MJ In The Park: How A King Of Pop Flunked A New Life In Pipe. Twice.
"What is the deal with all the Michael Jackson stuff?"
"Please, Discovered Man, I'm dying over here, how does MJ fit into the Griffith lore?"
I get so many of these inquiries that I could print them out on 2-ply and have two lifetimes of TP. You all know by now that I am very protective of the Big Lore® I've crafted over the years and would never willingly rob someone of the experience of wonder and ponder and deeper levels of analysis that make observing anonymous artwork so special but...
I think I'm going to make something of an exception for Michael, a Michael clause if you will.
Diagram detailing the purposes of each MJ finger
As far as The Hiding Man (THM) is concerned, Michael is not allowed in Griffith Park. He has not been allowed in the park since THM ruled, firmly, in 1997, after two failed attempts at rehabilitation via a new life in pipe. Michael is just one of a few who did not successfully excise their demons in the aggressive domestic system of pipe life rehab with THM. Michael is the only one who has ever been given a second stab at pipe life. His failure to adapt after the second stint, which I'll be detailing here, forced THM to implement a stricter set of rules and a more aggressive, more romantic experience in the pipe. Despite Michael's lukewarm response to the tender process of physical intimacy therapy in the pipe, an oft-cited favorite among those who've been processed, THM proceeded to try a number of approaches and refused to give up during their second time through the process. THM sourced a wide variety of lovers and nurturers from Griffith Park and the L.A. River, presenting them to Michael daily in recognition of the signs Michael exhibited while undergoing the pipe process. None were acceptable for him and THM found himself flummoxed for the first time in a quarter century.
To say that Michael responded poorly to the variety of romantic guests would be the understatement of the year: those he bared his teeth and flicked his tongue at got it the easiest, however, the final three or four suffered minor injuries as Michael took to shoving and tripping them or twisting their wrists with some force. What THM didn't understand immediately was that Michael and perhaps more importantly, Michael's appetite, wasn't being understood, rather he was being treated like a standard, normal humanoid of fluid sexuality. Michael comes from another place, someplace other than where the majority of us here on earth come from. Nobody knows where that is as he was notoriously private about his own origins and especially so about his plane or dimension of birth. All that remains known to this day is that at some point prior to the mid 1950s he didn't exist and then suddenly there were five, with him front and center, pampers smartly hidden beneath his little tuxedo, singing his beloved munchkin songs with his innate cuteness, to the uncritical and easily-pleased masses across the globe.
In the pipe, Michael's appetite became too difficult to work around and his frustrations with not having these needs met began to affect other elements of the pipe rehabilitation program. Normally speaking in quiet, hushed whispers, Michael started to gnash his teeth and silently chomp them before speaking and when he did, words beginning or ending in the letter 's' were hissed at THM.
Even during these prolonged periods of aggression some things were still moving along nicely, as intended. Michael seemed to excel at the "Do no act like ______ " fill-in-the-blank exercise and scored very high on the blind identification game, particularly when it came to identifying things that "fell smooth like musharoon." He did very well with those and occasionally THM could almost see a shift on his face resembling the standard human smile shape. It was enough for THM to continue on with the treatment.
It is very important that in recounting these events that I address the lost time that was experienced by both THM and Michael during this second rehabilitation attempt. THM doesn't use cameras or any recording devices, he eschews tech in every form and he has made a life out of evading it and all of those who wish to profit from the numerous bounties issued by clever, powerful men throughout the decades. But this doesn't mean that he doesn't have a means to watch, to record and analyze events. Similarly to Michael, THM is not "from here," well, not exactly. And I do not care to elaborate on that at this time. Just understand that they both experienced an temporal abnormality of some sort, an interruption in time that could not be accounted for by either man. It was but minutes lost yet massive, irrevocable changes took place. The two men were seated on the bare dirt floor of the pipe domain, cross-legged and facing one another in the beginning stages of meditation, interrupting each other with their own mantras, escalating in pitch and agitation when finally both froze, their minds glitching in unison, their jaws, or in THM's case, slit, hanging open for exactly two minutes and thirty-eight seconds.
