Level 123

Content Warning
This particular webpage could potentially include shit that parents won't like their little cretins reading. Those who peruse the contents of this page, yourself included, may find it within the realm of possibility to deem the subject matter discussed herein as potentially unsuitable or inappropriate.
Spoiler & Minor Warnings
Before continuing, it's important to know that this page contain elements taken from Pulp Fiction. So, if you'd like to watch the movie (which is recommended), beware that it is rated R by the Motion Picture Association in the United States, where the movie was released. To check the film's rating in your country, click this totally safe link. But, if your ass is too lazy to do watch it yourself, you can still enjoy this level.
If the content mentioned above is OK for you, please continue. If it isn't, I allow you to retort.
pulp fiction.
pulp /'pǝlp/ n. 1. A soft, moist, shapeless mass of matter.
2. A magazine or book containing lurid subject matter and being characteristically printed on rough, unfinished paper.
American Heritage Dictionary
New College Editionㅤㅤㅤㅤ
pulp /'pǝlp/ n. 1. A soft, moist, shapeless mass of matter.
2. A magazine or book containing lurid subject matter and being characteristically printed on rough, unfinished paper.
American Heritage Dictionary
New College Editionㅤㅤㅤㅤ
LEVEL 123:
PULP
FICTION
a Jimmy McDick production.
Royale with Cheese!
Level 123 was previously a sub-level of Level 85, though information regarding its pre-acculturation days has mysteriously gone AWOL from all archives.Any digital copies of documentation about Level 85 being the parent-level of Level 123 has been erased as though it never existed, and handwritten accounts have gone unretrievable for some reason.
While the level still houses Hellsapopinish dining establishments arranged in close proximity to each other, the appearance and safety conditions have undergone a significant, ambiguous change. Since the tenth anniversary of the 1994 crime film Pulp Fiction on October 14th, 2004, Level 123 has transitioned into a mimicry of the fictional restaurant Jackrabbit Slim's diner chain, inspired by the said cinematic production. Integrated within the space, several record shops are also dotted throughout whose catalog predictably consists of soundtracks featured in the movie.
Remnants of the previous version of Level 123 — the constipated, Skid Row-type areas of the level — persist, however. The physical properties of these regions are limited to the space they occupy: objects near their borders are mysteriously sliced in half, while spilled liquids behave as if blocked by an invisible barrier. Entering these areas is impossible, though glimpses of its abandoned, juxtaposing stature are still visible. Conversely, the outside of these regions are of the former interior but appear to be well-kept. With the merchandise and decorations that are Pulp Fiction-themed, some locations may resemble certain settings featured in the film, especially the ones that are food-related. These include the interior of Jackrabbit Slim's that includes the iconic Twist Contest stage and the coffee shop in the opening and ending sequence of the film.Jackrabbit Slim's is a similarly 50s themed diner, whose interior circles around an open, circular stage.The coffee shop, or known in real life as Hawthorne Grill, however, is broader in the sense of its aesthetics of a retro-style, American diner with windows that encompasses most of its walls.
The amount of provisions available in the level has been augmented; now, it is presented not only in refrigerated containers and freezers but also on plates and bowls served on the dinner tables. Despite its appearance imitating something even the fellows from Paths of Glory would glorify, they still offer nutrition and are rarely expired. They are usually made into concoctions by wanderers, using a mix of Almond Water and the "pulp," which is the sludge — that consists of mashed-up food — to create a sustenance that can last upwards to 6 months. To be frank, it tastes and looks worse than the food eaten in The Shawshank Redemption. Often made with appliances in Level 123's back kitchens, it should be noted that creating such a concoction should be done carefully. While they seem to function normally, most if not all electric devices are powered with unrealistic amounts of electromotive force, which could be fatal even if one only makes slight contact with a short-circuited wire.
As if it was a cuck, Pulp Fiction has acted as an entity repellent for Level 123 even though it had held a handful amount in the past, making it bereft of any since its "entry." There have been no reported entity sightings, imaginative (hallucinations) or not after the level's transformation. The unexplained phenomenon can be traced back to H.K.'s original 2004 review. However, there is a certain agent that is very similar to its presumed counterparts in Level 13 and Level -69, which broadcasts soundtracks that are sold in the aforementioned record stores. Level 123's version, however, would not make one go ape shit, and it is widely accepted that its purpose is to retain the level's compliance to remain consistently thematic.
Fixtures granting access to the "outdoors," such as doors and windows, are locked, though they are not impervious to breakage. Nevertheless, attempting to escape Level 123 through this route is strongly discouraged. No findings have been filed regarding the wanderers who attempted to jump out in such cases, as all are considered deceased. Examinations of the space within the level, whether done by throwing a tied camera with a rope or through a remotely controlled and relatively tiny unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV). It is concluded that the space outside is similar to that of The Whole — an endless void of light that, no matter how far the equipment is from the physicality of the level, remains uniform. Through this, it is also believed that Level 123 sits afloat within the endless space, contrastive to the conventional Void that most levels are situated upon.
The day-and-night cycle of Level 123 exhibits some wild patterns here and there. Rather than alternating between light and dark in approximately 12 hours, it does so in merely two (day-night-day-night-day-night-day-night-day-night-day-night), and the transition from day to night and vice-versa, is rapid. Signified by the lights and windows, daytime in Level 123, colloquially known as "work hours," is the level's prominent look due to its shy ass nighttime-self. It is impossible to capture Level 123 through visual and audio media. With some clever avant-garde shit, using dimmer lights to signal the onset of nightfall, the lighting shifts from white to a soft yellow, coinciding with a gradual fading of the white backdrop behind the glass. This subtle transition in luminosity eventually plunges the outside surroundings into complete darkness, akin to the Void. In this epiphany, a distinctive 1950s Rock 'n' roll tune will erupt, serving as a lively overture of a masqueraded, monochromatic feature film from the same era, seamlessly filling the entirety of the windows' view.
