatever you believe about otherworldly elements or the fabled dark magick of the Mad Wanderer, Albert Hazard, it seems irresponsible to flagrantly print profane iconography onto objects intended for small children. I’ll never forget the first time I saw a lunchbox with a cartoonified yellow sign on it. That poor little boy. What kind of life would he lead? Or has he led, since at this point he would be old enough to be one of those cosplaying teenagers smoking cloves by the food court.

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I push my way through the canvas flaps, the textured fabric stained with hand grease and searing hot from the southern California sun. The inside is humid and smells vaguely of frankincense and balls. A person in a heavy crimson robe, hood so prolific that their head swims about in a puddle of shadows, their fingers barely peeking out from the flopping, gold trimmed sleeve as they beckon me forward.

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“Greetings, strange traveler. What is the nature of your travels this day?” crawls from those cavernous head-drapes in a muffled half-shout.

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I step forward, pressing my way through the dense humidity-stench.

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“I’d like one ticket to the park, please.” I reach for my wallet, planning ahead for this normal interaction for a change. Look at me, just a person interacting all regular-like. Not a total stranger, unwelcome and undesired on this tepid purgatory of media entertainment.

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“And for which level of mythos do you seek? A fanciful romp in the safety of the inner spheres, or are you a daring expeditionist venturing forth into the wilderness beyond?” They attempt the prerequisite gesticulation of their corporate training, which only translates as a fluttering flail of fabrics stained with the toil of unnamed pubescent anatomies.

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“I’d like the E-ticket, please.”

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The serviceperson coughs, their fabric-imprisoned digits fumbling below the counter for some profane artifact of legal compliance. “An exo-ticket?

You do, uh, realize that the Gisnep Corp cannot guarantee your bodily safety beyond the outer spheres of the park, right?” They lean forward, as if to share a kindness reserved specifically for me, their half-shouted voice easily penetrating the fabric and humidity at close range. “ARE YOU SURE, SIR? THERE ARE STRANGE ORGANISMS THAT LIE BEYOND THE PERIMETER. IN MY OPINION, THE MIDDLE SPHERE IS PLENTY EXCITING IF YOU WANT TO EXPERIENCE THE COSMIC HORRORS WITHOUT THE, YOU KNOW, MEDICAL IMPLICATIONS.”

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“Yes, I’m aware. I’ve done my research. And I’m meeting a group. Of professionals.”

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They step back again, their posture relaxing. “Ah yes, there are several reputable safari tours scheduled throughout the weekend. Still, I’m going to have to ask you to sign this waiver.”

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The fabric simulacrum of a hand plops a dingy tablet down on the counter. I squint to scan over the DOS-green text on a chalky black background.

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I, the undersigned, do so duly acknowledge the dangers [blah blah blah] agree to hold harmless [yadda yadda] indemnify the Gisnep [ohmygod this just goes on and on and] full waiver of rights and claims of damages, up to, including, and beyond mental trauma, dismemberment, and death…

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I look up at the pile of crimson flaps in front of me. “Beyond death?”

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The robes emulate a shrugging motion.

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“Whatever. How do I sign?”

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“Sorry, sir, it’s a bioprint signature.”

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“A what-” but before I can finish my protest, the cultist-cashier grabs my hand and presses it against a cold metal plate on the side of the register. The shock of a pin prick jolts the flesh of my index finger, which is then twisted against all logic of joints and ligaments and pressed hard down against the tablet, smearing a ripe, plum-colored plume of blood on the dully glowing green text. “-the fuck?”

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I move to yank my arm away, but the park worker is shockingly strong and doesn’t even budge against my attempt to escape their preternaturally firm grasp. The tablet screen shifts to a brand-themed version of a loading screen, in which tentacles slither ominously from an origin point on the left towards a tiny, spinning planet Earth on the right. I stare down, mesmerized by the impending completion of my bioprint processing, that poor facsimile of the world spinning unaware of the tendrils of madness reaching across the swirling cosmos of my coagulating plasma.

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Beep.

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The tentacles wrap themselves around the planet and crush it into nothingness, then the screen fades back to the calming DOS green text, displaying ‘Biological signature accepted. All liabilities and personal consent waived. Please enjoy your stay.’

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“Apologies, I’ve found it’s best to just get it done quickly. And believe me, this is the least of your worries if you are heading to the exo-spheres. You can find emergency medical facilities on the map indicated by the golden Reanimator icons, though please be advised all services must be paid for up front by the patient or a conscious and coherent companion.” They slap a pearlescent foil wrist band down on the counter. “This should give you access to all areas of the park, except the Left Bank on the westernmost edge of the main landmass. That is the only section that is off-limits to all guests. It was in the contract, which has been emailed to your account on file from your last visit… thirteen years ago? Wow, welcome back, sir. And I hope you experience inconceivable joy and-”

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“Great, thanks,” I say as I grab the wristband and push through the exit flaps.

