I thought I would come and sit in the food court of an actual dead mall.
I’ve watched so many dead mall exploration videos on YouTube.
I figured I should get beyond the screen for a change.
I’ve got my notepad and my pen. I think of them as “mine” in the common sense, but I suspect that in the actual sense it might not be possible for mass produced objects to truly be mine. And yet . . . I just don’t have the time to manufacture my own supplies. Plastic is a hassle to manufacture on one’s own. Paper would be easier . . . but still a pain in the ass. I don’t have any idea how to make ink. There’s probably a how-to DIY video on YouTube.
You know what? I should just save up my money and buy the damn paper, pen, and ink factories! That’s what I should do! And then I could avail myself of practically unlimited writing supplies and make billions selling the rest to my fellow consumers.
And then, once I’m a billionaire, I can launch a podgrift where I have ass-kissers and sycophants and fringe right-wing political figures and stand-up comedy jerkoffs praise my nuts for being such a brilliant businessman.
That’s exactly what I should do.
That’s exactly what I should doo doo, isn’t it?
Because it’s a bunch of shit.
But, hey: this world runs on shit, doesn’t it?
Of course.
But that’s where the action is, can’t fight it, may as well get paid.
Sure.
Hmmm . . .
I should order some imaginary food.
Like a pretend tea party, but with overpriced pizza slices on paper plates, a styrofoam container of General Tso’s chicken, a miniscule side salad imprisoned within a plastic container that sorta resembles one of them Platonic solids-an octahedron-and a large soda in a paper cup with plastic lid’n’straw.
It occurs to me, as I’m pretend picking at my salad, that any time someone walks out of sight around the corner of some structure that there should be a beat and then some sort of horrifying ripping’n’squelching’n’bonebreaking sound effects followed by blood squirting back into our frame of vision. I’m not saying people have to actually be dying or anything. It’s just an effect for fun, to add a little interest to the normal flow of events.
And, of course, if you go around the corner to investigate there should be a bloody trail across the floor, up the wall, and into a cinematically oversized air conditioning vent. Just for fun.
And if you investigate by crawling through the a/c vent you eventually find your way to a secret monstermaking lab that’s clearly gone to hell. Shattered glass. Sparking consoles. Chewed-up coils of intestines. Dismembered limbs. Severed heads. The lighting is shadowy, noirish. You keep getting glimpses of unutterable monstrosity out of the corners of your eyes. Just for fun.
And then, and then . . . oh ho . . . it gets better. Because then a shadowy figure steps out of the, uh, shadows-but he’s still shadowy. ‘Cause, like, he is the source of all shadows, you see, uh, and so all of the shadows are concentrated-not like shadows from concentrate because these are freshly squeezed shadows-but like all the freshly squeezed shadows have concentrated themselves in the entity of this sinister man who will give a really, like, just, uh, like, a super-fuckin’ dark speech explaining why he’s making monsters in the heart of the dead mall. I figure we can hire the folks who write True Detective to rip off Thomas Ligotti-again-for this bit. Or, y’know, if we’re on a budget I can just rip off the Ligotti stuff myself. I was reading Ligotti as a teenager well before that True Detective crap came along. I bought the Carroll and Graf edition of The Nightmare Factory from a discount pile at a Books-A-Million in 1998, so fuck all these Johnny Come Latelies.
Yeah, y’know, maybe we’ll just economize from the jump.
Yeah.
Dead malls need more fun.
I watch all the dead mall videos . . . nothing ever happens. Do people really get scared of this liminal space bullshit? No wonder this country’s so fucked up. We’re literally leaping out of our skins at shadows, people, no substance to ‘em. You put me in the Backrooms you won’t see me running. I’d plant my feet, and beat the fuck outta anyone tries to mess with me. I’d take over the whole operation. Then I’d be the one chasing dipshits through the Backrooms-uwee hee hee heee!!
Oh, shit, I’m having too much fun.
As per usual.
Hmmm . . .
This imaginary salad’s alright.
Time to check out this imaginary overpriced pizza slice.
You know what mall food court food really needs?
I’ll tell you.
If you wanna know.
You do?
Okay.
Mall food court food would be so much more exciting . . . if . . . the overpriced pizza slices each came equipped with a cloaking device. We got cloaking devices for spaceships. Extraterrestrial big game hunters and cyborg super soldiers both avail themselves of thermoptic camouflage. Even that little punk Harry Potter has a cloak of invisibility. Pizza slices are way behind in the game.
Everybody wants convenience. People can’t handle the tension and terror of the hunt. Will you starve? Or will you eat? Or will you become a meal for a wildass slice? It used to depend on skill, didn’t it? We’ve tamed the pizza slices. No fight left in ‘em. No fight left in us, we’ve all gone soft. At least, if we give cloaking devices to these tamed pizza slices . . . well that could be something. Maybe not much. But it could be that nudge, y’know? Finally push the pizza slices into a new attitude, a new work ethic. Maybe that’s all it would take to even up the odds.
Yeah, I dunno . . . this pretend pizza slice is kinda bland. It tastes more like bowling alley fare than mall food court food.
I have only myself to blame. I knew I would be let down. I’ve been disappointed since I was born. When I was in the womb I just thought I was a god all the time. All those meats and juices existed to service me, my hunger, no difference between the two, Myself and the Hunger unified. That was Me. That was Universe. Me equals Universe. Fuck those Einstein equations. Then I get squeezed out. I grow up. And I eventually discover a disturbing truth-the reason for my existence . . .
My mother-bless her heart . . . or damn it.
I’m open minded.
My dear, sweet innocent mother . . . she thought cigarettes were birth control.
So . . . in a sense . . . I got an extra father in the tobacco industry.
I’ll leave it up to your imagination whether you want to imagine the Marlboro Man or Joe Camel as my supplementary pops.
Tragic, but I do dig those Tony Scott directed cigarette ads. Banned from American TV, so thank the Sweet Risen Jesus for YouTube.
‘Tis a world of wonder.
So, here we are . . . closing in . . . on what must be . . . an apocalyptic finish . . .
Hmmm . . .
I got it.
Here it is.
Okay.
So.
We’ve got monstermaker labs in the secret heart of the dead malls.
We have a brave hero-me-who strides into these dilapidated places ready to kick ass.
Easy.
We just have me go into each dead mall, fight the monsters to the death, and have me run out chased by a big fireball as it all explodes.
A guaranteed dead mall demolition every episode.
Quality.
This ain’t that streaming piss.
This is streaming content, babe!
Uwee-hee-hee-heee!
There it is.
I did it.
Post-liminality.
I am here.
KABOOM!!!
It’s pretty neat.
I even have this imaginary General Tso’s chicken for later.
I just have this natural economizing instinct all the time.
Thought indivisible from action.
Action at the speed of thought.
Total economy . . .
