The Sergons

Season Thirty-Two: Part Two

There affront her stood a extremely pious man on all fours weeping of sovereignty - of a place she hadn't heard of before. An alleged tyranny. The man was in a sort of garçon's attire: black vest, bow tie and pants, white shirt, as well as the respected brogues and a quant choice of Italian marching band gloves. Edging closer, an ember flickered on her skin - she winced, clenching her hand and tumbling against the kitchen counter. Then, to her surprise, he stopped the tears and stood up straight, adjusting his tie. "Marjorie Simpson, the table awaits your presence," with the final syllable, he flamboyantly held out his gloved hand, the palm facing up into the nebulous abyss. A strange silence lingered as his smile widened. "Where am I?" Marge went stiff, as he took a step closer leaning in to whisper - cold and formidable. "It's all for you, Marge... So don't screw it up!" He scoffed intensely. "Now," he went back, "follow me, madam."

Grabbing her hand, a long trail began: first going down a dreary stairway. It was dark and teeth clenching scratches were heard with every step. Each step, a new deafening din of confused screams were heard; each inch, the psychedelic atmosphere became more convoluted; each wince of mental pain, something else visually perturbed her. It was as though she was the target here, what everything was trying to halt of its succession. "Is this the place?"

"Yes, now, get comfortable. Any accessories in the black draw, please. Also, don't touch anything. Thank you." Glancing down, tapping his watch for a momentary pause - face as if being pulled to look towards the portable clock, "ah, of course. Give me a sec, just stay here. I have some business related quarrels to sort out." With demonic animation, the watch shimmered and made a high pitched dinging sound, "Obviously, I'll be back later, get comfy. Ta ra, Lady Marjorie!" After this quant interaction and perplexing event, Marge just wanted to give up and sob. An architecturally nonsensical labyrinth wasn't what she expected to be lying in, especially waiting for a meeting. Even the room was odd. It consisted two sides: one colourfully exploding ecstatically - filled with Marge's interests, whilst the other filled with objects of sentimental value, with plain white walls and carpet. The floor was dark-wood. Incidentally, unsymmetrical sarcoma-like bumps humped out disturbingly. But, with all this surrounding, the same double bed at home rested dead-centre. A new cacophony introduced. A sea of vehement  and sentiment clashing silently.