When the two men, master and pupil, reentered what could only now be described as our time and space, THM could not recall what took place during those lost moments, at least not right away. Immediately upon his return to consciousness, Michael began to shift in place, first only minor movements of his limbs, then his head rocking forward and back very slowly and then his hair began to grow long and transform in texture and shape! His face would blush and drain, flush and drain, it was a sight! After ten or fifteen seconds of this, he reverted to the exact state he'd originally entered the pipe in. All of this witnessed by THM, now unable to take his eyes off of Michael. And now that things seemed to have stabilized, he cautiously resumed the lessons and Michael continued to ignore most of it, cooperating only occasionally, seemingly whenever he liked a particular exercise. But those missing moments and Michael's supernatural behavior after gnawed at the corn nut of analytic intelligence at the center of THM's brain, eventually becoming a nagging mental itch he could barely ignore.
The following day was perhaps the toughest THM had experienced as the trusted caretaker of the park and shepherd of rehabilitation for trash types. Upon waking from hibernation (THM doesn't sleep, he experiences brief, nightly bouts of hibernation), he entered the 'sandstone wing' of the pipe, the area Michael had chosen for his private domicile during rehabilitation only to discover that Michael was already awake and active, nude and building small humanoid figures out of the soft earth and small sticks and stones abundant in THM's rehab pipe system. THM wasn't sure of what to make of this, on one hand, this could be seen as a sign of progress, Michael was creating again, maybe this is the first step in a fresh path that would eventually birth a new #1 hit. On the other hand, he appears to have dispensed with the common displays of modesty that rehabilitation requires before graduating back into the world. No, no, this was bad, this is retrograde, he thought as he watched Michael's hands and arms move faster and faster as he built his sixth small homunculus. THM, being a modest entity with a tremendous degree of self respect not traditionally possessed by any terran man, found himself unable to avert his gaze once he caught something squirn: Michael's male organ gave a quick spasm and lifted slightly after taking a step back to observe his creations. THM quickly composed himself but it was too late, Michael caught him observing it and Michael...well, Michael liked this a lot - this triggered something in him, Michael's cow eyes widened larger than THM had ever seen and then a faint, hissed whisper emerged from his lips: "shhh..."
And again: "ssshhha..." "sshhaaam..."
THM tried to speak but his throat dried as did the entire pipe chamber: all moisture was immediately sucked out of the subterranean dwelling system, Michael's eyes closed fast and tight, THM coughed out a "Now...stop...this" (in his language, of course) "Stop...now...Michael..." but Michael did not care, he reminded him, mouthing "you know I'm bad..." and as his hair sprouted out of its follicles, his member paced it, his fists balled, the tape on his fingers unfurled, curling away from him, his nose slid a few millimeters down his face and he hissed another "shhammmo..." THM rushed toward Michael, clumsily knocking over one of the small, newly created golems but if Michael noticed it, he didn't show it, a man's moan filled the dwelling, seemingly coming from another reality and Michael let out another, fragmented cry "shhha-a-a-mmm-mone!"