Isolation is a prominent feature within the space, as those who enter in groups shall be separated upon entering Level 123. It is impossible to encounter anyone, however, despite the level appearing to be small; in many cases, solivagant, no-prom-going-singles report seeing identical interiors and noticing "dead ends" as they move further into the level. Strangely enough, its vacancy is still sometimes disrupted by enigmatic eviction letters that accumulate at thresholds, and the names of the tenant(s) and landlord(s) are those of the characters in the Tarantino film. No leads to the identity of the gyp behind the letters, although fingerprints and saliva residues have been found on the envelopes and/or papers.
Added revision, updates on 6/13/2019: Recently, there have been reports of potent smells with seemingly untraceable origins. It also fucked up wanderers assigned to stay in Level 123 for long periods, leading them to be hospitalized and exhibiting symptoms of mycotoxin inhalation. From the few who were not fucked up by the mold, they conducted some safety checks that stemmed from these complaints. It detected traces of trichothecenes on the ceilings and walls, indicating the presence of an ongoing and large-scale mold infestation, more specifically black mold, or for the Harvard-going, boasting eggheads out there, Stachybotrys chartarum. Therefore, it is advised to wear any type of airtight headwear when traversing through Level 123 due to contemporary conditions.
DID I BREAK YOUR CONCENTRATION?
=== It's too risky. ===
* Making contact with Pulp Fiction-related posters or advertisements spread throughout 2-digit levels lead to Level 123.
* Out-of-place garages in Level 56 lead to this level.
* A gateway that emerges nowhere in the Level 101's residence and seems to not belong to any room will lead to 'Level 123; the entrance may also feature text related to Pulp Fiction, with frequency instances such as "Vincent & Jules."
* Some regions in Level 338 may overlap with the abandoned areas of Level 123, which would bring one here.
* A maladapted car in Level -69 would transfer one here.
=== I think we should be leaving now. ===
* Certain unlocked doors — ones that look as if it brings one to the white void — lead to other levels, though they commonly guide to houses in Level 9.
* Entering a small enclosure labeled as a "private booth" would lead one to Level 13, where they would potentially develop a speech impediment after falling about 4 stories before landing on the ground.
* Sleeping at nighttime has a small chance of transferring one to the basement in Level 16 immediately after waking up.
* One could be randomly sent to Level 85 without warning.
THE GOLD WATCH
Level 123 is the first case of complete and natural level-acculturation.Level-acculturation is a newly coined portmanteau, defined as "transformative process wherein a level, originally designed with a specific cultural icon, undergoes a deliberate and distinctive shift to adopt and incorporate elements of a different icon that previously has not existed in the Backrooms." The cause is unknown — given its large-scale and overnight change, the circumstances are convoluted. Apart from landlord notices, there are no signs of recent human activity, indicating that its presence is not derivative of artificial augmentation.
The path of the righteous man
The path of the righteous man
The path of htre rigouesbn man
The path of thrie goesous man
The path of hei rougs man
     The path oai thresgiones mae
HT neapitha of the reign man
the pATH POF THE RIGTOS MAN
THe path ofth regiosueans man
THep ata ifo the narhouges man
HTep path of th oergieous nan
     TH path of thre ogus man
Path the pat reigres man
tge oat i t ger gutehiys nab
Htpe aht fot hte rgeos man
HTp ere path fore man
hep aht of thR ERI man
     v hh tep aht of ther gns man
The cloudy and watery blues washed ashore beneath the beach houses of Santa Monica, where a young child lived in one of them. For years, his all-style-no-substance yuppie dad has abandoned much time in favor of his high-paying job to dip his bourgeois ass all over the homes of them one-percenters.
I: "Sammy, ascolta qui, birichino! Can you turn off il computer un minuto? Someone speciale vuole incontrarti! Questo è… Dr. Bosch. He's the one who tried saving il papa's life, ah." 
Ouch, mother's eyes looks like she's got hyperthyroidism!
S: Okay, okay, mama!
A man whose stature is always relaxed — isn't it odd that he's now standing… like a one-percenter?
C: "Greetings, little guy."
S: "Ciao—, hi."
The sides of his lips pulled by gravity with a blue, subterranean, homesick look.
C: "Boy, sure as hell I've missed seeing you…
It's a bittersweet moment between you and me. Me and your dad were friends for years. There's something I haven't shared until now., but since we were in fourth grade, we've been friends. I still vividly remember, your father hurt himself when he was playing outside. It was toward summer vacation, and well, nobody knew how to treat 'em. School nurses, teachers, forget it. They don't got enough pay to even show up. Well, because of that, I basically treated his wound, and like a spark, a bond ignited. And before you know it, after thirty, 40-something years, we remained close.
But, sadly, that bond ended a week ago. And like a primogeniture, this-uh, ring, right here. This piece of metal is more prized than any real estate your dad owned. The story goes, grandfather passed down this ring from his dad and kept it in his chiffonier 'till it got real dusty up there. This ring got its start when great-granddad bought this all the way from a jeweler in Waterford, somewhere in Ireland, in 1929, and it is real important to your bloodline. When granddad fought in the second World War, sent to a base in Morocco, and he brought the ring into battle like it was some kind of symbol of luck. Now, he didn't want it to get lost in the middle of the desert for some fascist or Nazi yokels to loot it from him.
