red

There comes a moment in every boy’s life when everything around him sprouts luminescent tendrils, and those tendrils then snake firmly around his appendages and yank him away to a spectacular realm of otherness that cannot be adequately described by any human language. You are currently experiencing that moment.

As you hurtle through the transcendental void, you become deeply worried that your wallet has fallen out somewhere along the space-time continuum, but you cannot pat your back pocket to check because you are unsure how to operate your hands, which now look and maneuver like Alaskan king crabs. Your voice is more or less identical to Donkey Kong’s when he is distressed, and you continually find yourself grunt-screaming at the spirits of Jordan-era NBA stars that keep gliding spookily near your face.

In the distance, Ormul appears in triplicate, and all three incarnations beckon you forth, making come-hither motions with their long forked tongues.