Art Party, Pt. 1
Art Party, Pt. 2
Art Party, Pt. 3 - Then The Lights Went Out
Art Party, Pt. 4 - Unnatural Selection
And Now The Finale
After a moment of confusion, she spoke again, “Mr. Grimm, your head, it will be a fine addition to our collection.”
“The hell you say?” I asked.
“I want you to join us. You have potential, mostly, and I need more people like you.” She smiled evilly.
My body went numb and all I could muster was a wimpy, “Tell me, truly, do you believe in sausages?”
“The world is becoming congested with indolent filth, idiocy, and repulsive materialism. We intend to separate ourselves from the herd and save that which is worth living for: art and individuality. True freedom.” She steepled her fingers together like an arch-villain, coiled, ready to strike. “First, we need to take your head.”
Not cool.
Obviously she meant to chop my head off and store it in a jar. I was opposed to this idea on the basis that I am supposed to die by meteorite.
After picking my jaw off the floor I looked around the bizarre room in an effort to formulate a plan. Fight or flight? If I muscle my way past Lady Vintage I will have a hallway and stairwell full of art loving nut cases to contest. If I grab one of the weapons and attack, the others will be alerted and pour in. Sure, I could slice a few, and it may feel temporarily rewarding, but I would lose the war of attrition eventually. This left me with one option: the body sized chute in the wall. I would just have to step over and open the steel hatch before she could grab or stab me. No problem.
One thing we all know but fail to take into account is that things rarely, if ever, go according to plan. It is usually your own fault to boot. I had already forgotten my plan.
I lunged towards a large menacing broadsword mounted on a stand made of bones. My fingers wrapped around the hilt and I defiantly hoisted it into the air. Trouble was, the stand came with the sword. They were joined by bits of metal wire, similar to the ties that seal a bag of bread, and my grab of madness resulted in a humiliating domino effect of tumbling bones and medieval murder weapons. Each stand and rack fell upon the other, a few on top of me, and the din of metal colliding with the hard wooden floor was deafening.
I leapt to my feet and made a dash for the hatch. Lady Vintage had her hands over her mouth and the footfalls of the art horde reverberated through the room. Traversing the pile of bones was akin to walking through a playground ball pit, but I did the best I could high stepping over them.
Not at all like this, but close.
I slid open the chute and took one last glance over my shoulder. Lady Vintage fumbled with the door knob. On the shelf closest to my right a human head, eyes and mouth closed, bobbled in the liquid of its storage container. It looked bored so I gave it a shove. It fell crashing to the floor and landed in such a manner, among the bones and blades, that it almost stared at me through it’s half open eye lids. To my shock the head was that of a male, and to even greater surprise, it was a head identical to that of the door man, Lady Vintage’s personal assistant.
Now that is sub-normal.
The door flung open as I dove head first into the slippery chute. I heard muffled voices behind me made silent by the slamming shut of the metal hatch-door. I careened down a long and dusty slide. The crinkling of the metal passage betrayed my location to all within the house, for sure. The ride was longer than expected, clocking in at a few seconds of terror, and I had time to ponder a few uneasy thoughts. This chute was not caked in gore and filth as I had expected it to be. Did this mean that this was not a carcass chute? Maybe it was a chute for the blood spattered weapons? Was I about to slide into a dishwasher where I would then be washed, rinsed, and sanitized? Being clean is bad enough, but a power wash!? Oh, the humanity.
I was deposited into a hard steel hatch-door. I opened it from inside, and stepped out, rubbing the stars out of my vision, into an earthy basement. Everywhere stood, and in some cases laid, naked mannequins of every shape and size. There were washing machines, for clothing, and a solitary light bulb swung from the floorboards over head. The sway fo the bulb created an insane court of shadows and chaos. Someone else was here with me, too.
“Mr. Grimm.” spake the door man.
“Spake the door man,” I answered. “Dude, that is impossible, how did you get here so fast!”
He was standing next to one of the clothes dryers. His hands were reaching for something in his jacket, and whatever it was he pulled it out and approached me with it, but I couldn’t see what he held through the mannequins. Reacting more than thinking, I pushed over the mannequins, toppling them onto my arch-nemesis, and made a break for the door. It only took two adrenalin enhanced bounds to clear the stairs and plow through the door. I slid the lock into place and hurried out of the new room I was in, the kitchen.
To my horror I found myself in the large party hall again, the art horde spewed forth from the upstairs hallway with unbridled brain-hunger in their eyes. I ran past the fake well, with the green face in it, and towards the large double doors, which I assumed led to the front door entrance hall. Luck was on my side. I burst through the double doors, into the entrance hall, where the curtains still hung, only now they were yellow, on the other side of which was the front door.
Funny, last time I was here the curtains were black.
Yellow Curtains of Doom.
That is when cold realization struck me like a popsicle to the eyeball: I didn’t have my keys, cell phone, and most importantly, my goggles. The door man had collected them before my electrocution x-ray. I turned and ran back into the party room. The writhing mass of art lovers tumbled down the stairs, hunger in their eyes. The basket containing my personal effects gleamed out the corner of my eye, like a shinny bald spot. I grabbed my stuff, donned my goggles, and hoisted a tray of party food high above my head.
“Eat veal!” I yelled as I tossed the snack tray at the art mongers. They ducked and scattered from the non-vegan finger food.
I sprinted out the door, jangling my keys like sleigh bells, and opened my truck. Being a delivery driver I have mastered the art of locking the doors and starting the ignition in one smooth motion. As I backed out of the parking lot the art horde stood in the doorway, defeated. Above them leaning over a balcony waved Lady Vintage. She was shouting something; curiosity got the best of me. I stopped my truck and lowered the window.
“Mr. Grimm, we weren’t going to harm you. We want to make a mold of your head; a metaphor for everlasting expression. You have shown the intellect and creativity that we admire. Join us and help to make this world beautiful once again!” She held her arms open, like an alluring siren.
“So, you aren’t trying to murder me!?” I exclaimed.
“Of course not, had you been paying attention you would have noticed that the people here at the party all had casts made of their heads too!” She implored.
Dumbfounded I asked, “You people are a crazy nuts art cult!?”
Lady Vintage gently answered, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Screw the world, I say. It gave me allergies!” With that, I was gone. Like my hairline, the house shrank to nothingness in my rearview mirror as I piloted my truck down the dark and dusty country road as fast as I could.
Moments later I awoke, sweating in my bed. I then threw back my head and maniacally cackled with insane glee.
That was fun.
The End.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
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