Nobody knew what he was thinkin' at that time. Maybe he shouldn't have brought the ring in the first place, but he had to find a way. And that way was to find a place where nobody would check. His condoms. Yes, they gave condoms to foot soldiers. He figured the Axis weren't really getting into a woman's holyiest of the holyies, nor they were into catching no Jungle Fever either, and so, he was right.
He was right about the ring being lucky, and he came back to Santa Monica, but, of course you know he died of another kind of jungle fever right when he got home: malaria, two years later.
So, his widow, your grandma, as a birthright, your father was given the ring by the time he was ripe enough to not swallow it. He proposed with this ring right here to his Italian fiancée, your mother, but, one day, when he was visiting his house for some kind of high school reunion, the spoon from the peanut butter jar somehow ended up used for his sandwich. One second he's sticking that sandwich, up his mouth, next second later, he's gasping for air and I smashed his chest in intervals as hard as I can, and the next, he's out. And now, little man, the ring is ready to pass through a new generation, and I hand this to you."
A tiny hand unceremoniously reaches out to grab the ring, as the bearer of the ring puts it on their ring finger. Then…
Yeah, that's how I got my ring. Care to hear about the watch, though?
Nah, I've had enough of your stories. We should go back.
…Seriously?
Be serious, man. This place isn't no Xanadu, motherfucker!
(clicks tongue) Fine, let's go.
The thing with the people in Level 1 is that they just drench their food with it.
Erghhh!
It's true, man. They drown their canned tuna in that Hidden Valley shit.
Fuck, man. Did you go to Level 10, though?
No, I didn't go there. I've heard they smoke hella hash there. Y'know what they call marijuana there?
They don't call it weed or marijuana?
MARIA-JUA-JUANA.
Maria-jua-juana?
With all that weed they don't know what the fuck spelling is.
Maria-jua-juana. What'd they call a blunt?
I don't know, the guy who told me didn't say anything about it. I'm pretty sure them meggies got his ass good. But a blunt's still a blunt or a roll, probably.
(whispers) We here?
…
Felix… We here, are we?
Couldn't hear you there, but I think so.
Silence ensues, and then:
You got a firearm, right?
Mhm. They told us to bring a revolver.
(sighs)
What's with that look, you unhappy?
N— no. It's just that a revolver wouldn't instill fear into the hearts of the enemy. Look, they've seen some shit in their time. No goddamn pocket knife that's the size of your forehead would scare them, let alone making them shit out their mouths.
Ay, chill out with that tone. My forehead's ain't a three or a fivehead, alright? Also, it depends on the situation. How many people in there?
Like twenty, twenty-five?
No, no, no, no. How many armed guys are in there?
Fikes said there was only two watchmen there to keep an eye on some inferiors.
Only two? You sure? Fike ain't the brightest one in the pack. Also, you think they won't fight back? These groups help them survive, you know? That can make a person one hell of a fanatic.
'ight, listen to me. His name might be motherfuckin' "Fike Dunce" in enemy territory. But I know his ass ain't like it, and he's the fuckin' leader, man. If you start insultin' or questionin' things, that's when they get suspicious. And when they get suspicious, they send people to get yo ass, and it even doesn't matter where ya at, they'll pump a lead to yo ass in a unicorn floaty if you're in Level 37. Also, it doesn't work that way for this trafficking ring.
Fine, fine, I get it. And, what was that? Trafficking ring?
Them people are kind of slaves. Not really, but they are. Why would they hire a donut-boy-dressed-in-all-blue-and-black, anyway? To stick their dicks by helping around?
Look, just because we don't got no Kim Jong dildos don't mean we could still terrify them. I mean, you read the Bible, right?
Is that some kind of a rhetorical question?
(without regard to Sammy's question) Actually, you don't need to read no page to know David and Goliath. "David killed Goliath with a rock." A tiny rock, in fact. Small stars still light up the skies.
Okay, but David didn't terrify no butterball.
Good point there, but he did scare away the barbarians, though.
Alright, alright… I get it. In fact, what the hell are we even doing? Let's get into character.
(whispers) This is the place, right?
Mhm.
Sammy peeps through the oddly convenient peephole. He sees two men standing abreast, both as reinforcements for the el cheapo door that they should've call their gimps to fix it. A hallway directly parallel to the door has an Americanized poster of the movie The Bad Sleep Well plastered on its end, gracing a deadly stare.
Let's go.
The two men enters inside the facility. Immediately shooting the crusty shoes of the guards and unloading their guns on their now Swiss cheese chests, they somehow overpowered a shit ton of people, becoming big enchiladas with guns not even the size of a nutsack. The look of disgust amalgamated with hope that comes with seeing a savior, the so-called "slaves" look at the pile of blood, flesh, and shattered pieces of bone on the floor.
You kids alright?
Silence…
(whispers) I'm pretty sure everyone here speak English by the looks of it but their mouths are still full of dicks.
(whispers) God fuckin' damn it…
Hey, don't blaspheme!
Okay— I'm just saying, man. If they don't understand the shit we say, they ain't as scared.
Just don't involve the Lord's name in this.
Look, we're not no Germans. We don't talk like we're about to start another world war.
Look, if we don't hurry the fuck up, we're just going to look like two Paulie-lookin' poor whites tryna act like we in Goodfellas.
What even is the plan here, though?
Just speak slowly. They'll figure it out.
What?
Speak slower than usual. That usually works for me. Grandad told me he spoke English slowly to communicate with them Saharans to fight off the Nazis.
Wh— what do you m—?
