The Bobs remained mute, their eyes following my movement deep into the cavern until I lost them in the murk and steampunk towers belching graveyard mists. I don’t think the real Bob was in the group, everyone was perfectly synchronized, but he could have been. If he was, he wasn’t letting me in on things, so the answers were elsewhere. I found a factory exit where Bobs were shuffling out like a trickle of hard hatted, empty headed 09 henchmen, winding out across the cave floor, drifting toward the lake of Bobs. Circling the factory was impossible. Every corner revealed another building in the mists, winding off toward a glowing light in the distance. Usually at this point in the plot I would hear some drunk playing a bluesy baritone sax, instead was the clunking, thunking, wheezing, whistling grunts of unreleased steampunk buildings and machines. After strolling for an hour or so I stopped for an Itsaboy cigar and Old Noob Bourbon. I puffed on the cigar until it glowed bright enough I knew it might ignite the bourbon fumes. Beneath the thrumming machines I heard sounds with that quality carried only by voices, many voices. I moved ahead… A stream of people were making their way into an ancient temple carved into one side of the cavern. The entrance to the temple had deep relief carvings of the dreaded red-eyed American bull dog… I had a bad feeling about this… The people were shuffling forward, chanting: “Zynga, Zynga, Zynga… ZYNGA!!! Zynga, Zynga, Zynga… ZYNGA!!! Zynga, Zynga, Zynga… ZYNGA!!! I shuddered. Zynga worshipers. I found a perch above the temple and watched. People entered, spent a few minutes, and left again. As they left they smiled and whispered something I could not hear from where I sat on a parapet of a chimney that reached high into the darkness. I gave them an hour or so, gauging how many were coming and going. Sliding around the chimney I saw that the network of factory buildings I had been following were connected to the cavern wall about a hundred feet from the carved entrance of the temple. It started getting slow, fewer and fewer Zyngoids entered the temple. I waited until there was a gap in the worshipers, turned up the collar of my trench coat, pulled the brim of my fedora over my eyes, and clamped my Itsaboy in my teeth. I entered the temple of the Zynga.
Posted on: Tue, 08 Jul 2014 04:36:13 +0000