sam rebelein

This Is Cactus Land

The end was very seamless. He simply closed his eyes— 

—and opened them again. Fast and painless as a blink. He squinted against the light. After a moment, his eyes cleared. He saw what was before him and was immediately nonplussed.

Rich had expected…well, something else. Fluffy white clouds, big golden gates. Maybe, at his most cynical, he would’ve pegged the afterlife as some insane bureaucratic nightmare. Cubicle mazes and endless forms to fill out. Waiting in doctors’ offices with a glass-shard stomach ache, scribbling on form after form as PBS belched at him from the TV in the corner, kids wailing… That was a fair-enough rendition of Hell, as far as Rich was concerned.

So when he opened his eyes, it was to his utter dismay that Rich found death to be an amusement park on a nice sunny day. Maybe seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit, zero clouds. The perfect day for park stuff. All over, there were up-down rides, sideways rides, rides that went upside down. Rides that twirled directly over the path, so you could feel their metal heat rattling above your head. Whatever kinds of rides you like, they have ’em, rest assured. Rest in peace.

It was very crowded along the path Rich found himself standing on. Families, young couples, dads in bucket hats, moms in white culottes, packs of teens and twenty-somethings, old ladies, school field trips. Rich allowed them to swim past him, his hands tucked against his chest. He wondered if this really was peace after all. He wondered, too, if peace was meant to have a childish Western theme. All the rides painted desert colors, all named Gold Rush and Chief Tall Doe’s Adventure. The speakers on poles grinding out saloon tunes. The wooden character boards plastered along the sides of the path, garish and huge-toothed. None of them were characters Rich recognized. No Looney Tunes or Disney creatures. No Rocky and Bullwinkle, Nickelodeon, or Cartoon Network. These goofy cartoon pals were from some other mythos entirely. He wondered if he’d have to learn and care about them the same way he’d had to learn and care, at a marginal level, about things like the MCU and Mario. What was the point in being dead if you had to care about the same bullshit you did when you were alive? Did he have to pay taxes here, too? Go to parties with work acquaintances? Jesus…

He was so gobsmacked by it all that he barely noticed the figure galumphing down the path toward him until it was too late. The clown ambled right up to him, so floppy and angular that Rich was shocked pieces of her didn’t just fly off onto the dirt. Her horrible yellow wig, the white gloves, the giant red shoes. She wore neon blue overalls, so large they were baggy over her already significant stomach and hips.

“Howdy!” said Clown, planting herself in front of him. “And welcome toooo…Cactus Land!” She spread her hands wide, encircling the entire park. She beamed at him.

Rich had never been much for clowns. Or westerns. So he said exactly what was on his mind: “I think I’m in the wrong place.” He frowned. Moved his tongue around his mouth. These were the last words he remembered saying before he’d faded from the hospital room to…here. They were true words, he meant them. He didn’t think he belonged here, and somebody should know that right away. It just struck him as odd that he was saying his last words…again.

“Sure ya are,” laughed Clown. She reared back, threw her arms grandly into the air. “Cactus Land is the right place for everybody!” She grinned at him, keeping her hands in the air, wriggling her gloved fingers. “So what can I getcha? Cotton candy? Churro? Popcorn?”

Oh, now that she mentioned it, popcorn did sound nice. And hell, if this was Heaven, he might as well indulge himself. If it was Hell, then best case scenario, the popcorn was real. Maybe he’d get in a few bites before…something. Besides, it’d been a while since he’d been able to keep down solid foods. He’d been in the hospital, what? Eight months? And in all that time, the only thing he’d been able to keep down was Jell-O. He realized suddenly that he missed popcorn. He missed frivolity. Being able to run free, without all those tubes and wires in that bed. The end had been so freakin’ bleak that he’d forgotten that he’d forgotten what frivolity was like. His entire world had become that gray wall across from his bed. The whiteboard, all its squares with daily goals. And the goals kept getting darker by the day. “Make another normal bowel movement,” said Tuesday. “Make any bowel movement,” said Wednesday. “Stop shitting blood,” read Thursday. And Friday, of course—well, Friday would forever be blank now.

So, yeah. Yeah! He’d love some popcorn. Screw it.

He opened his mouth to say so. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

Clown laughed. Her arms waved above her head. She laughed and laughed. She laughed so hard she threw herself over backward, her spine breaking with a wet-sapling snap. Her knuckles grazed the ground behind her. Her hands danced for a moment like dying rats in the dirt.