If you say "what" one more goddamn time I'm telling the whole base you entered this hellhole through a fetish club cause yo' ass wanted to get out of jury duty.
Okay, okay, fine. You didn't have to word it that way.
Among the twenty-three or so hillbillies within the crowd of chains, only one spoke urban English. How did the Godfather troglodytes knew? Well, he gained the courage to stand up and inquired, "what do you want?" in a semi-Brooklynish accent.
"What do you want," huh? Well, what do you think?
Are you just here just to kill us?
N— no.
Well, then fucking do it!
W— what do you mean?
Before him were a crowd of mixed people, both handling their own locales, for they are united in one, against one power: him.
You have a gun, right? Well, then kill us!
(whispers to Felix) See, what did I fuckin' tell you? These guys know we're a threat. Our guns are the "size of your forehead," huh?
…Fuck you.
(smirks) I'm just sayin'.
Alright-alright. Are we going to continue yak about bullshit again or are we gonna get the computer we want?
Both.
An uncomfortable silence…
Okay, kill the silence. Who's gonna empower them? Me or you?
I've never done this shit. I'll pass it to you. My ass would be dead tenfolds if I do this.
Come on, don't be a bitch. Just treat it like a class presentation, but act more like Charlie Decker.
Fine. If I fuck this up you better come with me to the grave.
Felix loads his gun with a magazine, fresh out of produce. He raises his hand as if he's confused about an algebraic equation, and…
Well, my people. You know what we're here for, right?
…
Did I stutter? I said, do y'all know what we're here for.
K— k— ill us?
No. I'll give you 3 guesses.
F— free us?
You're there, but still wrong.
I— I— don't kn—
Great guesses, but nope. You, redhead. Do you know why we're here?
…
Well, we're here to gather information. So, why don't we start with that? Now, do y'all who Warden Norton is?
…
Do I need to repeat, or ya just playin' deaf?
Pointing toward a random Joe, the crowd is surprisingly startled. He threatens to turn his ol' forehead into a bloodied Clump. I mean, he's got a fuckin' gun, so you better answer his goddamn question!
Y— yes.
Good. Now, tell me: how did Warden Norton got his name?
I— I don't know.
You sure?
Y—
(screams, in a happy but disappointed tone almost) Alright!
…
Then, I'd do a better one. Where exactly is Warden Norton, or… where does he usually like to chill out?
This level?
Be more specific. Like, which spot does he usually go to?
…
Seriously, ya don't know?
(whispers) No subordinate would know his or her master that well. It's pretty motherfuckin' straightforward.
(whispers) Man, I don't care.
Your Saturday-night special ain't gonna do shit, I'm telling you.
Well, you better tell them to talk before I shoot one of 'em. Look, I don't want to kill nobody, okay?
We just popped a few caps on those two blue boys back there, though.
Felix and Sammy ramble on and on about bullshit. They're not alone when it comes to whispering, however. The captives are whispering to each other too, questioning their behavior and presence. That is when another person, who probably eavesdropped their conversation, exclaimed something.
So, are ya goin' to free us or not?
(from the back of the room) Shut up, you're going to get us all killed!
Look what we've got here. There's more hot air in this room than I thought. Now, let me repeat, again: where is Warden Norton?
He got his name from keeping a bunch of individuals like us in here, and his cinpehile ass adapted it into his official nickname. Are you satisfied?
I wasn't asking that question hillbilly boy. I was asking "where."
We don't know, alright? But, I'll tell you what — he enters this movie poster right here frequently.
(points at the poster on the wall) That? Shit, that's all you ha—
The wall trapdoor is then slammed open by a couple of half-assed KGB lookalikes. An immediate gun shootout ensues, kind of like the one in Equilibrium, but the difference is everyone treats it like a Walmart Black Friday sale and with a 100% discount for their lives.
Take cover!
While the hot air began to steam, both of the men sweat drops of fear. They realized they should've brought an assault rifle, and Sammy finally found out his forehead was too small.
Man, fuck me. FUCK ME. Sammy, I don't know, but we gotta escape!
Fuck, dude. But how?
Did you not hear the shit that yokel told us?
Man, he's definitely no motherfuckin' yokel.
Jesus Christ, just jump through that poster!
Absolutely fuckin' no. We don't even know where that leads.
FUCK YOU, SAMMY. Just go through that poster! You wanna fuckin' bite the bullet? If that damned asshole goes through that every fuckin' day then it's safe!
You're gonna trust that guy?
We only have one fuckin' choice!
Alright, fine!
woe unto those who decree the unrighteous, and inscribe grievousness as they have prescribed;
to turn aside the needy from judgment and to take away the right from the poor of my people, that widows may be their prey, to those who righteously sit in judgment at such a trial, and to the righteous prisoners who shouldst have presided at such a judgment!
and what will thou do in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from afar? to whom wilt thou flee for help? and have me destroy the reputations of men for whom i work and respect?
without me, they shall bow down under the prisoners, and they shall fall under the prisoners. for all this, his anger is not turned away, but his hand is stretched out still.
     WHEN I took refuge in the level, it was a miserable point in my life. We successfully achieved what we were supposed to, but now we are mere maggots — it kindled to me that, a fair place was one that is hard for all. We were equally worthless here: no racial bigotry, borders, religious differences, social ranks, corporate ladders. None. All are perceived as prey for kaleidoscopic predators. To distract us, you would have to hack our flesh to dissipate all our electricity, or put us in a comatose and drowned in a pit of shameful, horrent visuals of the "kind" world, to shy away all of that yellow bullshit. But, we prefer to entertain ourselves, with nothing but a new branch of literature, one that is literally out of this world. One that would have probably originate from cavemen and prehistoric humans if they knew how to read and write.
