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The Tillamook Terror
Herewith, my accidental Recipe for Caseio-Oneiric Disaster.
- 11 episodes of “Breaking Bad” in 2 days
- One sliced thumb in the preparation of…
- One 4-egg omelette sprinkled supra-liberally with sharp Tillamook cheddar
- Spread the TV show thickly over a couple of rainy days’ hiding inside. Allowing the first nine episodes to settle, retire to kitchen.
- Take approx. 2-3mm off the top of your thumb in dicing ham for the omelette. Apply sticking plaster.
- Cook omelette slowly with a stupidly deep layer of tangy, processed, plasticised, ready-grated Tillamook reclining across its surface. Ingest at a rate of knots.
- Return to TV and pile on the last two episodes for good measure.
- Journey to the land of Nod.
- The safety and warmth of your home is transformed into the clean but slightly claustrophobic, childishly-decorated motel room above the manager’s office space in a dingy, dark, commercial warehouse. Your companion contributes cantankerously to your bickering; dirt and mould encroaching everywhere in the cavernous corrugated corridors downstairs contrast with the washing-powder odours and creamy cleanliness of the living quarters. A smooth but suffocating sensation of stasis concurrently comforts and crushes.
- A change: cold dread creeps dryly down your spine as the realisation washes over you - they’re coming for you. They want the only thing that stands between you and abject failure, collapse and ruin. You’ll have to work out what it is. Go through the cupboards. Turn out the desk drawers. Find out. They’ll never stop! The only way out is to run. Both of you must somehow get away, the stash intact. Pack it up! Get out fast. Get in the car; find somewhere to hide - yet …
- There’s nowhere to go. You’ll run forever if only you can stay ahead of them. But they’re fast. No human’s that fast. The engine rising to a scream, you scramble onto the back seat and gaze nervously out back at the gathering pall of menace swarming up the road behind you. They’re almost with you - you were right, the killers run at superhuman speed, the very thought of their progress clotting, curdling into a swarming, gelatinous mass of insidious intent, transcending and transmuting their visceral physicality to solid steam streaming into the air around you. Tentacles tear from the core, grapple with the atmosphere, careering chaos crawling to the car, emerging hands erupting, spreading, fanning out like smoke and lightning and solidified swirl behind, the shape of a face materialising into an ectoplasmic head inside your suddenly porous escape capsule, ebbing and flowing, in and out, round and about, pushing and probing at the boundary, trying to outrun, engulf, ensnare, until - something shifts. A distant call? An edict from elsewhere requesting a retreat? But it’s a reluctant, recalcitrant recession, it won’t last long - and you can’t run this fast forever.
- You wake up staring, stark, suspended, the certain knowledge lodged deep in your gut that they’ll return, soon, swifter, stronger … how to guard against their primeval power?
- No answer. All hope is gone. Ignore the screaming of your senses and wait patiently for reality to reassert itself.