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I stumble forward, attempting to fasten the new wristband around my wrist next to the balloon wristband, while still holding the can of Mi-go upright and walking towards the park entrance, smearing blood from my throbbing index finger on each item in turn.

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Of course Gisnep couldn’t just have a big courtyard with a pulsing, disorienting tear in the fabric of space-time just flopping out like the sinewy scrotum of an existentially inappropriate druncle on the fourth of July. The approach is obscured by a thematically decorated tangle of ramps and tunnels that descend into an enclosed area. I drag an index finger along the plywood painted in dark green faux stonework with neon purple glyphs placed randomly along the false crags. Scale-warped messages in black light paint warn of waived liabilities both real and imagined, accompanied by cartoonized tentacle creatures that somehow make the act of violating the laws of nature feel charming and quaint. The most commonly appearing character, Quasi, periodically appears in holographic gifs as a sort of kawaii cat-cephalopod wearing a pointy wizard’s cap. With an adorable, squinty grin, it warns to “Keep your arms, legs, and sanity inside the portal cars while traversing into the realm of fun! A-yuk! A-yuk!” That chittering laughter, high pitched and warbling like a manic toddler, echoes at the membrane of my cranium.

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I sense the final line before rounding the corner by the ripe aroma of humid folds of flesh in still air. Grumbling families and couples wait in a wobbling queue leading to the security checkpoints. Looking to either side, they seem to stretch on infinitely in either direction, until I realize there are just four with perfectly parallel mirrorwalls on either side. I wave to my own reflection as I wait.

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There is an oppressive heat to the darkness. The portal doesn’t transpire moisture or atmosphere from either side, so all this body heat and breath is trapped inside the fabricated catacomb. The folks all around me fidget and tap on their phones and bicker or flirt. I don’t mind waiting in silence. I don’t need the reassurance of motion or the cadence of digital sounds or images to tell me that time is passing. I’m not even convinced I need time to pass at all, I just need space to pass. 

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But it doesn’t pass. In fact, we don’t move for what seems like hours. Time passes but not space. This isn’t how it is supposed to work, right? Just as I’m about to strike up another internal dialogue about the authenticity of my thoughts, the walls breathe inwards, pressing me against the clammy bodies on either side of me. I remember this twist of corridor. I remember standing here, Frank holding my hand, our matching Gisnep suitcases. Our happy, unknowing faces. His laughter, echoing against the enamel coated fake rocks. His absence.

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“Hey, man, are you alright?”

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I see there’s a person next to me, looking down at my body, which is on the grimy walkway. My suitcase topples over into the back of some lady’s legs. A child cries. My lungs are moving but there’s no air. There’s no air and my body is falling and the lights are steeping black at the edges and the words of the Mad Wanderer are my words and I am the stirring nothingness beneath.

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"Yeah, I'll be alright. Just a little hot in here, isn't it?"

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The people on all sides look at me like a gibbering horror just birthed itself from my piss slit.

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Thanksfuly, the line lurches and before long I am ushered from the turnstile and into a gaping orifice in the side of the false cavern wall.

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I make my way down to a rail-coaster car made up to look like a rickety old carriage, complete with raven and spider web etchings in the windows. A gentleman wearing a top hat flourishes and calls out as I emerge from the darkened corridor.

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“Greetings, strange travelers. My congratulations on your survival of the strenuous journey thus far. It is time you approach the very border of sanity. Should you… are you traveling alone this day, good sir?”

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“Yes, I’m all alone. Thanks, Gisnep, for the constant reminder of my infernal solitude!”

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The man steps back, and as he enters the light of the lantern hanging off the side of the carriage I can see he is just a teenager wearing old man makeup. “Apologies, sir, but the carriage is for groups only. Solo travelers use the rail to your left.”

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I turn around to see a second rail, outfitted with a series of red velvet lined coffins, their lids each cocked at an identical ninety degree angle to form a seat back.

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“Are you fucking kidding me.”

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I don’t wait for an answer or explanation. I just slide myself into the coffin and lean back against the cushioned lid. The baby coachman leans in and fastens the harness, and instructs me to grip the lilly-shaped handle in the center of my chest.

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“In order to cross the portal, you must reach a certain velocity. This coaster will build up momentum in order to-”

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“I got it, kid. And keep my legs, arms, and sanity inside the car until reaching the other side.” Just push the fucking button and release me from this cursed plane of existence. I’m ready for oblivion.