     It could have been that way for centuries. But, after we discovered this place, we decided to basically made it into some kind of a big joke. Was it hard to do? Of course. But when people saw its potential, they started to basically play along with it. Coming up with their best insults, showing off their rapping skills almost. It spread like a cut out of a sphere being unfolded, though like any good things in our pitiful life, it had to be ruined. Some were too far up their asses, some were rather opinionated, and it does not even make it better, 'cause they barely even made an effort to make it clever. It was relatively obvious that they were trying to vandalize the archives, almost. So, eventually, it was all removed. Except one, which is the original level that me and Sammy wrote. We were like, "fuck it," let's do it. We just kept exploring and exploring, picking up bit by bit like a hedge maze and figuring out what this ghetto-looking restaurant was.
     I told Sammy, that, when we got out of this shithole, we would be recognized. Subtly, I guess. But he was not getting the memo at first. Nobody would fucking care, right? We did kill a bunch of people and failed to rescue them; we profited off of them. If anything, they would care about that. And what happened to Warden Norton is still hidden outside within the thin, silky threads of the four rotten walls that we were trapped in, but I knew damn well that he fed those thralls with the deplorable shit they serve here. He was comparable to the food here. But, the longer we thought about it, we came to a realization: we were as bad as him and it was no damn jigsaw puzzle, but for us, it was. Maybe the Karma Gestapo's got to us. It was as pointless as a yellow light — we did not get shit, and the shit were only revelations, and that too is also pretty fucking pointless.
     Even though we had the information strapped to our jaws, there was no way to return it to camp. We were like pigs, one that roots in shit, shit that we were forced to root in, only that the slaughter was no quick burst of mass, it was the moldering of mass — our mass. The information flow is hard to control, the borders are long, inaccessible. Strapped to our jaws, strapped to our jaws. It was fresh out the anus, we can't find no exits. Living off outside time, the clock ticks slower. Every second wasn't gold. It was the painstaking effort of finding the gold. And gold time it is, my golden, or so I say, my father's gold watch. The nouveau riches, he worked with, presented the watch, its value and time useless, but precious for him. Ya might ask, why greed would give? It does, only when the giving is for greedy intentions. He has been longing for a Logine for a while.
     I told Sammy, that, after watching some (P)ulp (F)iction, we were to expedite the moldering and the agony and the haunt. To be, or not to be: that is the question: of how, of how to, expedite it. That is to be, in a sunless cage, a Godless cage, but not a burst-of-massless cage. Such a dandy, is not it? By the barrel, by the chins, by the breasts, by the chests, by the chains. Immerse myself to fade seamlessly, a reddish liminal space, while the mass, immersed in a thousand bursts, gravitate towards the end of the barrel. Maybe an airbag can save me through penetrating. It's an empty and final stage. But like an ironic comedy. And there is no need to be paranoid. 
     For that, all the precious goodness of the world. Under a single snap of ectoplasms. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sève-gone. And that was not the last, because to last is divine, but to be the last is human. To be fucking real, I do not know how paradoxical or some shit like that that this shit is. He came back after some time in that room. How would I know? The sun shifted by a picometer, and the pot of plant has turned into the Garden of Eden. And, do I believe in the Virgin Mary? What does is a god to a non-believer, anyway? To believe in such bullshit, is ridiculous! That's a special crazy tuxedo man, his white powder keeps him above the clouds! The sharing-is-caring man whom everyone shares everything with, he sends people to work and no play! When they crumble, we play freely. 
Problem?
You got one?
Don't worry, wisecracking Methuselah!
A lightbulb,
Its glass tube cracked.
Now free.
Us and them.
Hanged by ropes made of alphabets.
All the same six main levels, but distinguished.
Humans in zoos.
They're so free but no freedom.
Not the comfort of a glass.
But it drools on the thin barrier.
You're not immune to saliva.
Desensitize yourself with liquid information.
Antibiotics would help.
Very loyal!
And now hail to greatness.
Big Brother is protective!
He'll not hurt you.
You hurt him, he'll send you to hell.
When the liquid of oil.
Information burning.
It burns itself.
Now only of rusted carpets.
Tied to their very own ropes, they lie.
Sudden, but not quick.
Now anarchism, now pragmatism.
Because everyone is equal.
But everyone is more equal than others.
Fair, but semi-equal, but only anarchy is.
Now Big Brother sits in hell.
Anarchy becomes the tyranny.
Oh, how we've not been quick!
The mountains to trek, but no guide to help.
Karma, she got to us.
The cloudy and watery blues washed ashore beneath the beach houses of Santa Monica, where a young child lived in one of them. For years, his all-style-no-substance yuppie dad has abandoned much time in favor of his high-paying job to dip his bourgeois ass all over the homes of them one-percenters.
I: "Sammy, ascolta qui, birichino! Can you turn off il computer un minuto? Someone speciale vuole incontrarti! Questo è… Dr. Bosch. He's the one who tried saving il papa's life, ah." 
Ouch, mother's eyes looks like she's got hyperthyroidism!
S: Okay, okay, mama!
A man whose stature is always relaxed — isn't it odd that he's now standing… like a one-percenter?
C: "Greetings, little guy."
S: "Ciao—, hi."
The sides of his lips pulled by gravity with a blue, subterranean, homesick look.
