Starring up, I can see the new watchtower through the trees. It looks fancy and new — all red, cubist and modern. A vast improvement over the old one — which looks like a shitty tree fort, barely off the ground. This new one must be akin to ten stories up. I don’t even see a ladder.
I was attacked three times in that old crappy lookout. In fact, that’s why I haven’t been around. That last attack made me lose a year of my life to a hospital bed. I’m glad to get back to work though. But seriously, how do I get up there?
Huh? What the? …how did I get up here? And why am I staring at myself? My brother, Bobby, is up here too. He talking to me — the other me. They’re going over some procedure, turning a bunch of knobs and dials.
“Excuse me, but how exactly do we get down if our presence is needed on the ground?” I ask the two of them.
“We can’t tell you exactly. The passageway is opened differently every time,” the other me says.
“Yeah . . . watch.”
Just then a small, hollow dead tree sprouts out of the floor. For some unknown reason I reach for it and snap it clean and hand it to myself. And then, to my bewilderment, the secondary me begins masturbating himself with it. I’m so disoriented by the spectacle that I try not to watch. I close my eyes to see if I can feel anything — as if maybe the sensation would travel through him into me — but there is none. When I open my eyes I see an abnormally massive amount of cum shoot from the trunk of the dead tree, but the other me isn’t at the other end. And when I refocus my attention on the dead tree, it vanishes. I tilt my head and look around the corner; there, a pinkish white crocodilian beast is writhing on the floor. Bobby squats down and lifts its right side to reveal a large set of soft, fatty lips that appear to extend along its entire stomach. Without hesitation he dives under the beast and squirms himself between the lips. They slither shut, he’s gone.
I’m back (the other “I” that is), I smirk at myself, and then proceed to pry the monster up by the leg and dive into the slimy lips. I vanish, and Bobby then wriggles out.
That’s how it’s done . . . that’s how you get down. Although it will never happen in quite the same way — or even in a way that remotely resemble what I just explained to you. But that’s how it’s done. Just in case you ever need to know. . . .