They climb over from another rooftop and go in a high window of the boarded, burned-out house to rescue the imprisoned child. I teeter, fearful, around the gutters and cornices, and somehow get down to the ground.

A few blocks away-- the sidewalks are bustling on this sunny morning. I go inside and upstairs. Maybe C and D will have lunch with me. "We've already had lunch, and it's time for your breakfast." Why didn't they ask me first? I order the live ant and grub salad and sit at a table with someone I don't know. The dining room is paneled in dark, peeling wood but is well lit by the glaring light from the dirty windows. In another corner, R sits at a table with three lovely dark-haired women. "At least his dreams have been fulfilled," I think.

"I ate a few of the baby ants, but the grubs are easier-- less threatening-- even though they're bigger." My dining companion says nothing. I watch the ants crawl around under and among the lettuce leaves, and think about taking them down to the greenhouse to release them. But how could I climb down without spilling the tray? And would they invade the house? There's news of a fire on somebody's pocket radio, and live coverage on TV. We're in the burning building. Steaming water and ash-mud is dripping through the ceiling onto the dance floor, and the Maestro is cursing. I climb out a window onto the porch roof.

Racing downhill by jumping from one porch roof to the next, I have to stop when the next house is too far and too low. People are looking out the bay window, gawking at the fire and laughing at me, drinking and smoking. "Um, can I come in?" I climb in the window.

Unexpectedly, there's a party going on. Trance music playing loud; curious and colorful people dancing, talking, drinking; banks of video monitors flanking the windows, built into rounded pillars and showing hypnotic, flickering images. And at the turntables, facing out the window, she sits, flipping albums and turning knobs. Her orange hair shoots out in all directions, but her eyes are locked on mine. "Er, hi." I put my hands on the edge of her table.

"Your medallion is leaking." It's true; the tiny nuts and washers glued to the black plastic disc tied to my wrist have come off onto the table. "Um, I'll... just put them on that... resistor." I have some trouble picking up the tiny component, but eventually I can untangle the leads and string up the nuts and washers. It takes all my concentration, and when it has grown into a bristling aurora of curly wire, I present it to her: "um... here." She asks if I would like something in return.

"Well, yesterday was my birthday, and I wanted, um, I don't know anything about ambient--" They all stared at me. "-- er, electronic music, um, acid-- this music--" I gesture at the turntables, the crates of LPs, the video screens. "-- but I want to learn more about..."

A huge greasy guy with a crusty beard and filthy denim overalls looms over me. "Shut up, asshole. You think you can just walk right in here and fuck with us?" He punctuates his speech by folding pennies in half between his fingers. Gritty grease oozes from the creases. "Um, I get the point. I'm just on my way out."

I go out the rear doors to the roof garden. It's made up of undulating concrete mounds and pillars encrusted with mosaics, like some Gaudi nightmare. Strange and colorful people languish all around, lounging in the windless sun. In the center, a sort of grotto with iron bars loosely encloses a number of hideous headless monsters, mottled black, peeling, and shiny, like half-burned meat. I feel panicked as I look for a way out.

She approaches me. "You could take the center stairs. Oh, except for the brass--" (I knew she was referring to the railings) "-- they're restoring the symmetry downstairs. No way out. So you'd better go this way." She points to a concrete ramp behind the grotto. I have visions of passages, iron bars, tunnels, gates, and stone. "But that's the labyrinth!" "Damn... yeah. We were just trying to make it easier on you... put it off 'til the last minute." I feel a pang of betrayal.

I pull loose one of the silver forks nailed to the concrete around the grotto and prod the beast's charred, crispy surface with it. Suddenly I know why it's there. I sing at the top of my lungs, and as I sing it shrinks to the size and shape of a whoopee cushion:

I thought it was a reptile/Or some kind of amphibian
I checked on his prescription/I checked for meningitis
There's only one kind animal/That meets with this description
He's a mammal, oh, oh, he's a mammal!

http://moonmilk.volcano.org/