A Clumsy Clandestine Society

In a tent in Daniel Boone NF. Incoherent action/mystery farce.

I was exploring a small museum/zoo, very odd thing, that had some kind of artist or musician living in it. People came in, on a select basis, and got to explore his studio. It was quite odd, because the three public rooms looked spotlessly quaint, while the room he actually lived in was a disaster–I.E somebody was making tourist money off of this, and was doctoring reality in a quite reality-tv-like manner. They had not charged me admission, but I think I had special priveleges of some kind. Whoever I was with knew the guy, or something like that. I can’t remember who I was with. A girl? Or maybe Tris? Sorry, Tris.

Right. So, leaving this house, I wandered semi-aimlessly in an urban night, looking for someone. Whoever I was with took me to Deb, who told me she could get me in contact with a certain secret society who would be able to help me find… whoever it was. No indication of the nature of this secret society, but I think by virtue of their connection with Deb, the mysterious setting, and the badass clothes everyone was wearing, including myself (sleek black stuff, not quite matrix), I judged this society was some sort of ultracool countercultural terrorist group. Had I thought about it, I probably would have decided to find some other way of finding her. But maybe they controlled the city. Who was I to know?

So Deb took me to this lovely dark-haired girl in even sleeker black stuff, including what I think were some quite expensive leather pants. And this girl promptly pulled me into a dark stairwell and pulled a crossbow on me. A black and chrome crossbow, with steel barbs on the bolts. She said, “You can either join the society, or die right now.” I said, “Well, that’s not much of a choice, is it.” I was trying to appear as cool as my dark clothes and the setting and the implications of a clandestine society demanded. I didn’t think I was doing half bad.

She pointed the crossbow a couple inches to the right of my ear, and fired it. I jumped a foot in the air. Then I thought to myself, I’m not scared. I was somewhere between truth and bluff. So I tried to recover by coolly regarding the bolt protruding from the wall.

Now, this stairwell happened to be made of thick, one-way glass, and was located in a fairly public area–a mall parking lot, or something like that. Not very professional of this clandestine society, whoever they were. But they weren’t exactly clever in general. Case in point: The badass woman’s crossbow-bolt had pierced right through the plexiglass, and knocked out a chunk on the other side that fell and hit the shoulder of a security guard who happened to be standing right there. He was pudgy, non-threatening, like the maytag salesman. But he shouted and rushed into the stairwell and grabbed the supid representative of the clandestine society by the arm, and tried to arrest her or something. I had to drag her out of his grasp and up the stairwell to get away. This was after she had threatened to and nearly killed me. Clearly, they needed me in their society a lot more than I needed them.

Waiting for me several floors up in the parking garage was another society member. He was bald, Bullseye/Colin Ferrel-esque, but dumber looking, if that is possible, and less interesting. No target on his forehead. He had a crossbow too, and he started bullying me the same way as the girl had. But this time I was having none of it. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “What kind of clandestine society are you running here?” And I disbelieved the whole plot, and woke up.

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