The Tunnel Ended

  • by KentThe sex fundamentals you’re about to learn
  • between musical numbers
  • knowledge of hidden things
  • “It is no longer open-faced.”
  • I’m sorry, I have a cold

Tune in next time part 616      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The tunnel ended at a flap of plywood held shut only by the dense layer of cobwebs I had to fight through to push it open. I got my first look at Twerkistan, and my first whiff of its brimstone-tinged smog.

I had emerged into a narrow alleyway, and all I could see at the end of it was the blazing marquee of the theatre across the street. Moving out onto the sidewalk I read the name of the show: “How To Do It.”

No one manned the box office. No usher asked me for a ticket. The theatre’s seats were all empty, but the performance was in progress on the stage. It sounded like I hadn’t missed much, as the emcee was still explaining the premise.

The sex fundamentals you’re about to learn — in between musical numbers where the choreography should help to clarify some of the more abstract principles — will arm you with a knowledge of hidden things that will give you a frankly unfair advantage in the mating scene.” He gestured grandly all around, especially up to the vacant balcony. “Oh, and before I forget, I must announce a change from what is printed in the program regarding Antionette’s sandwich in the second act.” He paused, presumably allowing the imaginary audience to thumb through their programs. Finally he delivered the actual news about the sandwich. “It is no longer open-faced.”

The orchestra unleashed a swirl of brass and strings, heralding the arrival of a few dozen athletic dancers. I could discern nothing of an instructional nature in their movements, but so far no “sex fundamentals” had been revealed for them to dance about.

The emcee finally looked directly my way, saying, “It’s time to compare the final digits on your ticket stub to those of the person seated on your left.”

I shrugged.

I’m sorry, I have a cold,” he said. “Try the person on your right.”

I shrugged more elaborately, making sure it flowed as far as my elbows. “And anyway,” I said with a furtive glance around me, “no one in the audience has a ticket stub.”

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