Earth, rock, soil, bones, insects, living and dead, all rained down inside the chambers. Seconds passed, THM carefully protecting his smooth and very pleasant-to-the-touch head from the shower of debris. Slight tremors in the ground rippled for a moment after. THM looked up and saw that Michael was now large! He'd grown in size by roughly 150%. Michael stared down at him, without emotion, a joyless but benign expression. This chilled THM more than his earlier aggression and a shiver slithered down his spine. Before he could gather his thoughts, Michael, right there in front of him, reduced! Immediately, he shrank in every way, limbs retracted, his new longer hair fell out and formed into a neat bob with attractive flips on the ends, his arms turned chubby, his neck vanished; Michael, in just moments, had turned into a baby. THM's ears were ringing, well, more of a hum layered over the absence of sound down there but he noticed Michael mouthing words in his direction. It took a minute but THM could make out a few of them:
"Cuidado...con...mi...impostor..." a quick glitch in his expression and then "Mi pañal está LLENO hee-heee"
Great Caesar's ghost! He speaks Spanish? He really is something special! Ooh! He's not messing around, he is wearing pampers but that is not my problem, THM thought, he couldn't believe his eye cavities, there he stood, just a foot away from Michael, now seated on the ground in baby form- oh no, wait, what is this now? He shifts! Michael grows gently! He is now a toddler stirring in his pampers, rocking left and right, he's attempting to stand up! THM is frozen, watching the infamous musician, the so-called King of Pop, take his first steps! He doesn't know why but he finds himself overcome with emotion, feeling what normal types describe as 'pride' and he can feel his long defunct tear ducts lubricate while his lower mouth slit trembles. THM composes himself. Michael, now standing five or six feet from his morning creations, takes one clumsy step toward them, wobbles and rights himself, turns, firing a pinch of sass back at THM, a smile forms, he glances again at his assembly of golems and spins on a chubby heel to face away from them. Flies are gathering around his waist, this bothers THM, it provokes an ominous feeling and then there is a pause, that still air again, it feels like an eternity to THM, who is now captivated by these events. Michael sticks his bottom lip out and blows a little puff up at the hair in his face, it parts and instantly, faster than anything THM had ever seen before, Michael glides backwards to the cluster of golems, spins, glides backwards to his starting position and once more, returns to his creations.
This, THM thought, was obviously the famed 'moonwalk' that his throngs of loyal, insatiable fans clamored for while he was at his best, up there on all those stages, making buckets of money for a massive network of wealthy, powerful people. I get it, he thought, I'll need to figure out the recipe but I'll need to be slick about it, Michael is very savvy and he seems to have increased his power during his time down here. I'll be damned if I don't master the maneuver myself, moving around the park that way could save me life-changing amounts of time. These thoughts came and went as THM was a master of organization and focus, he remembered that despite all the surreal events recently, Michael was still mid rehabilitation and there was a lot more work to be done if the world was gonna have a healthy, happy reborn MJ.
THM watched as the Michael toddler fidgeted with his golem friends, posing all of them rather strangely in a semi circle around him except for one, a bald baby-looking thing, laying on its back. Michael worked the hardest on this one, moulding its arms into a pose that looked like it was hugging something invisible. But soon Michael crawled into the empty space to be embraced by the lain golem, while being silently watched over by the others. A greasy, sad feeling washed over THM immediately upon seeing this. He hadn't felt that nauseated since...never mind, that's not important, he needed to put a stop to this.
"Damnit Michael, you grow back to your normal man size right now, you have not been a baby since the 60s!"
Michael lifted his head and let out the softest hiss back at him, almost cute, really. Before he could respond, Michael shifted, sliding out from under the golem's embrace and quickly stood up. A tremor rippled through him and he began to shift back. In just seconds he was restored to his middle aged scarecrow self. THM mistook this for progress, thinking it a good sign that he responded to his command. Michael took one step toward him and spit, poorly, without any distance to it and coming nowhere near hitting THM, before doing a snappy spin on his heel and walking off toward the lesson room. THM gathered his clothing and followed him into the lesson area.
THM tossed the wad of clothes at him "Big Mikey needs to be clothed always, you know this-RULE NUMBER ONE!"
"I don't like that rule number one, that rule'sss ignorant" Michael hissed as he stepped into the legs of his custom Issey Miyake pants, lifting his nuts-sack with his left hand, tugging it outward, away from his stringy body, a small chuckle escapes his lips and with a tuck and shuffle they are hidden again as he buttons his pants up at his waist. His smile fading as he looks over at THM.