She shot back up. One of her eyes was bloodshot. A nostril bled. It dripped into her mouth as she said, “Popcorn it is.” She beamed. She honked her nose, surreptitiously wiped away its leak, and trotted away. Whether she’d guessed what he wanted, intuited it somehow, or he was mishearing his own mouth—Rich couldn’t say.

He wanted, quite badly, to sit down. He looked around for a bench, but there were none. Heaven, he figured, would have benches. But in Hell, he probably wouldn’t be able to smell that popcorn oil. That delicious, buttery stench. And the churros, the cotton candy. God, it’d been so long since he’d smelled anything other than the coppery tang of his own shit and bile, the cold alcohol-swab stink of the hospital.

Maybe it was Heaven. Maybe he was just being a cynical ass. That’s what Rose would’ve said. They’d broken up two full years before Rich had even gotten sick, but he could still picture the way her mouth moved. She always annunciated his name too hard, with all of her teeth. “Rich, I love you, but you’re a cynical ass. You don’t like anything.”

There was one time in particular he’d just rolled his eyes at her when she’d said that. “Oh come on. You love Game of Thrones so much that you’re actually offended by me calling it a bullshit show? Why?”

She’d scoffed and echoed, “Why? Are you serious?” Because she had been, of course. Offended. Had even cited that specific incident when she dumped him three months later. Westeros had been there for her when her mother was sick. Between visits to the assisted living home, Rose could sink into a faraway land, one gritty enough that it felt realistic, but distant enough that ALS didn’t seem to exist in it. Rich had sat through episode after episode with her. He’d hugged her while she cried. He was there when they lowered her mom into the ground. And he’d borne it all with a reserved, slightly irritated patience. Staring over her shoulder at the middle distance while she wept. But even after all his suffering for her, she’d still had the nerve to dump him.

“You say Westeros was there for you,” he’d told her, scooping his clothes out of the one drawer in her dresser she’d loaned him. “But…wasn’t I there for you, too?” I mean, credit where credit is due, right?

But she’d just pursed her lips and shaken her head. Hands on hips in the bedroom doorway. “Rich, most of the time? I don’t know where you are.”

He’d glowered at her. It was a line that Rich had heard before.

Surely, though, he deserved some good karma for putting up with all that. Being there for a death that, in the end, meant nothing to him. Surely, that was basis enough for Heaven, in and of itself. Besides, he’d been a middle school math teacher. Wasn’t teaching twelve-year-olds algebra for ten long years worth a few points, at least?

Then again, if this were Heaven—he’d have a bench.

He checked the edge of the path to make sure there were no cacti around. For a place called Cactus Land, there were surprisingly few. None, in fact, that he could see. He plopped down on the grass, leaned back and rested against a low, brown metal fence. It was pleasantly warm. He sighed. But his feet were hot within their socks. All over his body, he was different temperatures, ranging from just warm enough to just too warm. It was a painfully confusing sensation to throw on top of all the other confusing things currently happening. He scraped the heel of his sneaker (and where had he gotten these sneakers? These jeans? This “I Heart Missouri” T-shirt?) in the dirt. Trying to puzzle it all out.

He didn’t get very far (nowhere, in fact) before Clown came stumbling back along the path. She was grinning hard, a red smear spread from under her nose across her cheek. A small red-and-white thing of popcorn was clutched in her hand, so tight that kernels spilled out onto the dirt left and right. In her other hand, she held a cup of what Rich assumed was soda. It sloshed darkly over her glove.

“I brought you some Mr. Pibb, too,” said Clown, her voice so gleeful it was on the verge of sobbing. She thrust both items at him. She wheezed big heaving gusts between wide-spread teeth, shoulders moving with each breath. People were looking. A mother and father hustled their kids away from her, hands clamped over young eyes and ears. Rich wondered how long these people had all been here.

He took both items, placed the soda on the grass at his side. “I think I’m in the wrong place,” he said, by way of thanks.

He tried the popcorn, placing one tentative kernel on his tongue. It melted slightly, sticking to him, and he crunched it between his molars with ease. He swallowed it, and his throat did not reject it. He smiled. That in itself—was Heaven.