C: "Boy, sure as hell I've missed seeing you…
It's a bittersweet moment between you and me. Me and your dad were friends for years. There's something I haven't shared until now., but since we were in fourth grade, we've been friends. I still vividly remember, your father hurt himself when he was playing outside. It was toward summer vacation, and well, nobody knew how to treat 'em. School nurses, teachers, forget it. They don't got enough pay to even show up. Well, because of that, I basically treated his wound, and like a spark, a bond ignited. And before you know it, after thirty, 40-something years, we remained close.
But, sadly, that bond ended a week ago. And like a primogeniture, this-uh, ring, right here. This piece of metal is more prized than any real estate your dad owned. The story goes, grandfather passed down this ring from his dad and kept it in his chiffonier 'till it got real dusty up there. This ring got its start when great-granddad bought this all the way from a jeweler in Waterford, somewhere in Ireland, in 1929, and it is real important to your bloodline. When granddad fought in the second World War, sent to a base in Morocco, and he brought the ring into battle like it was some kind of symbol of luck. Now, he didn't want it to get lost in the middle of the desert for some fascist or Nazi yokels to loot it from him.
Nobody knew what he was thinkin' at that time. Maybe he shouldn't have brought the ring in the first place, but he had to find a way. And that way was to find a place where nobody would check. His condoms. Yes, they gave condoms to foot soldiers. He figured the Axis weren't really getting into a woman's holyiest of the holyies, nor they were into catching no Jungle Fever either, and so, he was right.
He was right about the ring being lucky, and he came back to Santa Monica, but, of course you know he died of another kind of jungle fever right when he got home: malaria, two years later.
So, his widow, your grandma, as a birthright, your father was given the ring by the time he was ripe enough to not swallow it. He proposed with this ring right here to his Italian fiancée, your mother, but, one day, when he was visiting his house for some kind of high school reunion, the spoon from the peanut butter jar somehow ended up used for his sandwich. One second he's sticking that sandwich, up his mouth, next second later, he's gasping for air and I smashed his chest in intervals as hard as I can, and the next, he's out. And now, little man, the ring is ready to pass through a new generation, and I hand this to you."
A tiny hand unceremoniously reaches out to grab the ring, as the bearer of the ring puts it on their ring finger. Then…
Yeah, that's how I got my ring. Care to hear about the watch, though?
Nah, I've had enough of your stories. We should go back.
…Seriously?
Be serious, man. This place isn't no Xanadu, motherfucker!
(clicks tongue) Fine, let's go.
The thing with the people in Level 1 is that they just drench their food with it.
Erghhh!
It's true, man. They drown their canned tuna in that Hidden Valley shit.
Fuck, man. Did you go to Level 10, though?
No, I didn't go there. I've heard they smoke hella hash there. Y'know what they call marijuana there?
They don't call it weed or marijuana?
MARIA-JUA-JUANA.
Maria-jua-juana?
With all that weed they don't know what the fuck spelling is.
Maria-jua-juana. What'd they call a blunt?
I don't know, the guy who told me didn't say anything about it. I'm pretty sure them meggies got his ass good. But a blunt's still a blunt or a roll, probably.
(whispers) We here?
…
Felix… We here, are we?
Couldn't hear you there, but I think so.
Silence ensues, and then:
You got a firearm, right?
Mhm. They told us to bring a revolver.
(sighs)
What's with that look, you unhappy?
N— no. It's just that a revolver wouldn't instill fear into the hearts of the enemy. Look, they've seen some shit in their time. No goddamn pocket knife that's the size of your forehead would scare them, let alone making them shit out their mouths.
Ay, chill out with that tone. My forehead's ain't a three or a fivehead, alright? Also, it depends on the situation. How many people in there?
Like twenty, twenty-five?
No, no, no, no. How many armed guys are in there?
Fikes said there was only two watchmen there to keep an eye on some inferiors.
Only two? You sure? Fike ain't the brightest one in the pack. Also, you think they won't fight back? These groups help them survive, you know? That can make a person one hell of a fanatic.
'ight, listen to me. His name might be motherfuckin' "Fike Dunce" in enemy territory. But I know his ass ain't like it, and he's the fuckin' leader, man. If you start insultin' or questionin' things, that's when they get suspicious. And when they get suspicious, they send people to get yo ass, and it even doesn't matter where ya at, they'll pump a lead to yo ass in a unicorn floaty if you're in Level 37. Also, it doesn't work that way for this trafficking ring.
Fine, fine, I get it. And, what was that? Trafficking ring?
Them people are kind of slaves. Not really, but they are. Why would they hire a donut-boy-dressed-in-all-blue-and-black, anyway? To stick their dicks by helping around?
Look, just because we don't got no Kim Jong dildos don't mean we could still terrify them. I mean, you read the Bible, right?
Is that some kind of a rhetorical question?
(without regard to Sammy's question) Actually, you don't need to read no page to know David and Goliath. "David killed Goliath with a rock." A tiny rock, in fact. Small stars still light up the skies.
Okay, but David didn't terrify no butterball.
Good point there, but he did scare away the barbarians, though.
Alright, alright… I get it. In fact, what the hell are we even doing? Let's get into character.
(whispers) This is the place, right?
Mhm.
Sammy peeps through the oddly convenient peephole. He sees two men standing abreast, both as reinforcements for the el cheapo door that they should've call their gimps to fix it. A hallway directly parallel to the door has an Americanized poster of the movie The Bad Sleep Well plastered on its end, gracing a deadly stare.
Let's go.
The two men enters inside the facility. Immediately shooting the crusty shoes of the guards and unloading their guns on their now Swiss cheese chests, they somehow overpowered a shit ton of people, becoming big enchiladas with guns not even the size of a nutsack. The look of disgust amalgamated with hope that comes with seeing a savior, the so-called "slaves" look at the pile of blood, flesh, and shattered pieces of bone on the floor.