In an even softer whisper, Michael adds "no more grown-up visitorsss, Apple-Head"
"What was that? Speak up, my ward!" THM found himself irked despite the fact that he couldn't quite hear what he'd said, instantly annoyed by his charge's...demanding tone. Who was the rehabilitator in this situation? Who had successfully processed thousands of broken, trashy angelenos over the decades? Michael may have all the "moves" he thought, but he knew nothing down here, down in these pipes of tremendous transformation. Pipes that made new, good men out of angry little wads of dough. His thoughts were interrupted by a faint whiff of something sweet and foul. Something familiar and revolting. Michael kept his eye on THM as he left the lesson area, allowing the now-overpowering stench to guide him to its location. The smell led THM back to Michael's crew of golems, where he found his pamper, unfurled with a tiny dab of inky black paste at the center, agitated flies swarming and multiplying faster that he could count them.
"MICHAEL!"
Silence.
"Michael, get in here NOW."
More silence. THM bent down and refolded the pamper, flies scattering all over. The adhesive was no longer effective so he had to ball it up and hold it tight with his craggy, pocked fingers. He made his way back to the lesson room, fuming, but upon seeing Michael seated in his designated learning chair, his nerves eased and his irritation was replaced with a calm, pleased feeling. He approached his chair, pulling it in closer to face Michael and sat down.
THM extended his pamper-full hand toward Michael cautiously
"Here, this is your mess. Do you remember this?"
Michael lets out a little huff "...Doo-Doo-Fee-Ceesss..."
"That's right, Michael. And what do we do with that stuff down here?" THM was still waiting for Michael to take the pamper from his hand.
Michael, suddenly wide-eyed, blurts "we summon a Chud to take poo-poos away! Ah-chow'tch-ah!"
Okay, we're getting back on track, this is good. THM feels a wave of relief that after all the bizarre events, Michael remembers what he'd learnt thus far. Maybe this isn't a lost cause after all? Maybe big Michael, among the most troubled of pipe life guests, can be cleansed of these low-mind-volume desires, among the very worst imaginable. THM begins to feel warm at the thought that he may send back an healed, liberated, super intelligent pop king in place of the scandalous, corrupted being who flunked out of his first trip to the pipes six years earlier. This provoked a great charge of ambitious thinking, none more exciting than the possibility of a Michael so healthy, so cured that he could agree to the complete and total demolition of his mysterious Neverland compound which had been THM's loftiest goal when it came to working with the troubled Moonwalker.
THM, now lost in reverie, indulging in the implications of a world with a corrected, healthy Michael...one without a Neverland compound keeping all of his secrets, a labyrinth of horror and unchecked indulgence. This rejuvenated him, so much so that it took a moment to realize that Michael was now holding the pamper, inspecting it, bringing it uncomfortably close to his unblinking face
"I will sssummon him now" he whispered
"hee-hee...DO YOU SEEN THAT SHIT!? OHHHH SHIIIIITT! LET'S FUCKINGGG GOOOOO! ANOTHER ONE!! WHAT, CLOWN!?" The ever evolving cry built from a variety of catch-phrases coined by the lowest baby-brained men that this planet has had the misfortune of hosting: this call ignites and activates the complex transit hub located beneath the old zoo grounds.
Upon realizing that Michael had memorized the summons code, a warm feeling came over THM, it was brief and quickly interrupted by the sound of thousands of gallons of water rushing through giant pipes, like a huge toilet flushing but no water would appear. This is the sound of the Griffith Park nexus working to transport someone or something from one point to another. It is a strenuous, dirty and dangerous process that leaves the traveler disoriented for some time after. The Chud, one of several in the park at any time, does not experience these effects, if anything, he abuses the delicate process and must be kept from utilizing it too frequently or risk damaging yet another of its delicate passageways. In an instant, it is deposited into the vestibule of the receiving area, covered in dirt. It makes its way down the corridor and into the lesson room and shuffles over to the two men, stained sweatpants drooping further with each shuffling step.
