at the mall

I’m walk­ing around in­side a shop­ping mall at night.

It’s not an aban­doned build­ing, there are no zom­bies or mu­tant in­sects galumph­ing about; just me and the af­ter-hours-and-most­ly-dark in­door-city of stores and restau­rants.

I wan­der past Rain­bow Records, Or­ange Julius, The Sun­glass­es Hut. There’s a nov­el­ty toy store with this com­fort­ing phos­pho­res­cent glow up ahead.

I go in. I’m al­most to the back of the store when some­thing crash­es down from above in a chaos of ceil­ing pan­els and dust: It’s Har­ri­son Ford, as old as he is to­day, but in char­ac­ter and dressed as In­di­ana Jones.

The theme mu­sic from Raiders of the Lost Ark cues … and sput­ters, as at that point some­thing is vi­o­lent­ly thrust through his tor­so from the back: It’s one of those per­pet­u­al wave ma­chine things with the blue liq­uid in­side that makes waves as it tilts back and forth. He’s look­ing down in shock, and I run out of the store, fly­ing down an ‘up’ es­ca­la­tor, en­coun­ter­ing a sim­i­lar scene al­ready in progress at

Hick­o­ry Farms, only a three-foot-long spicy sum­mer sausage is pro­trud­ing from his chest in­stead.

Spy­ing an ‘EXIT’ sign, I sprint to­wards it, pass­ing the Sweet Shoppe where Indy stag­gers with a yard-long mul­ti­col­or-striped sug­ar stick jammed through the poor guy’s ribcage, fol­lowed by a Louisville Slug­ger skew­er­ing the seem­ing­ly-eter­nal­ly-suf­fer­ing Ford in the sport­ing goods out­let.

Reach­ing the exit doors, I dis­cov­er that they’re locked.

Turn­ing left, I see a spi­ral stair­case de­scend­ing into Cost Plus … Nuh unh, not gonna get trapped down in the World Mar­ket with a king-sized To­blerone stick­ing out of In­dy’s chest, so I high-tail it up the near­by stairs, hop­ing to phys­i­cal­ly find a vi­able op­tion of es­cape.

There’s a Hot Sam’s with the lights on and a re­volv­ing heat­ed dis­play case full of fresh soft pret­zels, and I’m run­ning to it, only to be met by (yep, you guessed it) Har­ri­son Ford look­ing very tired with an im­pos­si­bly big and to­tal­ly un­wieldy squeeze-bot­tle of mus­tard im­pal­ing him chestal­ly at armpit-lev­el. He speaks once, low and with ob­vi­ous dif­fi­cul­ty:

“Can we fin­ish here, I’m just beat …”

I back away as he wob­bles and slides down the wall, crum­bling to a sit­ting po­si­tion, mus­tard drib­bling.

The over­head mall-light­ing pops, hums, and snaps on mall-wide.

Be­wil­dered, I walk to the now-vis­i­bly-ajar Emer­gency Exit, but not be­fore notic­ing Chew­bac­ca squeezed into a too-small red/blue/yellow uni­form at the Hot Dog On A Stick:

He was wear­ing a hair­net, hold­ing the biggest corn­dog I’ve ever seen, and cry­ing.
 

—rob­bie ed­monds

Flom­mist Rob­bie Ed­monds would love to sit down with you and dis­cuss his the­o­ries of mind-swap­ping and time trav­el, but it ap­pears as if he, as his cat, just left to stop him­self from do­ing so … AGAIN! Copy­right © 2016 Rob­bie Ed­monds. Source im­ages found out and about the in­ter­webs und tubes.

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