Clown plopped down on the grass at his side while he ate. She peered up at the passersby, squinting against the sun. They all gave her a wide clearance. People screamed by in a ride overhead. Rich chomped popcorn happily. He was so tickled to be free of the hospital and the searing pain in his gut that he almost didn’t care what was happening. He finished the entire thing of popcorn and gulped the soda down in a single slug. He didn’t have much of an opinion on Mr. Pibb, but it felt so good to drink out of an actual cup again.

Feeling very refreshed and marginally more human, Rich handed his trash awkwardly to Clown. She took it. She stretched her lips so wide they split and bled across her teeth, those teeth suddenly jagged and yellow, her gums black. She gnashed upon his garbage audibly. “Grom-nom-nom-nom!” Then swallowed. “Aah.” She beamed, regular-faced again. She threw up her hands. “Riiides?”

Rich nodded. Why not? She clapped her hands joyfully, then helped him stand up. She led him to a large map he hadn’t noticed before. She indicated the different rides, explained them briefly, titteringly, and asked where he wanted to start. He found a flume ride called Future Mountain. He wondered when this place had been built. Or updated. What future was Future Mountain indicating? Did that word, future, even mean anything here? Rich didn’t particularly care. At this point, he just wanted to get his hair wet and have a good time. 

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” he said, pointing at the map.

“Ohh, that’s a goodie,” said Clown. “Nice choice. Come on!”

She gripped his hand like a lobster and yanked him down the path. It felt good to walk again, he had to admit, without leaning against an IV pole. Even if his feet were a bit warm. And even if Clown’s hand was clammy, even through the glove. Maybe this place wasn’t too bad after all. They passed snow cone stands, hot dog carts, a nacho vendor. There were no prices for any of the foods on the menus because, of course, there was no money here. There were gift shops and souvenir stands. Wagons selling those twirling, blinking globe-wand…things. It was a real amusement park, hoof to snout. It smelled glorious.

Clown deposited him at the end of the line for Future Mountain. She hopped back, clicked her heels, and saluted him.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” she said, pointing at him. “I have other guests to greet. You gonna be okay?” One eye rolled back into her head. 

Rich nodded. Numb, like a child offered candy after a very hard day.

“Wonderful. Toodoolaloo!” And with that, she was off.

Rich immediately tapped the shoulder of the person waiting in front of him: a tall bald man, wearing a purple polo tucked into jeans. Rich figured he’d died in the 90s. The man turned slowly, gazing at Rich with glassy eyes. Rich didn’t know how to communicate his question without saying, “I think I’m in the wrong place.” Nor did he know exactly what his question was. He laughed a little, gestured around, trying to indicate the entire park. He raised his eyebrows, waved his hands back and forth horizontally, palms up.

The man gave him a pitying look. He licked his lips and said, “I don’t want to go.”

Rich jerked back from him.

The man looked over Rich’s shoulder. He seemed to be checking for the clown. He licked his lips again. “I don’t want to go.” 

Rich was about to ask what that meant when the woman waiting in front of him turned, having heard their conversation. She called back to Rich, “I’ve always loved you.”

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” said Rich.

The man shook his head. The woman placed a hand over her heart. She noticed a pair of young women passing along the path and pointed at them. Rich listened to their conversation:

“It’s too soon,” said one.

“I’m scared,” said the other. 

“It’s too soon.”

“I’m scared.”

“It’s too soon…”

Rich’s mouth fell open. He…understood. Well, “understood” is perhaps a strong word, but he felt like he grasped enough to have a sense that he was on some kind of firm ground. 

Everyone here was stuck saying their final words.

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” he told the 90s man.

The man offered him a grim smile. He clapped Rich’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go,” he said understandingly, then turned back to the line. The line shuffled forward. Rich followed it, feeling strange. Like he was having the most vivid dream. One of those dreams that wasn’t quite a nightmare, but wasn’t something you wake up from feeling good? You know the kind.

When he got to the head of the line (which moved relatively quickly), there was a teenager ushering people into giant logs. Rich didn’t know why he expected this guy to be saying the usual, “Keep your arms inside the ride.” Maybe it was because the kid was a worker bee, like Clown, and Clown didn’t seem to have any trouble forming coherent sentences. But when Rich got up close, and heard what the kid was actually saying to everyone entering the ride, he felt a chill wrap its way around his arms. 

“Please don’t shoot me,” the kid was saying. He repeated it in the same monotone any teenager working a summer gig would use. Bored, angsty. A little stoned, maybe. Each iteration spoken with a slight sigh. “Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me.”

