The following is based on true events…
It started off relatively innocuously. Curled up in the foetal position, sweaty, in my bed, crying. My normal 2am activity was off to a roaring start.
The roarings of a grown man who’s been crying for a good 22 years.
Then the sounds start. Scratching, munching, pattering. The soundtrack of a violent uprising of …small, animal things. Or something.
I don’t have time for convoluted metaphors, evil is afoot! Afoot above my head! I jump out bed, foetus forgotten, sweat all the smellier.
Smite is on my mind, trickling down my chest and gathering in my boxers, making the elastic uncomfortable. I shed them off. Evil shall witness my true glory.
Looking for a more effective weapon, I grab the glass of water from my bedside and strap my guitar to my naked form. If it’s not a fictional wicked witch, then Tenacious D has decreed that I can master it with my rock.
My ROCK, I said.
Trembling, and rubbing my tear stained eyeballs, I open up the attic-stairs-pull out thing (what’s it called if it’s not a Stira?).
Hoovers are vacuum Cleaners, but what’s this? Enlighten me, Internet.
The sounds cease.
My bare foot places itself on the first rung (…Stair? Honestly, what is this thing?) and the force of righteousness that has taken over my body ascends me upwards.
Approaching the top rung, I peek into the anti-crevasse (that is, a crevasse that goes upwards). Fear overwhelms me. I must move quickly, before this sweaty vessel slips and falls a dizzying six feet to the carpeted floor below.
I climb into the anti-crevasse (that is, the attic) and look around. No sound.
Empty, far reaching blackness. The blackness of evil.
I sweat a little bit more, yet somehow am very, very cold.
I throw the water at the ghostly visage in front of me and then wrestle it to the ground. It is as I feared. The Glorcks have risen again, and wish to spread havoc in that unknowable space above us. The space beyond.
The anti Crevasse of our souls.
The force of righteousness flees my body quite quickly.
No doubt angered by my water throwing antics, it kicks at me and I stumble. Flailing wildly, I fall to the floor.
My guitar clangs and I remember! I can fight it through the medium of song!
As leap to my feet I swing my guitar around, it looks at me quizzically. In fear no doubt.
It takes a few 360 degree swings before I manage to catch it (I’m really sweaty right now) so while I rotate my hips (quite sexily, I add), I try to decide what song could rock it back from whence it came.
I settle for Master of Puppets.
It laughs at my feeble playing as I stumble through the opening riff.
“Wai- I haven’t played this in like – 3 years or so. And I’m really, really sweaty!”
I try to hash out some Zeppelin, but once again, my hands fail me.
It moves towards me.
Fumbling like a newborn with a bra strap, my fingers form chords that don’t exist and play notes that St. Patrick would of cast out of Ireland. So, my brain resembling some sort of foot hair, I panic.
I swing the guitar at the Golock (what am I calling it again?) and it hisses at me. I swing again and it hisses some more. I walk towards it, swinging…
Holy shit, I’m still naked. Why the hell am I naked? It wasn’t that uncomfortable, to be honest. I don’t know why I took them off.
I drop the guitar to cover myself, and then fling myself down the foldy stairs; embarrassment coating me like sweat. Over all the actual sweat. I close the stairs in a panic and flee to my bed.
The next day, wearing pants and caked in a film of deodorant, I summon the courage to check it out under the cold, harsh light of mid-afternoon.
I enter the above world and peer on the still form that breaths in front of me.
Ouh, it was just John Candy along.
The above story’s basis in reality is equal if not greater then that of Cool Runnings.