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He pivots carefully on his heeled boots and pulls a lever with an LED skull at the top. My coffin jolts forward with sudden speed, pressing me back into the seat. My hands fly up and grip the white lily handle at my chest. I inhale, bracing for the rush as I swoop upwards in an arc, each ticking segment of rail pounded into my ass as I am jittered along. The coffin curves along a wall of a honeycomb-like pattern of flickering green and purple hexagons, then turns sharply and plunges into one of them, enveloping me in pitch darkness.

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In the darkness I am suddenly angled downwards, gathering speed as I dart ever forward, ever downward. The air grows colder, or I have become covered with cooling sweat and my moisture wicking clothing is put to the test under dimension-traversing conditions. I suck in a breath against the air hitting my face, feeling the meat of my cheeks pulled backwards, the weight of acceleration pressing against my trachea. In the absence of light I have no reference for speed of position. I could be motionless in a wind tunnel as far as I know. I roll my head to either side, searching for a frame of reference. 

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There’s nothing. I am saturated with darkness.

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Then suddenly the tunnel lights up with a barrage of flashing lights, and a hologram of Quasi pops up above my right knee. It wiggles its nose and whiskers in a cute little chuckle, which I would have appreciated if I were not preoccupied with not suffocating under the g-force of this flying coffin. 

Then its stubby mouth tentacles flop about as it squeaks out in horrible approximation of infantilism, “Greetings, fwiend from afar! You are approaching the portal to another dimension. Exciting, isn’t it? But also tewwifying, maybe? Don’t worry, your pal Quasi will be with you the whole way, and I almost always never don’t lose my passengers.”

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A wavering disclaimer hovers in the air above its head reassuring me that the park is [176] days incident free.

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176 days without losing someone between worlds. 176 days since a family was spewed laughing onto the landing stretch, slowly silenced as they look around in confusion why their loved one was not sitting in the seat next to them. 176 days since a park paralegal was summoned to the security area with a printed copy of their signed waiver some 600 pages deep. Or, maybe 176 days ago it was a solo traveler like me and nobody even knew or cared when they failed to appear on the other side.

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“Okay now, you’re almost there. I’m so excited for you! The wonders you will see in my home. I sure hope you have the time of your life. Now on the count of three, hold your breath. Three…”

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Wait. No. I want to go back.

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“Two…”

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My breath quickens. I strain against the lily at my chest. I can’t. I can’t do this again. I part my cracked lips to protest, but a maelstrom of wind forces itself down my throat. I choke, then cough, then gag and hold back the half can of Mi-go from surging up, tasting just a spritz of reminder of that soothing toxic after-aftertaste.

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“One. Here we go. Wheeeeeeee!” Quasi throws his arms up and turns to look forward, the only companion accompanying me on this, my lonely descent into madness. 

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I cast my own gaze in the direction of the cart and see that charnel door, a rippling surface like a vertical ocean of luminous, oily purple plasma. Time seems to slow as I approach, slower and slower until, despite the force of the wind on my skin, the portal comes up to meet my face and for an eternal instant I can see my reflection in the surface of it. I release one white-knuckled hand from the lily and reach forward. 

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In the reflection, I am not old yet.

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I am also not alone yet.

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Splash.

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The surface of the portal slaps against me like a quantum bellyflop. My particles scatter, my consciousness unraveling like an old sweater, just a thread of me spooling off out to infinity. I sense that what would have been my lungs feel the impulse to cough, but there is no lung. There is no air to cough. I look down, and see from above and to the left, my body in a coffin, accompanied by an adorable eldritch cat dancing upon my grave.

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I reach out to grasp the vessel, non-fingers curling about their own unraveling thread from within, fearing I may be left behind. Fearing that 176 is the number of days it takes before the park is forced to reset their counter. Fearing that whatever arrives on the other side will not be the prematurely curmudgeonly old queer dude that I’ve grown used to living as, but that the thing they heft from the coffin will be something unknowably terrible. Something not meant to be. Something that, had I the opportunity to be that thing even despite my oceans of self-loathing and guilt, I would still refuse the offer. 

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But there is no hand to reach. There is nothing left of me to hang on to. I am unmade. My life, as it was promised and never delivered, has come to an end. This is the final chapter in my story, and everything that occurs from this point forward is purely speculation. Fan fiction for a character that nobody ever wanted to be. A comedy of horrors for the modern connoisseur.

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I’m sorry, Frank. I’m so sorry I could never find you.

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Good bye.