The Chud, his eyes too close together, looks around the lesson room stopping at Michael, offers his index finger to him and a big grin grows across his stubbly face. He makes a slight shake of the finger, first in Michael's direction, then THM's, who both shake their heads "no, thank you."
Michael extends his bony, yellow claw gripping the unraveling pamper, the adhesive of his finger tape now sticking to the wad, making poking gestures toward The Chud who shifts his gaze toward THM and back to Michael before swiping the wad from his hand. The Chud pantomimes a kiss in Michael's direction and a soft fart slips out of him as he shuffles back toward the tunnel exit.
"Hey! Do not make me have to come find you! Dispose of it using standard process C-2 or I will kick you out again."
THM has a long and difficult relationship with The Chud and an even rougher standing agreement with him, or them, he has not been able to find a way to tell them apart. Lovers in some of the harder, leaner eras, siblings in the more bountiful, pleasant times but a Chud is an unchangeable, therapy resistant, sociopathic belly crawler of a man and there is very little that they can be bargained with. The big exception being access to the park and the trashiest of its visitors. Among the top percentile of trashy visitors, those THM feels are too far gone and beyond his abilities are typically delivered to The Chud as his wards, or, in rare cases where the trash types exhibit exceptional talents of benefit to the park, they undergo a brief training before conversion to an official park Chud.
This interaction has amused Michael, he has that impish grin again and a minor unease washes over THM. He asks him if he is ready to continue his studies, opening up the big tome to the DO NO ACT LIKE _____ exercise despite the fact that Michael had long ago mastered it. THM felt that a return to something familiar was the best first step here, that it would be easy to zip through it and get caught up if all was still right in his strange, transformed head. This was a great miscalculation on his part. Michael reached over to the massive, musty book and slammed it closed, nearly crushing THM's hand in it
"Do NOT insult me...rotten-applehead..." Michael whispered through his crimson, nearly closed lips "You don't know who you're condessscending to...I am the instrument through which music flows, music and...power unimaginable..." now gnashing those pricey teeth
THM sits still stunned by the aggressive display, feeling it best to listen for now, to witness and strategize for what's coming. He always knew when to wait, to watch or listen, when to gather himself
"I demand an early graduation, for I am - hee-hee - healed! If you do not release me from these pipesss, I will use my magic to trap you and I will send my right hand, mí simio Bub-bles to chase you through these tunnels until your disssgusting, pipe-walking feet are raw and bloody, exactly the way my Bub-bles likes them and do not think it ends there! NO! For he will flip you over and drag his fangs along the bottom of them and no man has ever recovered from such a torment! Asylums across the world are filled with raw-feeted men who dared to condessscnd to me" Michael's face twitched as his treats continued
"you know what you are...you're...nasty spaghetti!! Ha! Hee-hee...that's what you are!"
THM sat staring into the huge, dilated pupils pushing out of Michael's face, searching for something sane, something familiar, anything that he could reach that resembled the contrite, gentile man who called the summons code for help last spring but there was nothing of that unusually beautiful man left, he had been twisted since then...almost like he'd been swapped out with something mad, something with a head full of scrambled eggs. He knew that it was over. Everything he did to fix the broken, backwards-dancing Pied Piper's tainted soul was for nothing. He began to realize something even more terrifying than the threats of the simian's fangs, he began to realize that his flawless rehabilitation process may have actually made Michael worse
"I'm not Jack The Ripper! But um, maybeee...if you try to keep me...down here...I will become Mike The Ripper, hee-heee"
THM sat in his defeat considering his options yet, strangely, he felt less afraid than one would reasonably be in these circumstances. But truth be told, he was made of real grit. He literally has some grit in his DNA.
"Liz Taylor is gorgeousss!" Michael's madness continued, almost robotically, his eyes looking at the ceiling, this non sequitur yanked THM back into the moment
"Before I would hurt a child, I would ssslit your wristsss, heh- hee-hee!"