Rich climbed into a giant log. At least he had the thing to himself. That was nice. The safety bar came down, clicking just a little too firmly into place along his gut. He had a visceral reaction to that, sucking himself in—until he realized he had no reason to do so. His gut wasn’t sensitive, not here. He let out a big breath, feeling himself enlarge against the bar. It felt fine. Hell, it felt great. 

Huh he thought, as the ride whooshed him down a tunnel.

Future Mountain was fun. It was a winding dark thing filled with animatronic figures. They panned for gold along the water’s edge as he bumped along. They rocked on chairs, on porches. He narrowly avoided an alligator at one point but was saved at the very last moment by a short woman with a shotgun. He wished he could understand what all these characters were saying, but they were all speaking in French. Maybe the future was entirely French.

He went up. He went down. There was even a section in the dark, his log jerking manically side to side as he tumbled around the bowel of some abandoned mine (or so he assumed, based on the story the characters were yelling at him in a language he didn’t know). When he finally plunged down a tunnel at the end, into a big pool, water splashed over his entire body. He laughed.

Not bad at all.

He stumbled out of the log at the bottom of the ride and, sure enough, Clown was there waiting. Grinning. One of her knees was bent horribly, so that she stood like she was almost lunging to one side. There was such a berth between her and all the other people on the path that it looked like she’d dropped some atomic blast of a fart.

“Ya have fun, pardner?” she asked as he approached. 

He nodded earnestly. Water dripped into his eyes.

“Course ya did. So what’s next? Another ride? A show? A game?”

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” he said, gesturing to indicate his answer.

“A show it is. Then follow me to Tumbleweed Stadium!” And for a second time, Clown clamped her hand upon his, and hauled him off.

This time, Rich caught snippets of people’s conversations as he passed them on the path. 

“I’m fine to drive. Really.”

“I can’t swim.”

“You know, if you weren’t such a bitch, Ariana…”

Clown yanked Rich into a large open-air theatre filled with bleachers of low white stone. She planted Rich firmly on one of the bleachers near the front. From here, he could see a wide wood-paneled stage and a large blue curtain along the backdrop. He heard birds chirping somewhere in the beams above. He looked up. Stagelights dangled and swung among the beams. He felt his stomach lurch, and looked away again. He kept his eyes glued to the blue backdrop after that.

Rich had never been much for theatre. He’d made the mistake of telling Rose that once, just after sitting through her community production of Grease. She hadn’t even been one of the leads. He’d paid twenty bucks and two hours of his life just to watch her flit around in a poodle skirt in the background. He’d even asked her: “Why?”

“You know,” she’d sighed. “I’m sorry, but you are just…such…a barnacle, Rich.”

“A barnacle? Why?” 

“Because you just sit there and be all…scratchy. You don’t even know what you like in life. That’s your problem. Nothing makes you happy. And unless you figure your shit out, you’re just gonna die that way. In this terminally…pissed-off…state. I…” Rose looked around her apartment. Held up her hands, examining her fingers like she’d just woken up in a strange place. She gave Rich a very open look. “You know, I think this is me breaking up with you.”

Rich hadn’t been much for that, either.

Suddenly, Clown was whispering in his ear. So hot and close he could feel the words worming through his skull. “Don’t fall asleep, pardner. The show’s about to start.”

Rich straightened himself, cleared his throat. He looked around. There was a scattering of people around the bleachers. A woman sitting close by, two rows behind him, saw him glance at her. She waved. “See you on the other side, Gwen.”

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” he said politely, waving back.

She gave Clown a very nervous look, then lowered her hand. Rich was starting to figure that Clown was his companion for his first day, was everyone’s companion on their first day. But after that, they probably steered very clear of her.

Which…fair enough.

The show was a simple thing about a Jack Russell and a pale man in a tall top hat. The dog did tricks. Its master did tricks. One of the best tricks was the dog dancing around while the master fired dual revolvers at it. The dog even caught a bullet in its teeth. The master communicated only through grunts and the frequent wide-eyed “Aha!” So Rich couldn’t tell if he was capable of speech or not. If he was a Dead like everyone else or…not. He wondered if Clown was an angel. Or not.

Everyone applauded and laughed, but no one laughed as much as Clown. After one trick, she cackled so loud and shatter-glass high that a tooth flew from her mouth onto the floor. Rich watched it for a while, wondering what it would do. 

The show ended. The man and his dog both bowed with aplomb, then walked off the stage. Clown gripped Rich’s arm like an iron vise. She grinned into his face and he watched, with great consternation, as a fresh tooth pulsed out of her gum. 