You kids alright?
Silence…
(whispers) I'm pretty sure everyone here speak English by the looks of it but their mouths are still full of dicks.
(whispers) God damn it…
Hey, don't blaspheme!
Okay— I'm just saying, man. If they don't understand the shit we say, they ain't as scared.
Just don't involve the Lord's name in this.
Look, we're not no Germans. We don't talk like we're about to start another world war.
Look, if we don't hurry up, we're just going to look like two Paulie-lookin' poor whites tryna act like we in Goodfellas.
What even is the plan here, though?
Just speak slowly. They'll figure it out.
What?
Speak slower than usual. That usually works for me. Grandad told me he spoke English slowly to communicate with them Saharans to fight off the Nazis.
Wh— what do you m—?
If you say "what" one more goddamn time I'm telling the whole base you entered this hellhole through a fetish club cause yo' ass wanted to get out of jury duty.
Okay, okay, fine. You didn't have to word it that way.
Among the twenty-three or so hillbillies within the crowd of chains, only one spoke urban English. How did the Godfather troglodytes knew? Well, he gained the courage to stand up and inquired, "what do you want?" in a semi-Brooklynish accent.
"What do you want," huh? Well, what do you think?
Are you just here just to kill us?
N— no.
Well, then fucking do it!
W— what do you mean?
Before him were a crowd of mixed people, both handling their own locales, for they are united in one, against one power: him.
You have a gun, right? Well, then kill us!
(whispers to Felix) See, what did I fuckin' tell you? These guys know we're a threat. Our guns are the "size of your forehead," huh?
…Fuck you.
(smirks) I'm just sayin'.
Alright-alright. Are we going to continue yak about bullshit again or are we gonna get the computer we want?
Both.
An uncomfortable silence…
Okay, kill the silence. Who's gonna empower them? Me or you?
I've never done this shit. I'll pass it to you. My ass would be dead tenfolds if I do this.
Come on, don't be a bitch. Just treat it like a class presentation, but act more like Charlie Decker.
Fine. If I fuck this up you better come with me to the grave.
Felix loads his gun with a magazine, fresh out of produce. He raises his hand as if he's confused about an algebraic equation, and…
Well, my people. You know what we're here for, right?
…
Did I stutter? I said, do y'all know what we're here for.
K— k— ill us?
No. I'll give you 3 guesses.
F— free us?
You're there, but still wrong.
I— I— don't kn—
Great guesses, but nope. You, redhead. Do you know why we're here?
…
Well, we're here to gather information. So, why don't we start with that? Now, do y'all who Warden Norton is?
…
Do I need to repeat, or ya just playin' deaf?
Pointing toward a random Joe, the crowd is surprisingly startled. He threatens to turn his ol' forehead into a bloodied Clump. I mean, he's got a fuckin' gun, so you better answer his goddamn question!
Y— yes.
Good. Now, tell me: how did Warden Norton got his name?
I— I don't know.
You sure?
Y—
(screams, in a happy but disappointed tone almost) Alright!
…
Then, I'd do a better one. Where exactly is Warden Norton, or… where does he usually like to chill out?
This level?
Be more specific. Like, which spot does he usually go to?
…
Seriously, ya don't know?
(whispers) No subordinate would know his or her master that well. It's pretty motherfuckin' straightforward.
(whispers) Man, I don't care.
Your Saturday-night special ain't gonna do shit, I'm telling you.
Well, you better tell them to talk before I shoot one of 'em. Look, I don't want to kill nobody, okay?
We just popped a few caps on those two blue boys back there, though.
Felix and Sammy rambles on and on about bullshit. They're not alone when it comes to whispering, however. The captives are whispering to each other too, questioning their behavior and presence. That is when another person, who probably eavesdropped their conversation, exclaimed something.
So, are ya goin' to free us or not?
(from the back of the room) Shut up, you're going to get us all killed!
Look what we've got here. There's more hot air in this room than I thought. Now, let me repeat, again: where is Warden Norton?
He got his name from keeping a bunch of individuals like us in here, and his cinpehile ass adapted it into his official nickname. Are you satisfied?
I wasn't asking that question hillbilly boy. I was asking "where."
We don't know, alright? But, I'll tell you what — he enters this movie poster right here frequently.
(points at the poster on the wall) That? Shit, that's all you ha—
The wall trapdoor is then slammed open by a couple of half-assed KGB lookalikes. An immediate gun shootout ensues, kind of like the one in Equilibrium, but the difference is everyone treats it like a Walmart Black Friday sale and with a 100% discount for their lives.
Take cover!
While the hot air began to steam, both of the men sweat drops of fear. They realized they should've brought an assault rifle, and Sammy finally found out his forehead was too small.
Man, fuck me. FUCK ME. Sammy, I don't know, but we gotta escape!
Fuck, dude. But how?
Did you not hear the shit that yokel told us?
Man, he's definitely no motherfuckin' yokel.
Jesus Christ, just jump through that poster!
Absolutely no. We don't even know where that leads.
FUCK YOU, SAMMY. Just go through that poster! You wanna bite the fuckin' bullet? If that damned asshole goes through that every day then it's safe!
You're gonna trust that guy?
We only have one fuckin' choice!
Alright, fine!
woe unto those who decree the unrighteous, and inscribe grievousness as they have prescribed;
to turn aside the needy from judgment and to take away the right from the poor of my people, that widows may be their prey, to those who righteously sit in judgment at such a trial, and to the righteous prisoners who shouldst have presided at such a judgment!
and what will thou do in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from afar? to whom wilt thou flee for help? and have me destroy the reputations of men for whom i work and respect?
without me, they shall bow down under the prisoners, and they shall fall under the prisoners. for all this, his anger is not turned away, but his hand is stretched out still.
