I never imagined that running a mundane, somewhat inconvenient errand for Holden would turn into a living nightmare, but here I am.
My name is Montague Cervantes. I've always had a curious nature, seeking thrills, knowledge, and challenges. My travels take me both to well-known, documented, creepy places, and to mundane locations which hide dark secrets. Little did I know that this retail labyrinth would be my greatest challenge yet.
I wouldn’t be caught dead in an IKEA on any normal day, and if Holden knew I’d come here to fulfill his request, he’d probably have an aneurysm. Every few weeks, though, he casually petitions for something special: durian fruit ‘for snacking’, a replacement Bakelite tongue scraper, 6 differently-sized wooden frames specifically imported from Angola (I have yet to see any artwork or photos in his chambers that would fit in these frames). This time, it was a sculpture by Anna Hyatt Huntington of a snail which has made its home in a tiny bird skull.
“Why do I indulge his requests?” I hear you asking. Under normal circumstances, I don’t. Oh, I’ve assured Holden that I’ll keep an eye out for the frames, scraper, and durian, but I must confess I haven’t prioritized the search. I’d recommend he go out and handle his own procurements, but the man doesn’t seem to remember he’s in Gnaw Bone, Indiana half the time, and I can’t be responsible for his getting lost for another few years.
This piece, however, when Holden sketched it out, intrigued me. Certainly this kitsch art with a touch of the macabre was a sign that our influence was starting to take hold. I resolved to continue nourishing that flicker of Creep beginning to show through his enigmatic personality.
It had taken less than a half hour to find a replica online, but I knew I’d have to quest for it, since having a box appear at the farmhouse with the iconic logo would probably result in at least one homicide, if not more.
The sprawling aisles and endless shelves had fascinated me, and before I knew it, I found myself wandering deeper into the store. Everything seemed normal at first, with people bustling around, pushing carts and examining furniture. But then, something strange happened; I became aware that I had forgotten what I came to Ikea to purchase. Oddly distracted by the mundane, Swedish craftsmanship, I turned down aisle after aisle, trying to jog my memory.
Each stack of shelves seemed to stretch on forever. I often turned around, trying to retrace my steps, but I would wind up more confused when the endless corridors and couches and corbels didn’t resemble anything I’d already passed. I slowly began to realize I was trapped in a seemingly interminable expanse of furnishings and antiseptic fluorescent lighting. A normal person would have felt panic settle in at this moment, but my exploratory nature was kicking in.
No matter which direction I turned, every path seemed to lead me deeper into this perplexing maze. The layout of the store defied all logic, with shelves and displays appearing and disappearing at will. I couldn't find an exit or a familiar section of the store. What’s more, without my notice, the once-bustling store had transformed into an eerily silent, sprawling wilderness of textiles where all sense of direction had been extinguished.
I had started shouting tentative “Hello”s, hoping my voice would carry to one of the numerous other shoppers I’d seen before, but my calls echoed into nothingness. It was as if the store itself had absorbed my pleas, leaving me utterly alone. Despite the bright, overhead lights the shadows across the rows of bookshelves and kitchen displays seemed to deepen, and lengthen, the longer I wandered.
Hours have turned into days as I continue to wander through this bizarre alternate dimension within the confines of Ikea. Hunger gnaws at my stomach from time to time, but the in-store restaurant always seems to have a fresh, hot supply of food–but no workers. I push on, determined to find an exit, imagining my newest allies beginning to wonder where I am.
Occasionally, I encounter other lost souls, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. We exchange stories, mine excited at the discovery, while theirs are more desperate. None of us has any answers. I pity them, ensnared by their own consumerism. As for me, this isn’t my first time lost in a labyrinth; I happen to live right above one.The rules of reality seem to bend and twist within those walls, too confounding every effort at escape.
As I write this, I sit perched on a makeshift bed, cobbled together from pilfered cushions and duvets. The days would blend into one another, except that the lights are dimmed for several hours once in a while, as if to indicate the IKEA were closed. That lights-on/lights-off cycle serves as an artificial day and night for us, and the more ‘nights’ that pass, the more the belief that we’ll ever leave flickers like a dying flame. Perhaps an unexpected rescue is coming, but it appears this is my entire world for the foreseeable future.
—
—
Montague pauses writing, the Sharpie poised above the commandeered clipboard of MSDS. A low, mechanical whirring, which he only just now understands he’s been hearing for the last five minutes, has gotten steadily louder so that it’s now impossible to ignore it. He sets the clipboard on the mismatched cushion to his right, and stands up. Squinting down the eternal aisle, he sees a blur of color coming toward his camp.
