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so i had an unusual dream last night. it was fairly long and detailed and just, kind of strange. there was one voice narrating the whole thing. it sounded a bit like rod serling except he'd giggle occasionally and his voice cracked and once in a while james earl jones' voice played over top. everything that follows was spoken aloud, even the "F", "B" and "L"s, which was helpful since the narrator made no attempt to voice the characters differently. i probably got some of the story wrong and filled in a few places, but on the whole i woke with the dream intact, so this is a pretty faithful rendering. here we go:


The scene opens in a spartan foyer. There is a photo on the wall which depicts Abraham Lincoln surrendering to George W. Bush on the USS Decider. The photo is not framed, and upon closer inspection one can read a caption in the margin: "This officious historical document has been rightly factified by heh heh heh." A bespectacled rubber plant droops on a foot rest in the corner. The floor is littered with sawdust and bright green wood shavings. There is a sliding door that spans the entire length of one wall and two men with their backs turned to it, focusing instead on the wall directly in front of them. The taller, Lester, is dressed in a one-piece suit. A poorly concealed zipper on the back indicates the manner of entry. Frock wears a pair of stretch pants underneath a pair of torn swimming trunks which are not nearly as distracting as Frock's shirt: a mess of rags held together by needle, thread and duct tape. Both men have an array of feathers sprouting from their forearms, knees which bend in the wrong direction and feet that end in talons rather than toes. Frock's head bobs back and forth, often upsetting the placement of his monocle. Lester appears incredibly bored.

F; Our guest should arrive any minute now.
L: Who's visiting again?
F: I haven't the slightest. As such, I expect both of us to be on our best behavior.
L: You can't be serious.
F; Chin up. Gut in. Chest out. Back straight.
L: Right guv'na. Shall I off'r t'lick 'is balls as well?
F: Listen, this meeting could alter the course of...

[a knock on the wall]

B: [a voice deep and grating, as if her vocal cords had been dragged along the bottom of the ocean] Good afternoon, messieurs. Might a lady have an entrance?

F: Presently, señorita! [to L, clipped] Remember, our best behavior!
L: Yes, yes.

Lester snaps his fingers. A tassel descends from the ceiling. It is not attached to anything. Lester gives the knot a good chomp, chews contemplatively, then slurps in the threads. Two Piscean fish appear on the wall, their circle about four feet in diameter. Each fish begins to spiral inward, making smaller and smaller revolutions until their inevitable meeting at the center, at which point one fish opens its maw while the other swims on. The dominant fish bites down. There is a hint of a smile. A pause. A flicker of fear in its eye. Something is wrong. Suddenly the head of the fish consumed bursts free. The two disembodied heads now work their way around each other's bodies, leaving nothing but air behind. As the hole in the wall grows daisies begin to show through. Fuchsia and pumpkin and lavender daisies. Paisley. Firetruck. Dalmatian.

[quietly]
L: I know it's been a while, but I don't recall the sky being so...tacky.
F: Or pink. And flowery...are you there, señorita?

Tiger stripes. Leopard skin. Lightning bolts.

B: Right before you, messieurs. But of course my beauty, to provincials such as yourself, is nothing short of blinding. I'm sure your eyes will adjust shortly.

The fish heads, having run out of body to consume, grow still, quiver and fall. A gargantuan hand flashes past the hole in the wall and scoops up the fish heads. There is the sound of chewing. A gulp.

B: Oh dear me, I fear I'm still a bit peckish. Light breakfast, you see. The sorry excuse for an inn at which my agency deposited me hadn't expected so many guests, apparently, and hardly a soul was there! I suppose you provincials don't get out much, though. You wouldn't happen to have...

[quietly]
F: I don't think you made the entrance big enough.
L: I don't think we're safe. And what about our feed? We'll be starving for weeks...
F: This must be done. Look, I'll get our guest in. You go hide anything that's edible.
L: Right.

B: ...or perhaps a slab of manatee? Oh how I love manatee.
F: I'm afraid we're fresh out of manatee, señorita. But we've canaries in the living room.
B: Please, call me Belle. And it's rude to keep a lady waiting. What's wrong with your door?
F: Belle, then. I apologize. That confounded contraption. It's a bit worse for wear. Ancient, really. Mind of its own. I'll get right on it, sorry to keep you...
B: Just a moment, did you say canaries?
F: Well, I, that is, I didn't mean to offend. It is the provincial in me, we're savages after all. Feasting on our own cousins...
B: Oh, shush.
F: But you...
B: Haven't had canary in ages! Delightful little things. I adore that delectable "pop" of theirs. Oh, I can hardly contain myself.
F: Of, of course. Me too. That's why we keep them. Now...[madly snapping his fingers] where is that confounded key? Lester? Lester!
L: You're using the wrong hand again, you twit.
B: Did you hear that? My tummy's all a-fuss and I'm nearly out of patience.
F: [looks at his hands] Quite right, quite right. Here we are, then.

In their panic, our hosts have forgotten that Frock's ambidexterity was recently traded in for a sentient rubber plant that does nothing but recite pi and sleep. When Frock complained to the manufacturer he was told that the plant's ability to do nothing useful--while still being supported by productive members of society--was the its greatest intellectual achievement to date. Lester agreed, but then, Lester could still use both of his hands.

B: Please, I'm so very famished...

Frock, now absorbed in his futile attempt to snap his fingers, does not notice the bulge that has begun to invade his home, nor does he notice the unusual huffing, the cracks in the wall.

F: Come on. Opennnnn...

B: CANARIES!

The wall explodes in a shower of plaster and rippling daisies. Frock flies into the sliding doors behind him which in turn split down the middle allowing Frock to fly back even further. He hits a marble floor, skids, hops and then slowly rolls to a halt. Lester's head drops from a hole in the ceiling.

L: What happened? Speak to me, Frock. Tell me it ain't the neighbors. We've been out of nectar since their last raid...

A shadow falls over the room. Lester slowly turns around.

L: Holy mother of hens!

"Canaries!" Belle bellows again while charging in. Her quivering mass sends shock waves across the room which keep Frock pinned to the ground.

L: I've seen enough. I'm out. Sorry, pal. Good luck.
F: --- --- --- ---.

B: CANARIES!

The house begins to tremble. Lester is nowhere to be seen. Frock is looking more and more like a canary with each passing second and you, dear listener, are the only thing between Belle and her meal.

CANARIES!