     WHEN I took refuge in the level, it was a miserable point in my life. We successfully achieved what we were supposed to, but now we are mere maggots — it kindled to me that, a fair place was one that is hard for all. We were equally worthless here: no racial bigotry, borders, religious differences, social ranks, corporate ladders. None. All are perceived as prey for kaleidoscopic predators. To distract us, you would have to hack our flesh to dissipate all our electricity, or put us in a comatose and drowned in a pit of shameful, horrent visuals of the "kind" world, to shy away all of that yellow bullshit. But, we prefer to entertain ourselves, with nothing but a new branch of literature, one that is literally out of this world. One that would have probably originate from cavemen and prehistoric humans if they knew how to read and write.
     It could have been that way for centuries. But, after we discovered this place, we decided to basically made it into some kind of a big joke. Was it hard to do? Of course. But when people saw its potential, they started to basically play along with it. Coming up with their best insults, showing off their rapping skills almost. It spread like a cut out of a sphere being unfolded, though like any good things in our pitiful life, it had to be ruined. Some were too far up their asses, some were rather opinionated, and it does not even make it better, 'cause they barely even made an effort to make it clever. It was relatively obvious that they were trying to vandalize the archives, almost. So, eventually, it was all removed. Except one, which is the original level that me and Sammy wrote. We were like, "fuck it," let's do it. We just kept exploring and exploring, picking up bit by bit like a hedge maze and figuring out what this ghetto-looking restaurant was.
     I told Sammy, that, when we got out of this shithole, we would be recognized. Subtly, I guess. But he was not getting the memo at first. Nobody would care, right? We did kill a bunch of people and failed to rescue them; we profited off of them. If anything, they would care about that. And what happened to Warden Norton is still hidden outside within the thin, silky threads of the four rotten walls that we were trapped in, but I knew damn well that he fed those thralls with the deplorable shit they serve here. He was comparable to the food here. But, the longer we thought about it, we came to a realization: we were as bad as him and it was no damn jigsaw puzzle, but for us, it was. Maybe the Karma Gestapo's got to us. It was as pointless as a yellow light — we did not get shit, and the shit were only revelations, and that too is also pretty pointless.
     Even though we had the information strapped to our jaws, there was no way to return it to camp. We were like pigs, one that roots in shit, shit that we were forced to root in, only that the slaughter was no quick burst of mass, it was the moldering of mass — our mass. The information flow is hard to control, the borders are long, inaccessible. Strapped to our jaws, strapped to our jaws. It was fresh out the anus, we can't find no exits. Living off outside time, the clock ticks slower. Every second wasn't gold. It was the painstaking effort of finding the gold. And gold time it is, my golden, or so I say, my father's gold watch. The nouveau riches, he worked with, presented the watch, its value and time useless, but precious for him. Ya might ask, why greed would give? It does, only when the giving is for greedy intentions. He has been longing for a Logine for a while.
     I told Sammy, that, after watching some (P)ulp (F)iction, we were to expedite the moldering and the agony and the haunt. To be, or not to be: that is the question: of how, of how to, expedite it. That is to be, in a sunless cage, a Godless cage, but not a burst-of-massless cage. Such a dandy, is not it? By the barrel, by the chins, by the breasts, by the chests, by the chains. Immerse myself to fade seamlessly, a reddish liminal space, while the mass, immersed in a thousand bursts, gravitate towards the end of the barrel. Maybe an airbag can save me through penetrating. It's an empty and final stage. But like an ironic comedy. And there is no need to be paranoid. 
     For that, all the precious goodness of the world. Under a single snap of ectoplasms. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sève-gone. And that was not the last, because to last is divine, but to be the last is human. To be fucking real, I do not know how paradoxical or some shit like that that this shit is. He came back after some time in that room. How would I know? The sun shifted by a picometer, and the pot of plant has turned into the Garden of Eden. And, do I believe in the Virgin Mary? What does is a god to a non-believer, anyway? To believe in such bullshit, is ridiculous! That's a special crazy tuxedo man, his white powder keeps him above the clouds! The sharing-is-caring man whom everyone shares everything with, he sends people to work and no play! When they crumble, we play freely. 
Problem?
You got one?
Don't worry, wisecracking Methuselah!
A lightbulb,
Its glass tube cracked.
Now free.
Us and them.
Hanged by ropes made of alphabets.
All the same six main levels, but distinguished.
Humans in zoos.
They're so free but no freedom.
Not the comfort of a glass.
But it drools on the thin barrier.
You're not immune to saliva.
Desensitize yourself with liquid information.
Antibiotics would help.
Very loyal!
And now hail to greatness.
Big Brother is protective!
He'll not hurt you.
You hurt him, he'll send you to hell.
When the liquid of oil.
Information burning.
It burns itself.
Now only of rusted carpets.
Tied to their very own ropes, they lie.
Sudden, but not quick.
Now anarchism, now pragmatism.
Because everyone is equal.
But everyone is more equal than others.
Fair, but semi-equal, but only anarchy is.
Now Big Brother sits in hell.
Anarchy becomes the tyranny.
Oh, how we've not been quick!
The mountains to trek, but no guide to help.
Karma, she got to us.
----
Category:Levels
Category:Cluster I
Category:Safe
Category:Format Screws
Category:Tales
zh:Level 123 
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Category:Unconfirmed Levels