I came to the edge of the woods in search of the fractal-nothing-mind and found instead a small kiosk and inside a shrunken old man. A sign on the front claimed:
“Welcome to the Woods:
Entrance Fee $10
Mandatory Lost Hiker Insurance $25”
I stared at the wrinkled man (his eyes piss yellow and tongue a bloated grey, balding head the ruins of what must have once been proud horns) and realized that this was no man, but a god. Were I too drag him from his kiosk and set science upon him, I would no doubt find an engorged member the size of my arm hanging about goat fur and cloven hooves.
I don’t have the stomach for it. Instead, I tell him I have no money and that I came to the woods simply to wander and would not pay his fee, or buy his t-shirt, or worry about getting lost.
“The woods ain’t free no more, boy,” he says with phlegm in his throat, “everything costs. Hell, I gotta pay for the dryads’ union dues or they’d have to start hooking. How do you think I feel, taking money for nothing? If you can kill me, please, I beg of you, lay me down in that ditch and pop my head right off, boy, but if you ain’t Him That Will Come, then give me the cash or get the fuck out, alright?”
I thought for a moment. “Well…what’s that t-shirt look like?”