I was so frightened. Yes. But I went. I got in line at The Special Building. I presented my false Special Pass--El Blanco. I boarded the Special Transport Vehicle. And I travelled the Special Road to Stalag Ranville!
Yes. I went. And I was astounded to find what I found. So much so that I must unveil this in two parts. It could be much longer but I know how short the attention span of the English Speaking World is, so it will not be as long as it should.
Anyway: Stalag Ranville.
One of the first things that surprised me was that it was an actual town. Or, rather, used to be:
Desolation meets deterioration.
True, there were some signs of activity, proof that the town of Stalag Ranville still contains humanoid islander inhabitants. But this was few and far between. More evidence proved that there once was a somewhat vibrant town here, a community now reduced to dusty almost-abandon.
From the flea-bitten TV stop, the few others who rode with me dispersed towards the prison part of town. I being I, I went in the opposite direction. As I walked I felt quite vulnerable, fragile, watched. Like a lost and lonely astronaut in the depths of cold outer space on You Tube. Yes. Like that. I was as conspicuous as a clam on a plate of oysters. Yet no one bothered me. In fact, I saw nary a soul in this strange used-to-be-town.
Hay Caramba . . .
Stalag Ranville:
Ran-Zero is more like it . . .
In truth, I wished I had not come. But what could I do? I could not turn around and go back to my safe little non-existence back in Soybean Island City. No. I had to see the day through. And of course I made one potentially fatal error in my plans:
I did not know how to get back.
Could I use the same El Blanco Pass? Would I need an El Negro Pass instead? Was there even a TV that returned to civilization (be that as it may) or was I stuck?
Nothing to do but sally forward forthwith (forever?).
Whats this?
A miniature 'Big Rig'!
Perhaps a race of pygmies once roamed and drove and transported goods in this area.
And look!
Perhaps this is a loading platform from which the poor entrepreneurial pygmies were forced onto (perhaps very small) rail cars to meet their deaths . . . Hmmm. Perhaps but not likely.
More:
Scary!
There were abandoned storefronts galore:
With many a strange item seemingly abandoned in haste, like Pompeii or Detroit:
No coffee for you.
Someone needs to clean up around here.
A modern manger made of Styrofoam.
This fish has holes in it--wouldn't it sink?
I am uncertain as to of who this rather un-artistically rendered portrait is supposed to be:
Benedict Arnold or George Washington?
Haile Selassie or Vidal Sassoon?
Perhaps it is Margaret Thatcher. Yes.
But of course no town--even abandoned towns--on Soybean Island would be complete without the presence of you-know-who:
Alas. They--The Apparatus, but of course--are everywhere.
This is all I dare to reveal at this juncture. This is only the town side of Stalag Ranville. I will try, ASAP (as they say), to divulge, disclose, uncover and exhibit more. But it will be of the prison side of town--and I use the term town with some trepidation of accuracy.
Until next time if, indeed, there ever is a next time:
Goodbye from Soybean Island,
#OneNineFiveSeven
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