THM found himself once again staring into the eyes of the increasingly unhinged Gloved One, except this time, he was scanning for something different: perhaps a crack, a flaw to exploit, something to give him an advantage and remove the rambling puppet from his domain without having to endure injury to his person. He wasn't willing to go into another prolonged repair-hibernation state, there were other responsibilities to tend to. His job as custodian of the park held no hours, it would be 24/7 until his soul discarded this body for another. Easier said that done, he felt a pang of sadness at the thought
"Whatsss-a-matter butt'hole-face? Doo-doo head!" Michael snapped while digging his gloved hand into his pocket, pulling out a second glove!
THM had thoroughly examined him, every pocket, pouch, and cavity with a strong light source, even deploying his homemade endoscope, he had carefully cataloged all his possessions (which consisted of a baby bottle and various bags full of hydrocodone and oxycodone pills) while processing him into the new life in pipe program. This made him very uneasy, what else could he have hidden? But what really made his stomach turn happened when Michael slipped on the second glove: Michael's hair extended instantly into a shoulder-length bob right in front of his eyes; a five o'clock shadow sprouted in a perfect grid pattern and his chin let out a sick wheeze as it clefted right there before him! What was this evil, THM thought, feeling a panic forming in his stomach, or perhaps, that was his lunch attempting to evacuate. THM was suddenly doubled over and dry heaving with force, splitting his mouth slit even wider, his nose fold flapping as old tears squeezed from his eye cavities. Nothing came up. He turned his face toward Michael, beige fluid running down his very smooth, seemingly pleasant-to-touch face, the inside of his head pounding, ears ringing, everything sounded underwater for a moment.
Michael, watching him with a curious expression across his new face, the larger eyes refusing or unable to change in shape, his head tilting slightly as he seemed to study his former teacher:
"I'm going to leave now but I want you to hear my new, very best idea: Griffith Park will be my new Neverland. Except I will call it...Wonderland...and no grown-upsss allowed! And no girlsss allowed, girls are tattletalesss just like you!"
Michael's face finally moves, his left eye twitching, THM's face has dried up, his stomach lurches again but he keeps his mouth slit closed tightly, he tries to think through the nausea but his mind keeps replaying that sound his chin made
"I'll be back very sssoon and if I find you ssstill here, me and my little pet-pal will play a game of pull-to-part with you and once your lights go out...I will feed your Chud to Bubbles, who will eat him very ssslowly and with great care...shitting him out in itty bitty batches that will be processed into concession sssnacks for all of the sweet childrenss and you can be sssure that they will be paying very high pricesss for them"
With those words, a gauntlet had been thrown, this crossed a line and there would be no coming back. THM had an iron resolve: absolutely no commerce could take place within the park, by decree of the Colonel himself, an oath THM swore to uphold. It could even be argued that safeguarding the park, keeping it free of crass commerce, was the very purpose of his existence
"Yess yess, hee...heee, maybe I'll even bring my handsome impersonator too! He wears his little hat and ponytail while he begsss god for my phone call, oh yesss, with his appetite he could be a great help to me in my new Wonderland...yesss, him without his disgusting angelsss"
If he could scream, he would, MJ had his gonads in a metaphorical vice grip, he was completely incapacitated and in over his head, he could feel something, some power coating him, coating the whole cavernous room were they stood. This was suddenly no longer a place of healing and progress, a foulness had been beset upon its walls. An idea begins to form, a real hail mary plan. Michael doesn't notice it or perhaps doesn't care but THM, his right hand curled tight into a righteous fist, begins inching toward the entrance vestibule, Michael moonwalks around him
"Just know that you did thisss, your ugly grown-up face forcing me to do homework and testsss for weeksss, unable to have my friends sssleep over with me, making me hand my defecates to another sssilly grown-up for...analyzation...this is all your fault, you made this, Rubba! Heee hee"
"Hee-heee! Yeah you are Rubba, thatsss your new name: Rubba Face!"
