Good morning, evening, or wherever the sun may be wherever you are on the planet. This week, I shall take you on a very special journey to a space where no mere mortals dare tread; that Olympus-esque fortress known as:
The Lot’s Wife Office.
I venture into this dangerous region at the behest of my editor, who requested an account of my latest adventurous foray. Ordinarily I would send it by carrier pigeon, but circumstances involving a dingo and a grandfather clock prevented my faithful companion’s departure. Thus, I am forced to deliver my manuscript by hand.
I approach via the stair-like structure to the south, scaling it as best I can, despite my wounds—inflicted upon me in the jungles of Caulfield, but that is a story for another time. I peer through the portals, sighting movement inside. Writers. Fear takes hold of me, and for a full minute I can do nothing but quake. Eventually I regain my wits long enough to open the outer ingress. I am inside.
The door to the office lies open, a pale light filtering into the quiet hall. In the distance I spy the writers, gathered about their shrine, muttering to themselves. Thankfully, they pay my prone form no attention. I scuttle towards the editors’ temple, dodging the wild volunteers who make their home here: I believe they scavenge food to survive, and I have no intention of parting with my rations. Carefully, I peer inside the temple’s entrance.
To my astonishment, the temple’s sanctum is deserted. Several empty bottles shine in the computer’s soft glow, and the markings of editors gone by cover the walls. There is a distinct smell of wine. I go to leave my manuscript upon the altar when there is a sudden blur: a “kthxbye” echoes in the sacred room. I look down at my hands to find the manuscript covered in red ink.
From the Journal of His Greatness, Sir Timothy Christopher Samuel Newport, PhD OB QC