Zoo Prison
By Tom Sebold
The zookeeper and Winson hurried through the crowded zoo, paying little attention to the animals. Winson nearly ran over a boy with a balloon by the elephant enclosure and swore loudly, snatched an ice cream cone from a girl and mashed it into his snarling mouth. The children’s diminutive, hairy father ran after him shouting. When he accosted Winson, he was met with Winson’s hand extended to his face, and was driven backwards, stumbling into the ground. Winson growled and threw the remains of the cone into his eyes, blinding him. The zookeeper suppressed a laugh and adjusted his panama hat. The two proceeded to a hatch behind the gorilla cage. The zookeeper inserted a key into the hatch, swung it open, and they went down a narrow stone staircase, the slammed door echoing in the nether regions of the subterranean chambers.
The stairway continued to a hallway lined with cells, dimly lit by candles. Some of the cells contained prisoners, while others were filled with various articles such as broken toilets, toppled bookcases stuffed with ledgers, and grimacing masks from all corners of the earth.
One prisoner smoked a six-foot-tall brass hookah, reclining on a pile of misshapen and dirty auburn pillows. The smoke he exhaled was purplish and fell immediately downwards from his mouth and nose, running over his lumpy body like a waterfall. A woman with a bowl cut hunched over a rusty green typewriter, pounding the keys fitfully. A third was sprawled naked on a luxurious bed with purple sheets, eating peaches and talking with two stately women, also naked.
The two walked in silence until they reached the end of the hall. A round hole surrounded by a low marble ledge gaped at them. Winson coughed as he looked down into the hole and nestled into his trench coat.
“So is this him then?” inquired Winson.
“Quite right sir,” replied the zookeeper.
“What an awful position he is in,” Winson remarked, “Why is he in a well?”
“Those were the specific instructions, Mr. Winson, that he be kept in a confined space filled with matamba snakes.”
Indeed, as Winson’s eyes adjusted to the flickering light of the dungeon, he could see the man laying at the bottom of the pit was blanketed by a mass of slithering bodies that moved over him, biting him intermittently.
“The snakes’ venom keeps him hallucinating very vividly.”
Winson’s caterpillar-like eyebrows creeped up.
“It’s quite remarkable really.”
“And why is that?”
“His hallucinations are a major point of interest to my… our research here. He has told us many of the KOP’s secrets in his moments of lucidity.”
Winson’s eyebrows creeped ever higher, almost touching his low hairline.
“Very well then,” muttered Winson. He rummaged in his pockets and produced a strip of paper, handing it to the zookeeper.
The zookeeper brought the paper close to his face and read: “recalled to life.”
“I clipped it from a copy of A Tale of Two Cities, as required,” clarified Winson. “Now please return him to my custody.”
“Very well sir,” grumbled the zookeeper in consternation, “As you wish.” He took a lasso from the floor and proceeded to work at snaring the prisoner. He flung it down time after time, capturing only snakes and cursing under his breath. Eventually he caught the man by the calf and Winson helped hoist the captive up. Dangling from the rope, he quietly giggled and tried to work the rope off of his leg, bumping against the rocks on the side of the well as he ascended.
Later that evening, the prisoner and Winson drank tea by a roaring fire in the latter’s living room. Taking a deep gulp from his mug, Winson began to question him.
“How are your hallucinations Floorenstein? Are they still vivid?”
“Not quite so vivid now, no. Everything still has a purple tint, but the only thing out of order is a large bird sitting on your mantle.”
“Ah, that is just the clock.”
“Yes, but to me it seems to be a dodo or something. Pretty odd, but not an overwhelmingly intense visual.”
“What were you seeing when I recalled you?”
“The way I remember it, a large ape was picking raisins out of my ear and tickling me, telling me that I wasn’t ready to go to bed yet. Then I felt that a giant had snatched me up by my leg and was taking me to get lobotomized.”
“Interesting. They told me you were spilling secrets left and right from down there.”
Floorenstein laughed in a hearty tone.
“If I told them anything, it was complete nonsense. I don’t think I’ve been able to string a coherent thought together in months.”
“I figured as much. The zookeeper is totally insane as far as I can tell. I couldn’t tell what kind of prison he was running.”
“Oh it’s not a prison, really. More of a place for those who want to get out of the normal flow of things for a while. Either way though, I’m glad you came for me. I was getting sick of it, and the ape hallucinations were beginning to be too much. Too religious, you know.”
Winson raised his eyebrows and set his tea down. The walls began to breathe gently, and the armchairs began to swim beneath them. In a few seconds they were both carried off into a restful sleep.
Tom Sebold grew up and attended college in Iowa, and is now retired in Bangor, Maine. He survives there with his wife and two calico cats.