The Bad Decision Machine
Imagine a figure dressed in dark victorian style, crushed velvet in black and the colour of pooling blood, a Chesshire cat grin showing a yellowed and toothy maw. His clothing and hat are dusty and dishevelled and he has the rank of mildew and rot about him. In front of him is a stand that comes to his waist. On the stand is a big black box, about the size of a bread box on a side, and is embossed with layer upon layer of black arcane looking gizmos, gadgets, and gears. The box is dark, reflects little light except for the insidious turning of gears and the organ grinder begins to crank the richly stained handle of the Bad Decision Machine.
Before it a very tired, ragged, and bedraggled monkey sighs and pulls itself out of the dust and begins to dance. And dance it does to the eerie sound that emanates from the organ grinder's box - ancient chords grinding over a sick parody of a merry child's tune. The notes are haunting but flat, and the monkey dances a dance.
The dance causes him discomfort as the spell and the malady of the music grip his soul and cause him to move like an undead marionette. The music is sickly sweet, the dancing grave, and the result is old wounds on the poor tattered monkey begin to ooze and matt his mousey grey fur.
The audience weeps for the sickly monkey. The beg it to stop dancing - but they don't see the organ grinder or hear the music. It has ensorcelled him by the siren's call of the void emanating from the Bad Decision Machine.
It knows something though that keeps it dancing its ratty dance - its weepy eyes have a glimmer because it knows that from the Bad Decision Machine every now and then a compartment opens. If the machine gets cranked long enough, and if the monkey dances the dance - almost every time - the box opens - and a bright jewel drops out of the bottom of the box.
The audience wonders as the sickly muppet janks around gleefully because the box is opening. A bright jewel, a precious fruit, a nugget of joy and insight falls from the horrid box into eagerly awaiting but badly mangled upturned hands. The jewel is grasped tightly to the monkeys chest - it treasures the insight, the nourishment, the beauty of the hard earned jewel.
And the organ grinds on.
Before it a very tired, ragged, and bedraggled monkey sighs and pulls itself out of the dust and begins to dance. And dance it does to the eerie sound that emanates from the organ grinder's box - ancient chords grinding over a sick parody of a merry child's tune. The notes are haunting but flat, and the monkey dances a dance.
The dance causes him discomfort as the spell and the malady of the music grip his soul and cause him to move like an undead marionette. The music is sickly sweet, the dancing grave, and the result is old wounds on the poor tattered monkey begin to ooze and matt his mousey grey fur.
The audience weeps for the sickly monkey. The beg it to stop dancing - but they don't see the organ grinder or hear the music. It has ensorcelled him by the siren's call of the void emanating from the Bad Decision Machine.
It knows something though that keeps it dancing its ratty dance - its weepy eyes have a glimmer because it knows that from the Bad Decision Machine every now and then a compartment opens. If the machine gets cranked long enough, and if the monkey dances the dance - almost every time - the box opens - and a bright jewel drops out of the bottom of the box.
The audience wonders as the sickly muppet janks around gleefully because the box is opening. A bright jewel, a precious fruit, a nugget of joy and insight falls from the horrid box into eagerly awaiting but badly mangled upturned hands. The jewel is grasped tightly to the monkeys chest - it treasures the insight, the nourishment, the beauty of the hard earned jewel.
And the organ grinds on.