Post by miker on May 6, 2018 1:51:20 GMT -5
Saturday. Sunset.
I savored one last slow look around the museum. Of the five items on display in this dreary, poorly lit, floating museum of death, I had avoided this one, the most innocuous, because of the emotions it dragged out of me. I had dismissed it as a fraud almost immediately and tried, unsuccessfully, not to give it another thought.
But now, upon closer inspection, it stuck out like Thor’s thumb.
There were two paintings inside this case.
My right hand, inches from the bottom corner of the painting, twitched with anticipation. The moment I touched the glass, alarms would sound, and my time aboard Brock Sindry’s pleasure cruise would come to a swift, soggy end.
“Here goes nothing.”
I emitted a high-pitched sound, a carefully channeled scream which shattered the glass of the frame. Alarms and flashing lights followed. Metal bars slammed down over the entryway.
I poked at the shattered glass and it spilled out. With more delicacy than the painting deserved, I peeled up the corner, just enough to see a symbol beneath. The mark of the artist. A simplified tragic mask sat within the green grass of a hill in the painting. Words from nearly three thousand years ago were whispered in my mind.
“A painting should never cause harm. This painting will never cause harm.”
I backed away from the image as if it had physically struck me. I backpedaled until I ran into the unused pedestal in the center of the museum. The impact jarred me back to reality, and back to the mission.
Turning toward the display case to my left, I unleashed another scream. This time I didn’t channel it or hold back, and the glass of the case shattered into tiny fragments instantly.
The bars blocking the only way in and out lifted back up, and in came the parade of muscle heads. I grabbed the shimmering, golden chalice from the pedestal, scraping my arm on shards of glass in the process. I pretended to drink, spilling the stuff all over me. It ran down my neck and stained, probably permanently, my Twisted Sister “Play It Loud Mutha” t-shirt from the 1985 Stay Hungry tour. If there is a stain remover powerful enough for the mead of the gods, I probably cannot afford it.
I savored one last slow look around the museum. Of the five items on display in this dreary, poorly lit, floating museum of death, I had avoided this one, the most innocuous, because of the emotions it dragged out of me. I had dismissed it as a fraud almost immediately and tried, unsuccessfully, not to give it another thought.
But now, upon closer inspection, it stuck out like Thor’s thumb.
There were two paintings inside this case.
My right hand, inches from the bottom corner of the painting, twitched with anticipation. The moment I touched the glass, alarms would sound, and my time aboard Brock Sindry’s pleasure cruise would come to a swift, soggy end.
“Here goes nothing.”
I emitted a high-pitched sound, a carefully channeled scream which shattered the glass of the frame. Alarms and flashing lights followed. Metal bars slammed down over the entryway.
I poked at the shattered glass and it spilled out. With more delicacy than the painting deserved, I peeled up the corner, just enough to see a symbol beneath. The mark of the artist. A simplified tragic mask sat within the green grass of a hill in the painting. Words from nearly three thousand years ago were whispered in my mind.
“A painting should never cause harm. This painting will never cause harm.”
I backed away from the image as if it had physically struck me. I backpedaled until I ran into the unused pedestal in the center of the museum. The impact jarred me back to reality, and back to the mission.
Turning toward the display case to my left, I unleashed another scream. This time I didn’t channel it or hold back, and the glass of the case shattered into tiny fragments instantly.
The bars blocking the only way in and out lifted back up, and in came the parade of muscle heads. I grabbed the shimmering, golden chalice from the pedestal, scraping my arm on shards of glass in the process. I pretended to drink, spilling the stuff all over me. It ran down my neck and stained, probably permanently, my Twisted Sister “Play It Loud Mutha” t-shirt from the 1985 Stay Hungry tour. If there is a stain remover powerful enough for the mead of the gods, I probably cannot afford it.