“What next, Richard?” she said. “How about a gaaame?” The last word droned low and long, like she’d been unplugged midway through it. 

Rich nodded. He also winced. 

Clown took his hand and yanked him off the bleacher. He shot a look back at the woman, and she gave him another wave, this one slow and somewhat apologetic.

Along the path, more conversations:

“It’s been a pleasure serving with you all.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“If you’d just put the knife down, Geraldine, maybe we can…”

Everyone chattering insensibly, blank-eyed, as they ate ice cream, waited in line, tossed rings at bottles…

Rich found himself in front of a game booth so suddenly it made him dizzy. With great force, Clown shoved a gun into his hands. A long-barreled air rifle. He hadn’t held one of these since he was a kid, maybe twelve, when he’d go down to the swamp to shoot at frogs. Man, the heft of it in his hands…

“Good, right?” asked Clown.

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” he said, smiling.

A line of paper bullseyes were lined up along the back wall of the booth. Rich put one in his sights, let out half a breath, pulled the trigger, and blew away half of the small red dot in the center.

Man. He hadn’t done that in ages. 

Clown clapped her hands fast and giddy. “Yeehaw! You’re a deadeye, pardner!” 

He was. He’d forgotten he was. He took several more shots, emptying the gun entirely. It was good. So good, he almost forgot all his questions, his worries. Like, was he supposed to leave the park at the end of the day? Were there days? Where would he sleep? Did he sleep? Were there bathrooms? If not, where did that popcorn go? Why wasn’t anyone in period clothes? Had everyone here died in the last thirty years or so? 

What exactly was this place?

No. All that faded away as Rich fired round after round.

When he was done, he handed the rifle back to Clown. She took it greedily, with wriggling fingers, as a man stepped out of the shadows of the booth. He handed Rich the shredded bullseye. 

“Would you sign this?” the man asked.

Rich couldn’t tell if that was an actual request or simply the man’s dying phrase. He blinked up at the guy for a moment, wondering how to ask, before the guy handed him a pen.

A pen.

Rich took the ragged paper. Took the pen.

He held the pen. Stared at the pen.

Why had he not thought of this before?

“You okay there, pardner?” asked Clown. 

Quickly, Rich turned the paper over. On the remaining bits of its back surface, he began to write. The pen worked, wasn’t censoring him the way his actual mouth seemed to be doing. The words came out smoothly, precisely, exactly as he wanted to write them. Yes. Yes! He was doing it. He was actually communicating. He was writing exactly what he’d wanted to say. The message he’d been trying to get across. Finally, he was going to be able to express it. Someone would hear him. What a relief!

He finished writing, clicked the pen with triumph, and handed the note to the clown. She accepted it with both hands. She held it up to her rubber nose, squinting. She read, halting and unsteady, with the affectation of a remedial third-grader: “I think…I’m in…the wrong…place.”

She threw the paper into the air and cackled. “Wrong place? Ha! That’s rich! You’re rich! Richard. How could you be in the wrong place? This is Cactus Land.”

He bared his teeth. Moved his hands around.

“Look, we don’t call it Cactus Land because of its homey western theme,” she explained. “Those cactuses aren’t the namesake of this dimen—ohp. Heh. I mean, this…place. No, not at all. We call it Cactus Land because it’s where the cactuses end up.”

Rich sagged. Oh. He thought he understood. He hoped he didn’t.

Clown held up an instructional finger. As she spoke, Rich watched that finger turn pink, then red, as her pores began to ooze. Her face, too, gradually began to leak, her cheeks blossoming in several hundred pinpricks, hairline to chin. The booth man dissolved back into the shadows.

“A few fun facts about cactuses,” she said, with the pedantic tone of a teacher. “The word cactus comes from the Greek: Kaktos. Many refer to the Kaktos as the ‘prickly plant of Sicily.’ Also: the average lifespan of a cactus can range anywhere from ten to two hundred years. Time is insane isn’t it? Just think. In Earth time, you’ve been here for three hundred years already. Everyone’s already forgotten you! Now, let’s see.” She placed a finger on her chin, scrunched up her face. Red dripped across the back of her hand.

Rich began to back away. He looked around behind him. There was plenty of path to sprint down, should the need arise. And as Clown shuffled forward, not moving her face or her hand at all but only her feet, Rich felt like the need might arise very soon.

