“This,” proclaimed Dave, “is the great flying pickle jar!”
“And my friends are inside of it?” I asked suspiciously.
“I think so,” said Dave.
“Well, okay then, let’s go inside- Wait a minute- did you say ‘the great flying pickle jar’?”
“Yes indeed,” gushed Dave. “I came up with it myself.”
“Oooookay,” I responded in a dubious tone.
Dave slithered inside and I followed him, feeling insecure. The first room was pitch black, but we ascended a flight of stairs into a well lit control room. Dave reached over to the control board and pressed an ominous large red button. A hatch on the left wall slid open, and a gorilla charged across the room and vanished into another hatch on the right wall. Dave pressed a different button, and a robot with a flame thrower attempted to transform into a pogo stick. Unsuccessfully, it attempted to hop across the room. That, too, vanished into a hatch on the opposite wall. Dave reached over to press another button. I could tell this was going to take a while.
After several more malfunctioning mishaps, Dave finally found the right button, which activated an elevator platform to lift us up into the next room. In this room, the light was dim, though not as dark as the first room. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that it wasn’t much of a room at all. Rather, it was a long tunnel. Dave led me through. I could see his eyes glowing in the dark. In fact, I soon realized that his eyes were the only light.
Eventually, we came to a fork in the tunnel. Dave led me in the right direction. And by that, I mean right, not not wrong. We came to another fork. He led me through to the passage way to the left. It continued on this way: left – right – right – left, sometimes even straight or up and down. When we finally left the maze, there would have been no way I could have possibly found my way back.
When my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the next room, I was surprised to see my friends fast asleep lying on various size cots. Dave pressed a button on the wall. When he pressed the button, a panel on the wall just above the button slid open and deposited a bike horn in seconds. Dave non-chalantly pulled a sledge hammer from a weapons rack on the wall and proceeded to bring it down upon the bulb of the horn. A noise that sounded like a goose being strangled by another very sick goose that was constantly coughing came from the horn.
My comrades woke up immediately and shot out of bed, literally in the case of Weasel. I have no idea how he did that.
“What’s happening?” he said. It was great to hear his way-too-thick Irish accent again.
“Yeah, where are we?” added on Plittereeg.
“You,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect—just as the Military Exus leader had done at the end of Chapter Two—”are in the Great Flying Pickle Jar.”