THE PERFECT MOMENT BURSTS through my half-asked question and into ruin I hurl. “Follow the light!” echoes hollowly behind me as my universe dissolves, then reforms, my atoms gathering from their lonely storm, compacted, turd-like, funneling through the walls now tightening, constricting and pushing me along my way, thither there to sail, guided ahead by Voelot, borne on devil wings; now my great teacher, Death.

The light pulls me forward then recedes into the doorway of my dreams. Within the pale glow sprout polyp horrors with tiny hats, then furry brows, then beady eyes, and yes as the tumours grow they become the realized sin of my discarded mascot, multiplying until there are Chesters all about. Chesters hitting themselves on the head with cricket bats, hurling sticks and canes, Chesters leering at Private School Girls, Bill McClintock Chesters with dunce caps and tests scored 1/50 taped to their chests, smug-looking Alex Tilford Chesters, good intention Chesters, train-crushed penny flat Anna Karenina Chesters, Chesters pointing at flip charts, mail-order bride Chesters, all screaming screaming screaming; elevator attendant Chesters, hugely misshapen iguana Chesters, Chesters with palm trees growing out of their heads, fronds insanely clacking to the beat of the grim music teacher Chesters, hula Chesters, canasta Chesters, Macarena Chesters, exploding robin Chesters, two-headed Chesters one as Miss Edgar the other as Miss Cramp, marching army cadet Chesters, rubber gloved Dr. Chesters, tofu Chesters, grade 1 Chesters chanting, “We want Chester, ” bagpipe-playing Chesters, line dancing Chesters, some tapping, some western, Siamese twin Chesters, aborted Chesters, night of the living dead Chesters, twitching bunny-nosed Chesters, Chester-headed tapeworms, Joan of Arc burning on the stake Chesters, Alka-seltzer Chesters, and all taunting, taunting, taunting, dying Bambi’s mother Chesters, Jack Russell terrier Chesters, Chesters in tree logo’d t-shirts, more school-girl Chesters; and all of the Chesters growing, forcing the tunnel smaller yet, the tunnel an infernal rectum, an internal fractal, a wrecked inferno; analytical geometry teaching Chesters, cowboy Chesters monotoning “Yup/nope/mebbe/looks like quittin’ time” to a reggae beat, Schrödinger Chesters inside a box, Super Chesters, Chesters on the dissection block in science class, Chester slugs roasting in the sun screaming, “Save me save me save me, ” straw man Chesters, Chesters made of haggis and andouilette, lantern-jawed ball-gowned Chesters, Chesters with oxygen tanks, horrible rotting Musty Chesters, Central Office Chesters demanding professional goals, and Chesters chewing the heads off magpies, some half sticking out of the maws of badgers, some screaming, “Why won’t you let the parents know? Why won’t you let the parents know? Why won’t you let the parents know?”

But none of them ever not ever ever ever losing that toothy grin, each one distinct but part of the infinite din and then finally an end, The Sphincter, proclaiming, “When I am young I go on four legs, and then I go on two legs, then I go on three legs, and then I die. What am I?”

“Man!” I shout back and the intestinal universe spasms to flush me out. A three-headed dog growls as I find my feet. A grim-faced man stands at the bottom of a giant wheel. Misshapen giants grovel beside. The man holds out his hands, I cough, and two coins fly from my mouth. The face twists, trembles for an instant and becomes Voelot, who then grabs my shoulder and throws me onto the chair. The giant ogres turn the wheel and a cable begins to move above me. The chair lurches catching me then carrying me over the river beneath and I am soon wrapped in fog. From beneath, a hand grabs out. “Is that you, Pierre?” Before I can reply, I’m catapulted into the air, across the river, finally landing on the far bank.

Stumbling to my feet, I see in front of me the resurrected Voelot, now in lederhosen, then transforming, becoming half Joseph Mengele and half St. Peter, waving a baton now left now right as he cha cha cha’s to an infernal melody. “Welcome to the anteroom of Hell, ” he leers. He motions with his baton for me to take my place in a pew crowded with the souls of the damned and continues to the front where a Hallelujah Choir sings. Mengele/St. Peter/Voelot sways, baton in hand tap tap tapping. A wicked witch aide, wartily and sausagely stuffed into a second skin-like gown, grins dagger teeth and saucily spins a wheel which, as it winds down to a stop, opens one of nine doors and a portion of the congregation is sucked out of their seats and through the door and then it is my turn as my demon taps and as the choir hits a new crescendo and he calls out, “Door Number Five – The Wrathful and the Sullen!” and up and out I go past the begowned hellion as haemorrhoidal tendrils fly out her now exposed bottom, caressing me on my way past as she leers, “Want to vie for my bowel?” and then I am out and through the door.