She snapped her fingers. Rich felt…blood? spatter onto his face. “Here’s a goodie! Cactuses are commonly covered with sharp spines, so they can poke away any animals trying to get at the juicy meat of the plant. But they don’t even need those spikes. The sap of some cactuses is so toxic it can burn skin and cause permanent blindness if it gets in your eye. Most cactus species have flesh that can cause vomiting, diarrhea, even temporary paralysis. If I was a critter, I’d learn to stay away from them even if they weren’t covered in spikes!”

Damn. Yeah, he understood. Especially that last part. Poisonous flesh, covered in giant spikes…

“That’s your problem,” Rose had gone on at him as he scooped his shit out of that drawer. “You always have to poke and prod. Why this, why that? ‘Why does anyone even care about Christopher Nolan?’ Because he makes loud films with hot people, Richard, that’s why. And all that bullshit cynicism? It’ll burn you, Rich. It’ll burn and burn inside your gut until it poisons you. Trust me. Now, have a nice life…”

He sagged further. Alright, I get the point, he tried to say. “I think I’m in the wrong…” He clamped his lips shut.

“But my best fun fact of all?” concluded Clown. “Like any other creature in this dimension—cactuses are filled…with liquid.”

She whipped a long, serrated knife from the back of her overalls. She swung it through the air, slicing into Rich’s gut. The knife stuck there, and Rich gripped it in both hands. Clown wrenched the knife to the side and up, opening him onto the dirt. He felt himself spill through his hands, pieces tumbling out between his fingers. He fell to his knees. He gaped up at her as she finally oozed and fell apart. 

“Why?” he said. And so surprised he was, so shocked by the pain and to hear himself speak, that he said it again: “Why?”

Clown leaned forward. Her face dripped into his. She beamed, even as her lips ran like hot wax.

“Because, cowboy,” she said, “Cactus Land is for…” Then she fully melted, Indiana Jones-style.

<>

He awoke in the middle of a wide, stone-ceilinged room, laying on a thing beneath a large assortment of very warm furs. He sat up, surprising himself yet again with the versatility of his stomach. When he’d awoken that morning (the last morning) in the hospital, he hadn’t been able to sit up at all. Now, he bent himself all the way in half with ease.

“Why,” he said, a somewhat urgent but untargeted word. Why the pain-free stomach? Why the pain in the first place? Why Cactus Land? Why stab him? Why all these fuckin furs?!

He shoved them off himself and stood, almost reeling with the power of standing erect again. He looked around. The room was domed concrete. Dim light came from somewhere behind a bench lining the perimeter of the walls, er—wall, as it was perfectly curved all the way around. Its only seam was a tall oaken door, the wood stained a kingly dark brown. Rich looked down. He was wearing the same bullshit. Strange sneakers, jeans, shirt. “I Heart Missouri”? He’d never even fuckin’ been to Missouri. 

“Why?” he called, instead of Hello?

No one answered.

Rich marched toward the door. He took the knob in his hand and almost jerked back. It was warm. He tapped it with his palm, testing it. It was an ornate lion’s-head antique of a doorknob. If it’d been hot enough to burn him, he might have had a roaring lion’s head seared into his palm for the rest of his life. Or…the rest of…you know.

Panic and claustrophobia seized him. This room had no windows. This room wasn’t even on Earth. And if there was a fire on the other side—

The door swung open. Rich nearly toppled over backwards. Light poured into the room. He blinked against it, and it took him several seconds to realize someone was saying his name.

“Richard? Rich?” 

He squinted into the light. It was bright and gold. When his vision cleared, he saw a young woman dressed in white. She gave him a concerned smile. “Are you alright?”

“Why,” he said.

“Because you look startled. And you had a fairly bumpy entrance, I’m told.”

He hesitated, eyes flickering over her. Where Clown had been boisterous and ugly, this woman was all right angles and care. Order—she was order.

“Why,” he said.

She pulled back her head. Gave him an obvious look. “Well…you were disemboweled, Richard. I’d say that’s pretty bumpy.”

He stared at her. “Why.”

She reached for him. “Come on.” He jerked away from her. “It’s alright, Richard. I’ve got you.” She wrapped cool fingers round his arm. He softened beneath them. She smiled at him with warm brown eyes. She had very blonde hair and pale skin. She led him steadily out of the domed chamber and into what appeared to be a waiting room for…something medical. Pleather chairs, people waiting their turns. Another blonde woman in white sat behind a desk, and a third led someone else down another hall. There was a TV bolted in the corner, playing Top Gun. The other patients watched it with blank, contented eyes. Rich thought that was odd. He’d never seen the appeal in Top Gun. 

