McMansion

Small forest amphibians struggled for air in the thick mucus-like bubbles coming up from acres of a dreadful mire. When these bubbles popped, they released an earthly stench so disturbing, that even those creatures which had somehow made it to the shore of some solid surface, perished at the first inhale of such a wretched release. The lives of these many mangled innocent were gnawed on slowly and sadly by birds with heavy beaks and black, greasy feathers. The sheen of their dark coats shone a dark blue where it was greasiest, and reflected the stuttering light of the large sign reading “Bingo’s Burgers” that sat atop a 75 foot pole and overlooked the entire depressing scene. Rain never fell, but a mist oozed menacingly across the entire plain, making visibility on the nearby six-lane freeway an often deadly nightmare. Luckily, it did cover up most of the frightening carnage that lay in every direction for miles and miles, as far as the eye could see.. I couldn’t imagine why the sign still remained standing, let alone lit. I took a few more steps upon the property’s cracked concrete lawn. And there i was. I stood before it, it stood before me: a grotesque caricature of a home owner’s biggest fears. 

Where others might dream of a wrap around porch, instead rusted outdoor plexi-plastic, honeycomb-patterned tables attached to the concrete, along with it’s vestigial benches, via metal. There were four of these tables in the front, and two on the side that were out of sight. This was actually a combined fast-food center, it’s structure boasted a two-dimensional castle outline. Terribly cartoony, extremely outdated, and without any obvious plan to re-visit such hideous decor. It was indeed some of the most upsetting design choices I’d ever seen on a home. And it was choice. As ragged and worn out at the setting was, all passersby who entered upon this desolate wasteland knew that the owner cherished every dying aspect of the old chain restaurant conjoined as it was with an also once popular but now forever “out to lunch” ice cream parlor. The concrete yard was littered with ketchup packets, foil-lined burger wrappers, cardboard containers that once contained something hot and salty, all the expected relics. 

About 15 miles north of Bingo’s Burgers And Old Fashioned Ice Cream Shoppe, the sun started to set like honey dripping into a jar of peanut butter, and the golden spread of dusk and dew sprinkled like cinnamon over morning porridge. Children parted from cul de sacs on bicycles, their joyful laughter echoing between brick houses and smooth stone driveways, as they followed the trails of tired leaves that had been discarded from all they’d ever known, hoping for that satisfying crunch. The leaves exploded under spoked wheels with little complaint, the sound like distant, muffled fireworks. In the background, a smokestack stood like a match perpetually just blown out.

A few steps onto the property and my hands began to feel sticky, my bowels started creating quite uncertain sounds which resulted in emissions that contributed to the overall heavy atmosphere. A distant whining became louder and louder the closer I got to the outdoor dining area, I could not for the life of me figure out where it was coming from. A small trash tornado roamed around aimlessly, composed of used paper straw bits and balled up napkins and blue and purple nylon fur that escaped the mechanical skeleton of the animatronic Bingo mascot guarding the front door. I waited for it to pass, watching it carry away dried up insect corpses as it went. I carried on, realizing more and more disturbing details.  For example: a black liquid oozed out at random intervals from under the building, creating a gooey, glistening buildup in some crevices that attracted lint and dust like an unfinished lollipop shoved between couch cushions. Suddenly the nausea became too much. Grabbing the edge of a bench, I leaned over and let out my coffee and toast from earlier, both looking quite different coming out then they did going in. I fell to a kneel, trying to control my breathing, but the stagnant air made it almost impossible. I gripped the table harder as I felt more coming up, but immediately yanked my hand away.

“AGH!”

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO STEVE?!”

“What the…”

I peered under the table. What I saw: an upside-down landscape of transplanted pieces of chewed gum…and they were all alive. I realized this was where the strange whining noise was coming from, now that it had abruptly stopped. Hundreds of tiny eyes made of tiny air pockets looked at me with disgust. 

“Something’s happened to Stevie?! Someone tell me what the hell’s going on!”, one of the harder pieces under the far ledge yelled out. The voice was female. She pleaded for more information on “Stevie”. The other pieces whispered amongst themselves, seemingly horrified. They switched from glaring at me, to looking in obvious concern at the stretched out strand of gum that trailed from under the table to way down below, where its end tapered off into a thinness that wavered in the non-existent breeze just inches above the hungry, oversized ants that occasionally marched passed. Their heavy steps admittedly ignited a sort of fear within my chest, and I didn’t dare look directly into their black ovular eyes as they surveyed the desolation for crumbs….

…I did my best to press old Steve back into his original form with a ripped off strip of napkin and kept it moving. I believe he may have lost one of his eyes during the ordeal, but I was satisfied with the outcome, even if they all started yelling at me about the napkin bit that would most likely be stuck to him until he hardened like the rest. As I waved goodbye they began once again their collective anguish, starting out as a hum and building to the general whine that I had recognized earlier. 

…………………

I crept, step by step, loosely following the chipped painted footprints of Bingo himself up to the front door. 

I entered.