Death by Misfiring Squad!

The moment that he felt the wind touch his face, he knew that they were going to take him out. The tunnel was dark for most of his walk, but Morgan thought that it would go on and on for as long as he needed it. The ground felt stable and it was easy to just walk and walk until he saw a pinprick of light leading to somewhere he knew he wanted to get to; that was why he was here.

No. No, no, no… The air was changing as the dark became light and a wind grew in strength until it almost knocked him over.

“We got him!”

Where was that voice coming from? The air was fresher than he expected, and he could see the trail leading down into a very beautiful valley. A waterfall on his left poured into a small lake surrounded by trees and a beautiful beach that was just a short walk from the tunnel. But he was not really drawn to even a short walk anywhere after all that travelling. That voice was the focus.

“Here! We got him here!”

On his left, just on a short rise above the tunnel, was a soldier of some sort. It was clearly some sort of soldier that was called out to trace his path. It had on a sword, now unsheathed and waving in the air, a rifle on its back, a helmet, boots, even what looked like brass buttons and medals on its chest. But it was not a man. It was not really human. It was…a snack.

It was marshmallow.

Morgan stared and could not stop his smile. If he had felt any fear, it was now gone. The figure staring down at him was a white marshmallow man that seemed very familiar to him. It was staring at him with hard black eyes that were probably some sort of candy (licorice?), and he was not smiling. All those elements put together prevented him from taking this moment too seriously. But he knew that they wanted to take him out.

“Halt!” The marshmallow man pointed his sword at him. “You are charged with invading our sacred spaces and attempting to abscond with our supplies and stores of other goods. The penalty is death!”

That was the moment when Morgan noticed the change in the air. The waterfall he was looking at was not filled with water at all. The texture and consistency of the brown mush in it made him think of something else. Not at all clear…until that change hit him. It was a delicious odor, a smell that he could recall from many late nights and family get-togethers.

Pure gravy.

That lake was now filled up with it. As he stepped down, and the marshmallow man kept yelling and pointing at him, he saw the lake boil with that delicious brew. And the land around it was not what he would have seen on any lake anywhere else. The land was soft, white, and steaming with…butter. Yep, that was definitely a pat of butter he saw melting by the lake as he got closer and closer to this interesting phenomenon. Or was it now phenomena? Plural forms were important to Morgan.

He felt hands grip his arms and a loud voice barked in his ears.

“You are now a prisoner of Yekrut! You will come with us! Resistance is a nuisance!”

A nuisance? Shouldn’t this one have said, “Resistance is futile”? At least they were not speaking in clichés.

There were now two of the marshmallow men now, same medals, same look and stance. And now that they were holding him, he smelled the strong sweat and other odors they gave off. Definitely marshmallow… And Morgan could look into their eyes now. Was that…licorice?

“I am not going to resist. I know that you got me. Let’s go.”

The two soldiers, now looking at each other, clearly did not expect this to happen. They had to run up and grab his arms again as he went up the hill and toward their camp.

And now, he had to stare and wonder if he was truly living a nightmare.

There were plenty of those marshmallow men now, all lined up in single file, about a dozen lines of them, with banners and tents and what looked like a much more stable and well-built building that resembled a fine piece of roast beef. That was Morgan’s first thought because of the new odor. A fine, sweet and meat-filled mist covered the open plain ahead. The men were facing a wall that also gave off a smell that he recalled. It was red, rose just above his head, and looked translucent.

Cranberry sauce?

Morgan had to smile at this, even as they tied him to a pole and another soldier approached with more medals, braids and a different set of eyes (licorice all-sort?).

“Morgan Lane, you have been found guilty by the town of Yekrut of over-consumption, advanced digestive practices, and the inability to control yourself at the most important time of the year. According to the ancient laws of our land, the penalty is death by misfiring squad. Do you have anything to say?”

At that moment, the wind picked up again, and he could smell all of the scents of the land combined. It was quite pleasant. Morgan had to laugh. His body almost fell forward (only the ropes holding him up kept him from doing so).

He fell backward into the wall…

…and then he woke up.

“Uncle Morgan, gawd! You stink!”

He woke up on the couch and looked at the tight face of his nephew. Jack was a football fan, interested in comic books, and about to start the fifth grade. And he also had no filter.

“Sorry, kid…”

“Next time, step outside if you’re gonna cut one…”

“I will…little twerp.”

At least they could laugh about this one. Morgan knew that he had enough to eat and just wanted to head back to his nap while two teams he did not care about slammed into each other.

“And what were you dreaming about?”

He looked over at the kid, wondering if he would ever get to rest today.

“What?”

“You kept saying, ‘Yekrut, Yekrut’ and twitching. Mom came in and laughed and Dad said that I should stay away from ‘the human gas factory before it’s too late’. Weird…”

Morgan could not help his laugh, either. He did not need to head back to sleep.

“I’ll tell you about it one day, kid.”

“Sure.”

They sat on the couch and followed the game. Morgan had a story to tell…