Welcome to Tagus.
When it comes to safety there are two kinds of people. Those who remain busking their way through the workforce. Treating it as their savior with hopes of saving up enough to retire before their erectile dysfunction gets redefined. Savagely arm-chair quarterbacking domestic affairs with obtuse tongues and sludge-infested intestines. Beyond this realm is where the odd balls, misfits, and seekers rain. Doing their best to expand their minds and environment. Taking chances that your average housewife would not dare. These saints of the underworld are called Urban Explorers.
Let me introduce you to these unique cybernauts. [Note: These are obviously cyber names.] The eldest is Donny626. He is a 28 year-old pornographic engineer and an overzealous fan of the writer Philip K. Dick. PinkPanther is the goddess of the group. She’s a twenty-two year old horse massage therapist from Fargo. One might say she looks like a Suicide Girl, except with clothes on. Rounding out this tribe is DogBoy, aka GadgetFace, aka EagleNuts. Most nights he DJ’s at a strip club called Legends. Coincidentally, this was the same club PinkPanther won second prize at during an amateur contest.
I tagged along purely as an objective journalist. What does that mean? Let’s say DogBoy, aka SqaurrelNutZipper, is walking in front of me on a rusty scaffolding. I see him stub his toe, lose his balance, then lean into a less-than-stable railing. Next, he cartwheeled three hundred and fifty feet to an oversized cement coffin. I can’t help him. Don’t judge me readers. This is no different than an embedded journalist witnessing a woman being raped by a team of Chinese monkey bats in the Congo.
No thought of our location entered my mind until I found myself squeezing through a security fence thinking, “I have no idea where the hell I am.”
“You may want a little background, you know, for the story,” said Donny626 with a chuckle.
I agreed and pulled out my recorder device.
“So this is what happened. It was 1987, sleeping town, oh ya we never told you where we were going. Mr. Journalist guy…welcome to Tagus. This little outpost once was home to a general store, bored inbred farmers, and a midget farm. It was a quiet place until the Satanist came to town. Then all hell broke loose. Goats were charging baby strollers. Cows could be seen dry humping fence posts and the God-fearing church goers were blowing themselves up in Meth labs. But what got their attention was a woman by the name of Becky K. I won’t use her last name to protect her identity. She was found hanging from the rafters of the old church. This old church to be exact. Like I said, it got weird. Most of the people moved away. Some stayed and the Satanist…he vanished.”
Donny626 chuckled again which made me uncomfortable, but we continued up to the main entrance despite his unusual sense of humor. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary except for the goat tied to the tree and the black light glowing through the broken stained glass windows. DogBoy, aka KittenPimp, popped the lock and we were in. Just then an elderly white man in a white tuxedo appeared from no where.
“Welcome friends! Would you care for some Tang?” said the old man.
Just then a kaleidoscope of lights shot through the air. It looked like a Pink Floyd concert. I stepped back trying to remain as much of an outside observer as possible, but couldn’t help notice this old, disheveled house of God now looked new. I watched as the old man lead the three to the big red door. Pink Panther opened it and asked the elderly stranger, “this leads to heaven, eh? So, why do the stairs go down instead of up?”
Their guts told them to leave, but their principle told them to go. Donny626 tossed me the keys and said, “wait for us. If we aren’t back by sun up, well, then I guess we’re all fucked.”
The mighty sun did rise and fell as I waited. No PinkPanther with her sexy Mighty Mouse tattoo. No Donny626 with his always tasteful dick and fart jokes. And no DogBoy, aka BeerSlut, aka TantMilk with his distrust of anything with four legs. Where these seekers landed I do not know, but one thing is for certain. Actually, two things are for certain. Never trust a man in a white suit offering to show you heaven. And two, like a Chinese swamp bat in the Congo, always trust your instincts.
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