THM, now much closer to the vestibule, finds himself enraged, an emotion he hadn't experienced in decades but an emotion reluctantly recalled and never forgotten. His fists balled, blood blasting through his veins, his member lifts slightly but no matter, he felt strong, virile, a charge of men's power coursing through him, an unfamiliar feeling but welcome in this moment.
"Whatever happened to that ugly old Rubba Face Man in Griffith Park? That's what people will sssay after me and Bubbles turn you out, hee hee!"
The nearly-doubled over Hiding Man rights himself, his body creaking and straining as he stands erect, his mind parting the fog like drapes before a motel window, he lifts up both of his arms, bringing his fists in front of his face. Michael, smirking, his tongue flicking in and out between his bright red lips, responds by raising his gloved hands, both missing large swaths of sequins, the fingertips stained yellow
"I'm so sorry, Michael. I really wanted you to be happy"
THM's fists open and he places them on Michael's shoulders which surprises both of them
"If you and your chimp- "
"Ape! Doo-doo head!" an upsetting odor is caught by THM as the insult exits MJ's lips
"If you and Bubble-"
"Bubblessss! I can get him back at any time I want!" The odor is distinct...like...milk? This distracts THM. Not quite spoiled, just milk, a stomachy-lactose smell that he cannot handle in ideal situations, never mind at this moment of great conflict and turmoil, such a scent hissed into his face tests the fidelity of his esophageal sphincter
"If you and Bubbles want to tear me to pieces and wipe fang along my feet...then so be it. But right now, you to know something: I would've done anything to help you become the healthiest chart-topping Peter Pan this planet has ever seen but, after everything you've said and done today, you are forever banished from Griffith Park and if you dare try to test me, well...this is your only warning"
Without a hint of emotion, hands gripping Michael's hollow biceps, THM lifts him up roughly three inches off the ground, one of Michael's slippers falls off, his maniac face shifts into a clown's frown, his muscles wobbling, a silent pause before a firrttt sound squeaks out of one of them but the who of it doesn't matter here, its too late, THM cries out and up at the ceiling
"DO YOU SEEN THAT SHIT? OHHHH SHIIITT! LET'S FUCKINGG GOOOO! A'NOTH'ER ONE! WHAT, CLOWN!?"
The chamber fills with with the sound of rushing water coming at you a hundred miles an hour, the tube in the ceiling's mouth opens, its walls pulsing, finally vomiting a doughy Chud into the chamber before them: "what's that smell?" it mews from the ground. THM gives it a gentile kick and swings Michael right beneath the mouth and within seconds, he is sucked up into the nexus' colon, the last remnant of him, his white socked foot, dangling briefly before fully disappearing into the passage tube. A sound is quickly snuffed out as the mouth closes
"hee-heee ee e e e"
Only these three men were there that day, at that moment of final judgement and if it weren't for the meticulous ledgers that The Hiding Man kept over the years, this story would never have been known by anyone else. In fact, it was a very unlikely and unpredictable sequence of events that led to you reading this story. First, had it not been for the great fire of 2007, where several of THM's nests were destroyed, the location of these specific journals would never have been known. The burn zones didn't exactly reveal the nests but cleared away the first barriers to entry. And were it not for an unemployed artist poking around these parts of the park, parts typically avoided by others eventually finding the crate containing the remains of two journals, you would not be reading this story. And even then, it took the odds-defying work of the artist seven years to crack THMs cypher and fully decode these journals.
Michael ultimately left Griffith Park park alone, perhaps forgetting his promise to THM and finding a renewed drive toward his dark indulgences. Having failed his rehabilitation, leaving the park with new, evil abilities, it would appear that he pursued his horrible interests with zeal, if the news over the next few years is to be believed.
