As I closed the door, it was completely black. I reached out in front of me to feel for a wall or something, but as I did, a strobe light turned on. I was in a small room from what I could tell between the flashes. There wasn’t anyone else in the room with me. As my eyes adjusted, I heard a voice. The voice came from all sides of me, not from any single speaker or amp. It was a deep voice, monotone in nature. And I heard the following:
“The arena Jones spoke of is the arena of consciousness. The arena of the tamed mind. The arena where anxiety is eliminated and the soul flows, as it should. The arena of Humanocracy. Don’t fear it, fair son. It was bound to happen to you sooner or later. You did not just happen across this little place. It was destined. It is destiny. Hear me out and then go back to Jones. Tell him you would like to see my notes; he will understand. Just remember. It is a dream. There is nothing you can do about it except understand what the dream is. You see, fair son, consciousness is a simple existence confused by the negativity of the world in order to keep individuals from realizing the simplicity themselves. That is all. Now go back.”
The strobe light stopped, the door swung open, and the ground moved as if to tell me to get out of there. I walked back to Jones and our table. He had already ordered two more Quacktails for us. I sat down.
“I was told to ask you for his notes, Jones.”
“Yeah, I figured he would let you into the arena. I have them all laid out here in front of you. From start to finish. Very good reading if you ask me, but I am a little biased to all of this. Do me a favor. Drink your Quacktail, relax here with me for another hour, then take these notes home and read them. I’ll meet you back here in two days. You will have them finished by then. Then we can talk about what is really going on. Pick up the notes, put them in your coat pocket, and then lets relax. It has been a long night for you, my fair son. Soak it all in, it is worth it; trust me.
Jones and I sat there for an hour and hardly said a word. I looked around the room, but didn’t notice anything strange. The signs still hung where they were before; the people still sat in their places engrossed in conversation. It was like nothing I had ever seen. Normally when I go somewhere there is someone who comes over to bother you. Here, in the Quack House, no one bothered anyone. You could roam free as you wanted to. A conversation was all that there was, and all that there ever would be in the Quack House. When the hour had passed, I bid Jones goodnight. I had a hard time standing up, and Jones just laughed. He spoke.
“In two nights. I’ll meet you in the lot, then we’ll come in. Okay?”
“Yeah, around four thirty ?”
“Yeah. Good night, fair son.”
“Good night, Jones.”
I walked out of there and drove home. The entire drive, my head kept spinning. Not a drunk spin, but a different kind of spin. I was completely aware of everything that was going on around me, but it was almost too much awareness. That is what the spinning came from. I got home, undressed, and fell into bed. I had the strangest dream. I dreamt of monkeys, small monkey men.
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