What it turns out to be almost defies explanation. Five IKEA employees approach astride a fleet of accessibility scooter-carts. These carts aren’t your typical, germ-ridden, muted color ones, however. If he wasn’t intimately familiar with the films, Monty might not have made the connection, but they now resemble the type of vehicles Toecutter’s men rode across the Australian outback.
The employees have stripped the scooters of their exteriors, revealing the motors and inner workings which power them. Pieces of garish knick-knacks and parts from disassembled appliances have been attached to add to their post-apocalyptic appearance.
As the gang of riders draws closer, the Doctor-Professor reaches behind the bed and retrieves the wrought-iron shepherd’s crook taken from one of the countless garden aisles. His grip tightens when he gets his first clear look at the employees.
For all intents and purposes, they have the iconic blue-and-yellow uniforms and shape of IKEA employees. It’s not clear where those articles of clothing end and the skin begins, almost as if their skin was dyed those colors. Their ‘legs’ operate the pedals while their ‘hands’ steer their steeds, but the Showman isn’t sure they’re even looking at him as they approach.
There are no faces.
Monty crouches and prepares himself for an attack as the riders come to a quiet stop in front of him. The agent at the tip of the V they’d formed has an engraved name badge, as opposed to the printed label his cohorts display. Montague can’t make out the letters which form its name, but he deduces this one must be a customer service manager.
Manager: The store is closed. Please exit the building.
Montague blinks. There’s no mouth to make the words, but he’s more taken aback by the authoritative order to vacate the premises. As if the Mothman had spent the last several days sleeping on a mix of purple houndstooth and red paisley because he wanted to trespass.
A thought occurs to him, however. They were here to lead him to the exit. Perchance.
Relaxing his grip, Montague flashes a grateful smile and takes a step forward.
Montague: Absolutely! I wasn’t able to find what I came in for, so I’ll be on my…
When he offers his left hand, the employees dismount their bikes in perfect sync, causing him to trail off and draw it back. They begin to advance, causing him to take up the crook again, now gripping it in both hands. Montague bares his teeth in warning, but they march closer and closer.
Manager: The store is closed. Please exit–
Monty doesn’t give him a chance to finish, laying an overhead swing diagonally across the manager’s temple. That clipped sentence is the only reaction he gets from the attack.
Manager: –the building.
Winding up again, Montague goes for a second swing. This time, the manager’s hand appears inches from where the crook would have connected with his jaw. Before the Showman can react, the manager closes his fist around the crook and snatches it away with such force that it goes flipping, end over end, through the air behind the employees.
The expected metal clatter never comes.
With a sudden chuckle, Montague raises both hands, palms out, up to chest height.
Montague: My mistake, friends. I’ll be going now, as you said, the store is closed!
He backs away carefully, knowing he’s more than outmatched here. When the back of his right calf brushes his make-do bed, Monty suddenly springs into the air, cutting a backflip over the cushions. He doesn’t stop there, but continues to flip, completing at least two Liukin sequences before landing in a completely different aisle.
No. Not different. He recognizes the floral mailbox covers and reflective alphabet stickers, having passed them several days ago. For the first time since he’d wandered in, something in the store looks familiar.
Montague’s mind is racing, trying to put the puzzle together, but an ominous whirring reminds him that the retail ruff ryders are coming for him. The Doctor-Professor keeps a wary eye on the end of the aisle he just flipped through, while continuing to backpedal. He risks a glance to either side, hoping for something he could improvise into a weapon.
Pausing, the urgency momentarily abandons him when he notices the white accent pillows some enterprising creative cross-stitched the word ‘PILLOW’ onto. He knows he passed those before, he’d scoffed out loud at them (but he didn’t say “scoff”). The clue for this riddle is here, but he can’t make heads or tails of it…
Manager: The store is closed. Please exit the building.
Startled out of his momentary reverie, the Mothman spins and beats a retreat down the aisle. To his chagrin, the ‘PILLOW’ pillows are not stacked in the bin next to the sea foam green ones that were adorned with lighthouses, as they had been when he passed them several days ago.
Manager: The store is closed. Please exit the building.
The Doctor-Professor nimbly pivots, now running backwards as he addresses the employee gang.
Montague: Can’t you see that’s what I’m trying to do? Begone and allow me to solve this maze in peace!
Sconces! Yes, he remembers pausing to admire these brass sconces!
That’s when the light comes on over his head. That is to say, he has a ‘Eureka!’ of an idea, but also, the fluorescents suddenly buzz to life, signaling the start of the endless outlet’s artificial day. Presumably, this also means the store is opening, because the motorized carts begin to beep, and the automaton employees back away from the Showman.
