Gibberish and insane tittering echoed throughout the underground cave somehow either built-in to the Whiz-Key bottling factory, or vice versa: the very notion that Whiz-Key Inc. had built the Hammertown branch of their Moonshine-empire on top of a labyrinth of mottled, fetid tunnels was every inch as frightening as the throaty yelps that audibly cascaded toward me as a kind of sonic kaleidoscope.
I took my time trudging through the ankle-deep putrid muck of the tunnel, but even so I found the manic stop-start rhythm of the cacophonous wailing to be coming in clearer...I startled myself with the idea that whomever it was who had taken Randy down into this pit was doubling back on me; I became certain that the nonsensical garble was backwards talking, but drew myself down into a furrowed-brow ball of concentration: if what I heard was indeed backwards talking, why then did it sound suspiciously like some foul creature was laugh-speaking the name Mossol-Belk?
I pondered this as I pushed further into the dark, past the rancid, sulfurous smells of rusted bottle-caps, out into a cylindrical open area where the myriad tunnels joined, and I stopped just long enough to rue the drip of water I felt on my shoulder...in that lingering moment before a top-tier tunnel was about to unleash a torrent of water down onto me like I was an ant staring into a fireman’s hose, I had the answer to my riddle; the only question that remained was whether I would be in any type of condition to follow up on it once I was immersed in what was sure to be the brownest of the brown waters.
Entry 18
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