Rich caught the eye of one guy bouncing a baby on his knee. The kid wailed. The guy bounced and bounced. He looked at Rich, frowned, and looked down at his own shirt, which also read, “I Heart Missouri.”

“Why,” said Rich, pointing.

“This waay,” cooed his guide, as if to say, Oops, nothing to see here…

She led him toward another door, a simple sliding glass thing. Something you’d see in a hospital. Was he in a hospital?

“Why?” he asked, massaging his gut. 

“Oh, I know,” she cooed. “It’s all a little garish. But did you like your room? We’ve found it especially helps with guests if they’ve passed out from a shock, and they come to in a space that’s on brand with the…whole experience.” She mumbled the last part, then sing-songed quickly, “Here we are!” as if glossing over something important. Rich lifted his gaze from the linoleum-tiled floor. 

The glass door slid open. 

And sound rushed at him. The roar of fire. The rattle of metal. Screams.

“Why,” he said. No. He took a step back.

The woman, the nurse—she held him. One strong arm across his back. “It’s alright, Richard.”

“Why,” he said, shaking his head as she pushed him forward. He slid across the floor. “Why?” The tips of his shoes touched the outside. Heat washed over him. “Why?”

“Easy does it,” she purred. “You’re here now.” Then she pressed both hands against his shoulder blades and pushed, like a mother bird teaching him to fly.

He stumbled forward and was so agog at everything around him that he wasted several seconds before turning around. When he finally did, the door had slid shut again. Through it, the nurse gave him a platonic and genuine smile. She waved. Then she left him to go watch Top Gun. 

The door read, HEALTH SERVICES in big, medieval font. 

Slowly, Rich turned. He took big gulping breaths through his mouth. It was insane. It was unreal.

It was another amusement park. 

Rides screamed overhead. It was a cloudy but warm-ish day, the sky an endless marbled sheet of gray. Before him, a large carved wooden board read, “Welcome to Ariamoor,” in red, regal letters. There were signs tacked to its sides. Wooden arrows pointing to the Goblin’s Head Tavern, the Unicorn Preserve, the Ghoul King’s Keep. There was a map underneath, big and sprawling. This park was twice the size of the last. And Jesus, the smell. Roasting turkey legs and chocolate and fresh mud. Woodsmoke and French fries and leather. Renaissance Faire, through and through. The smells overwhelmed him, made his stomach growl. But the sound and chaos of the park itself, all this Game of Thrones bullshit?

Fuck, he thought. I think I preferred Cactus Land. 

It was as if the mere thought of it—summoned her. 

Up the path she came. Waddling in her overalls. The same overalls. She looked exactly the same. Like she had re-materialized here, good as new. Gloves, teeth, and all. She huffed up the path, swinging her arms. Marching toward him. Rich could do nothing but watch her come.

She wagged a finger at him. “There you are. I been lookin all over!” 

“Why,” he said. 

“Well, I was supposed to greet ya.” 

Having arrived a few inches in front of his nose, Clown planted herself firmly in front of him. She grinned, her mouth stretching up and up, past the tops of her ears, over her eyes, curling into itself across her forehead. “I’d never leave you, Richard.”

He spun from her, but there was nowhere to run. The door to Health Services wouldn’t open. He tried to slide it with both hands, but it wouldn’t go. 

Clown laughed. He whirled back around. “Why?” he asked her.

She put her hands on her hips. “Well, I don’t know why you’re putting up such a fuss, Richard. You’re in a good place now. Much better than Cactusville.”

“Why,” he tried to correct her, feeling the sudden urge to defend a place he’d just been stabbed in.

But Clown did not respond. No, she just spread her arms grandly. Smiled so wide her face split and peeled back across her skull.

“Welcome!” she cried. “To Ariamoor! Where dreams really do come true!” A ride roared overhead. Many people screamed. 

Rich didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to even think. 

But after a long, long time, he said the only thing he could. The only thing that was on his mind. The only thing that had ever been on his mind and the only thing that would follow him now, round and round, from park to park, forever.

“Why?” he said. He licked his lips, and he said it again. “Why?”

And the clown, as she always would, from park to park, forever and allll the way up—began to laugh.