I infiltrated the art party with guile and subterfuge; blundered my way through a series of puzzles; became the chosen one. My next plan of action: having a heart attack.
Chosen one?
All of the most horribly predictable plot lines seem to involve prophecies and/or "the chosen one." I am no farm boy savior of galactic peace, nor am I a martial artist computer hacker with shades and cheesy acting skills. I did have goggles, though, and I slipped them on. Since it was night I wore my industrial bug-goggles, which are basically giant sunglasses, which are just dark enough to hide my eyes. With all the strange art-folk frolicking about, with their avant-garde hairstyles and excessively colorful clothing, I figured no one would question their chosen one wearing goggles. It is good to have eye protection when following a contrived destiny after all.
"There is no spoon."
Unable to hide, I meandered through the party goers. Some were older, most were younger; to my surprise, fashions ran the gamut; statues stood naked and glared accusingly. It felt like I was in a zoo but I couldn't tell who was on exhibit, the art or the living.
Interestingly, the collections of art were not the main focus of attention or conversation. Really, I should have known, I thought we were at an art party, but it had become apparent I was at a party with art littered about. Humans are pack animals, and naturally, the cliches formed. Almost everyone sipped a glass of wine, or some other colorific concoction. No party is complete without alcohol, unless it is a party at my apartment where it consists of just me in my undies eating popcorn for dinner. It didn't take long for the booze to loosen the loudest of the bunch, who were leading the cliches in stories and painfully awful jokes.
Growing disinterested with fake conversations I turned to examining the art.
Obviously, I was in a exhibit for local small time talent. When I say talent I mean, less than talent. Most of the pieces I saw were as rudimentary as they come, diarrhea finger painting would have been more impressive. Certain that the less than talented artists themselves were there, shopping their craft or networking, I suspected the loud pack leaders to be the most esteemed and distinguished of them. While pretending to observe an eighteen inch statuette, I noticed the eyes in the sky: cameras hidden within potted plants, behind a wet bar, and in the helmet of a suit of armor on the second floor balcony looking down upon us. Now I knew for sure we were the ones on exhibit, the alphas and we their herd.
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Sometimes they grab you by the horns.
Some man approached me, tried in vain to engage me in conversation about his statue, but I neglected to care, and my canned responses eventually drove him away. I moved on to investigate other points of interest.
I joined a group near a fireplace, who were talking about the nice furniture on which they rested their rumps. On a love-seat/sofa-like thing, that was probably not a love-seat or a sofa, sat a nice looking young lady by herself. Being a gentleman, I sat beside her without asking. She smiled at me then refocused her attention on the furniture conversation. She wasn't offering anything to the conversation other than an occasional giggle or a nod. No one spoke directly to her either, thus making her a good candidate for information pumping.
I have seen every James Bond movie (I am a big fan) so I know how to talk to the ladies, and retrieve intel via smooth talk and misdirection. I needed answers concerning this place and the happenings within.
"Excuse me Miss," I asked, "may I ask you something?"
She turned to me and nodded.
"So, tell me about the cameras."
Visibly shaken, she set her wine on a tray and tried to act as if she was participating with the others.
"Hey, I'm the chosen one, you can tell me." I touched her back with my hand in an effort to be less threatening, but she retreated to the other side of the large art filled room. The usual reaction to my presence, but no less disturbing.
Interesting.
Then the lights went out.
"Out, out, brief candle!"
Darkness of unfathomable depth fell upon us, matched only by the chilling silence. I was no longer sure if I was on Earth, or even alive for that matter. Nothing could be seen or heard.
A stab of light pierced the black veil, the source of which was hidden to me, revealing a doorway on the second floor balcony. Emerging from the crevice came an older lady, dressed in antiquated clothing from some forgotten time, like an actress from a silent film come to life before my eyes. The dim light reflected off the placid faces and wide open eyes of the party goers. They beheld Lady Vintage as a goddess descended.
She flowed down the stairs, like trickling water over a bed or stones, and cast herself at last before me.
I stood, bowed with courtesy, and smiled.
The light above, still the only source of illumination, obscured her face to me, like the dark side of the moon, forging a silhouette equal in height to me, but far more ominous.
"You are the chosen one this evening" she asked.
That voice! From the voice message!
I replied with a grin, "Yes, indeed."
She held her open hand out to her side, at once a man stepped from the shadows, the door man from earlier, and handed her a massive goblet. He gave me a slight nod and returned to obscurity.
"Drink this," she spake with demented school marm-like authority.
Taking the proffered cup, I sampled its scent with a waft. I was familiar with the substance within, a humerus tale for another blog post, so I asked, "Barium?"
"It is for the process." Her shape twitched slightly.
Do not drink.
With a room full of people all focused on me, the one guy who wasn't even supposed to be there, I lifted the cup to offer a toast, "To art: both good and bad."
The room echoed with muffled laughter as I took a massive drought from the large, seemingly bottomless, cup of liquid barium. The chalky liquid provided no nourishment, quenched no thirst, but elicited fits of coughing. It had been fifteen years since the last time I had to drink the stuff and I wasn't expecting to have to stomach that wicked taste again.
The door man appeared once again, like a freaking ninja, and this time he bore a basket. "Personal effects, please."
I dropped my keys, cell phone, and goggles into the basket. Once again, I felt the urge to scream and run.
This is the most absurd thing I have ever been part of. What did I get myself into!?
"This way, Mr. Grimm," commanded Vintage Lady, and she turned, leading me towards an open door in the back of the art room.
The party goers whispered and chuckled to themselves as they gathered like a zombie horde behind me, blocking any route of escape. I had no choice but to follow and joined Vintage Lady in another unlit room.
The air felt different, that of a smaller room. Vintage Lady left me there, shutting the door behind her, locking me in a room of pitch horror. It felt like an eternity had passed before her voice came back, from somewhere in front of me, the opposite side of the room as the door we entered through.
"Walk towards the light in the center of the room," said Vintage Lady. Her voice had a tinge of distortion to it, like it was being broadcast through a speaker. A heartbeat after she finished speaking, a light grew in the room.
The room was revealed to be rectangular, all the walls and ceiling were stark white, save for a one way mirror opposite the entrance. Fixed upon the mirror was a speaker: her channel of communication to this room. Off-center, rising somewhere between four and five feet from the floor, stood a thin pole, atop which was mounted a large steel sphere, similar in size to a beach ball. Coursing over it were archs of electricity, like veins of lighting. The lightning ball was the source of illumination.
"Stand on the mark in the center of the room," Vintage Lady demanded.
Like a good puppy dog, I obeyed and stood on a thick black line on the floor. Between the mirror and myself glowed the metal lightning ball. The walls reflected its light in an unexpected way, like the walls were made of porcelain.
Triple interesting.
Everyone has one of these, right?
The lighting ball's glow grew in intensity, erupting in a brilliance of web-like electricity. My hair and clothing stood on end, protruding from my body; pulled toward the lightning sphere, I fought to hold my ground with ever fiber of strength.
With a bright flash, I was struck blind by unconsciousness.
I can't be sure, but as the back of my head bounced off the floor I probably said something along the lines of, "Well this is a pickle."
To be continued...
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