Montague: Back away, that’s it!
With that, he picks up his pace, sprinting in reverse while looking over his left shoulder. Monty passes bathroom readers, potpourri bowls, and pet beds, all ringing bells in his memory. Finally, at long last, he sees it; a white sign with red letters and an arrow pointing to Montague’s right. The Exit sign.
—
—
Before my accidental expedition into 3008, I had spent part of the day in Chicago. I had made a promise to have an innocent chat with the former man of ice, the newly-chaotic and super volatile Konrad Raab.
I’m sure it will surprise those who know the both of us that I went through with my appointment, and that may mostly be why I kept my promise, despite our being opponents this week. I have been learning the benefits of trying a different approach with some of my opponents, and tipping the scales against Dave Rydell could be a pleasantly welcome bonus.
What worthy benefit could there be to befriending the perennial loser? That remains to be discovered. Perhaps nothing, in the end, but there’s something to be said for his tenacity.
How often have I said wins and losses are but fleeting experiences? Who understands this better than someone who walks away from virtually every match without adding to his win column? He doesn’t walk away defeated, though. How could he? If anyone else has a win/loss record as poor, they have to be either tenacious or enhancement talent, and I know where a former Cross-Hemisphere champion falls for me. Konrad may be in his own way too often to establish, much less maintain, a winning streak, but he certainly has made a point of creating something infinitely more valuable: memorable experiences.
We haven’t seen the flanged German mace as often in recent weeks, but introducing a signature weapon to signal a transitioning preference for chaotic matches is a showman’s move. Konrad challenges himself as often as he challenges champions, and his name was uttered on UGWC television more than any other competitor appearing at that event.
There’s unrealized potential here. Imagine a measured, stable Konrad Raab with this new love of violence intact. If that doesn’t pique your curiosity, then I doubt your grasp on what’s entertaining what isn’t.
I’ll encourage Konrad by bringing the violence he craves on Monday. Stealing the show in a Chaos Division match is a walk in the park for someone of my talents, so let’s see how the unavoidable loss motivates Burned in Blood when all the elements he craves - violence and respect from his peers - are provided.
I must be cautious not to let my experiments with Konrad distract me from keeping a wary eye on Dave Rydell.
Unlike Konrad, Dave relies very much on his win/loss record and championship history to maintain buoyancy. He’s the very embodiment of the type of competitor who believes that competition and not entertainment is the primary function of an Entertainment Professional.
Uncle Dave is no entertainer. Luckily, he has Ezra for that, a far more interesting competitor who also manages to keep up with Dave’s extensive experience. I’m sure Rydell is already counting down the days, but did you know that by the time we meet on Synergy, the Red Wolves will have already surpassed Chaos and Jet Somers, Travis Roberts and Alan Wallace, and Angela Vaughn and Dave himself with this Cooperative reign? They could very well reach the top five, bagging Kenzi Grey and Donovan Hastings’ record in the process, by the time they must defend again.
Like both of his opponents, Dave left his tender years behind decades ago. By his metrics, he’s possibly more successful than the both of us combined. He gives no indication that he’s slowing down, either, if recent performances are anything to go by.
Wait, what am I saying? “By his own metrics” he’s more successful than I am? In Dave’s eyes, my UGWC career eclipsed his own last year at Ever Escalating Endangerment, when I casually acquired the one accolade that has eluded him for over a decade.
I know it eats at Dave, watching World Champion after World Champion pass through our halls, some multiple times. The most successful one started his UGWC career by pinning Dave for that same laurel. Imagine holding yourself to such a standard that you are the extreme opposite end of the spectrum from the person you consider to be the most triumphant.
There’s no reason someone as accomplished, skilled, and experienced as Dave should have to discount everything they’ve contributed to the industry simply because the achievement they define their career by is unattainable. He could retire tomorrow and be a shoo in for the Hall of Fame, but he’d go out to pasture with a permanent chip on his shoulder.
And what of Dave Rydell should he somehow finally find his way into that spotlight? He’ll have been chasing that car for so long, he won’t know what to do with it now that he’s caught it. The World Championship is his self-appointed pinnacle, and if he one day finds himself with his hand raised over the newly-former World Champion, where does he go from there?
This is the problem with defining yourself by wins and losses and shiny objects. You wind up with an arbitrary end game, and the journey, no matter how eventful, only tells the story of how you got there. Or didn’t, in Dave’s case.
But he can’t help it. Dave is a competitor, through and through. He’s not an entertainer, I don’t care what his curriculum vitae says.
