Saturday, July 12, 2014

The Entrance Into The Kindness and Care Institute For Extremely Gifted Souls

This is a part two of an ongoing story, not just some random cursing drama. Please see the following link for part one, The Kindness and Care Institute For Extremely Gifted Souls

It was like he was walking into some kind of deep tunnel, with only the hint of light toward the end indicating the whole curve of the tube. And he could hear this crazy squeaking sound bouncing, resonating all over the place.

You see, Masood was a perfectionist with audio. He was what he would call an 'audiophile'. He would call himself that. Then someone on the Internet Audiophile Maturity Achievement Notary for Accredited Sound Supervisors (IAMANASS, to be abbreviated) forums had disagreed with him. That had been a long and sordid battle, full of both the most commonplace gags such as getting each other banned from the forums, and then escalating to hiring chefs on online food delivery services to make food and have them delivered (purely through tools for the blind but not deaf, of course) to each other's houses at such inopportune moment as the befuddled delivery guy may slip over the mysterious bubbles and accidentally poke the wrong person's eardrum with a chopstick. In both debaters' minds there had been this image of a ridiculous man just sinking quietly into his bathtub, strings of red diffusing quietly into the water, and no hint of the drowning (because the eardrum was messed up). "If me eardrum was working I would have known I was drowning, just by the sound". The two would have probably been even more hilarious if packaged over to the ISS for immediate evac.

Then Masood realized that this squeaky, rubber-sole on stone-floor soul-crushing sound was actually coming from his sneakers, as he was walking. "Dammit," he cursed unto the echoing dammits, and carefully scooped the two shoes off his silky socked feet. He looked around, but, because it was a long, never-ending tunnel, they hadn't provided any racks or anything to put the shoes on. So he just put them down and continued walking into the dark foreboding tunnel, this time quietly. He had attained stealth, even to his trained ear. He knew exactly how far back the shoes were, in case he would ever need to turn and run back.

Now, as he walked, he began to keep seeing Pullperry, in some kind of strange loop, except this time it wasn't him who was trying to calm the child down. It was Pullperry calming him down, and his voice was gentle. "What happened, Masood?" said Pullperry, who Masood now felt may have arms as long and deep as his eyes could see into the tunnel. "You were so relaxed outside, so ready to simply breathe the day's tumults away. You were so cool before, now you're so angry."

"Is that what you think, Pullperry?" screamed Masood into the darkness. "Is that what you think I was prepared to do? Just forget about all my failures of today?"

"Ah yes," said Pullperry, "FAIL FAIL FAIL, your unit tests. Of course."

"Yes, and you are making fun of me in the darkness?" screamed Masood into the unknown. He screamed very loudly, because, well, it was the unknown, so who cared? No questions about audio fidelity here. "I knew you were trying to ruin me from the moment I came to sit and relax on the bench," screamed Masood at Pullperry. "With your stupid turning around like some nonsencical thing. And wanting to take my phone away from me!"

There was a child's laughter and the sound of Masood's personal ringtone dissipitating down into the a curve of the tunnel.

"You bastard, Pullperry!" he screamed. "You fucking devil of a bitch's spawn. You're not even a son of a bitch, you bastard. You're the illegitimate outcome of the bitch's shrimp. You're a fucking son a offa shrimp, Pullperry," yelled Masood. It was over. There was no more. He had given everything, and just when he was ready to take a break, this son of a shrimp had just spun over and fucked him.

"Ahem," said a somewhat older voice than Pullperry's, and Masood opened his eyes. And it was a older woman's voice too. He found himself suddenly no longer in the tunnel, but in some kind of musty laundry room with poor yellow lighting.

"Pullperry is just a poor child, dear Masood, please try and contain yourself," she said. She was wearing a blue khameez, and black churidars. "And please take off your shoes before you enter the Institute.

My name is Saleema," she said. "You may call me Saleema. Don't call me aunty."

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