No place else to go, but in-side..

.. I can hear uncle Walt talking to the architect now, in my inner ear, across the decades and through the ring of tinnitus: 

“I want a big lagoon of black water out front and put the entrance right on the dock”. Walt pours two large bourbons and joins the architect, who is sitting at a desk, the drawings for the Spectacle’s design laid out in front of him. Walt hands the architect one of the bourbons, blowing cigar smoke into his face. “Funnel them in from both sides so they got no place else to go, but in-side.." Walt leans in over the drawings, his cigar gripped in his fist like a smoking handgun, his elbow cocked. He turns and points it at the architect. “Keep the tour bus parking lot on the east side, like we discussed, but put the monorail on the west-key. I don’t want any of those psycho-geographer mother-fuckers getting any ideas about walking off and doing their own thing, especially if they got cameras with em.” Walt sinks his bourbon in one gulp and bares his teeth against its bite. His voice lowers. “Surround her in a dark forest.. Get some Komodo Dragons in there too, that’ll slow ‘em down. If they get bit, they’ll die at home. It won’t be pretty, but least they’ll be in their own beds and not here, skewing my stats.” Walt steps back and drops his cigar into the architect’s bourbon where it frizzles into silence, the butt floating like a shit on piss in the glass. His eyes become dark. “Goddamn psychogeographer’s can de-rift back to their fleabag motels in Kissimmee and dream on their own fuckin’ time. This here’s my dream! MY DREAM! Come near that and they’ll feel my ‘latent and repressed psychological’ boot, right up their free-loading asses"..

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