THM did make mention in his journals of a brief, final encounter with him sometime in 2001, where Michael entered park, spoke the code sequence to summon him, standing in the exact spot where he had asked for his help in 1997. The exchange was brief and without conflict. He believed that the purpose of it was show him that Michael had figured out how to project his thoughts directly into the minds of others. This read as a threat to THM as he understand it. He showed him images of him incarcerated at Neverland while Michael and some of his...smaller friends looked at him like a zoo animal. THM recalls shaking his head and the projection vanishing, it was the first proof he'd experienced that his power had also grown since their last encounter. Michael, perhaps bored or distracted by other tasks on the agenda, took leave of the park.
Several years later (2009), word eventually reached THM, via the Beacon Hill relay network, that Michael had finally "dropped the body," passing on to wherever moonwalking billionaires go but something about this didn't feel right to him, he had no reason to doubt it, Michael, after all, lived a troubled, secret life and it was only a matter of time before death or the short pincer of the law caught up to him. Yet. An itch he couldn't scratch, something gnawed at that of truth-awareness kernel embedded deep in the center of his brain: it didn't feel true to him, something stank and it wasn't The Chud this time. A few weeks later, another dispatch came through, this time from the Bauchet and Vignes magic phone bank. Odd, he thought, he hadn't received more than a call a month over the last two years. It was a former park resident, a Chud-in-training who'd flunked out and been removed earlier that year for excessive mischief on equestrians, a real Burbank looks type who'd called THM looking for passage back to the park after a short incarceration in Twin Towers Correctional Facility. In an effort to get back to the park, he was eager to share information that he believed would earn him some major points with el hefe de Griffith Park: Michael sightings were being reported all over Glendale, CA, the city where he'd been interred, his soul securely entombed, yet a disguised Michael had been photographed several times wandering the area.
THM utilized every tool at his disposal to leave the park and travel to Forest Lawn Cemetery in nearby Glendale, CA. He quietly, and without drawing any attention to himself, made his way to Michael's grand tomb in the dead of night, patiently waiting in a row of shrubs until all maintenance crew had left. He is very skilled in entering municipal buildings, especially those built on park land, Forest Lawn was a breeze with a passage system nearly identical to both Griffith and Elysian Parks. Upon entering the tomb, passing the inner drawers, the blast door and bypassing the final, glass barrier, he'd reached Michael's casket chamber, a tight space only slightly larger than his casket. With no more than inches of space on every side, he ran his hands along the casket and felt large jewels and tacky baubles embedded along its starboard side, until he found the latch and unlocked the garish box, cracking the lid the full three inches it would budge.
Whatever was in there was not the Michael he'd spent two extended pipe sessions with. It looked- was this a man or something else? He couldn't be sure, there were no crimson lips, the cracked pancake makeup appeared grey rather than the smooth, chalky pink he'd come to know so well. His glasses were not the signature aviator style that Michael had very publicly requested he be buried wearing. The wig felt greasy to the touch, it didn't seem to match the dry, pitch black bob that THM had become intimately familiar with. Maybe it was Michael, maybe this was all just a trick of the light and low oxygen levels in the cramped casket chamber...but that wig... How could this be? For no apparent reason, he is reminded of the sound Michael's chin made that day years ago which made him feel dizzy suddenly, feeling almost no relief from his efforts, that itch deep in his brain was now a pulse. He took a short breath, still squeezed in that tiny box of a room. He placed his hands along the sides of the casket ready to shimmy out of the confined space but his fingertips find something odd: etchings along its side, scratches, words carved into it...a small rectangular shape, he can't make them out as he feels along the markings...letters...en español? He shifts and contorts to bring his head closer, his rubbery cheek squeezed against the wall:
Cripes! He wasn't the first in there. The realization was chilling but not without a feeling of comfort as well. Who had been here and why? He'd quickly convinced himself that there had been a great switch-er-oo of some type. Perhaps even a clever jape by the real Michael. But when? And where was the real Michael? Who did he have down in that pipe, the real 'Man in The Mirror' or a doppelganger? THM, now back in Griffith, hopping off the 96 line, takes a deep, mind clearing breath before he hears the familiar call sequence off in the distance: someone seeks his help in getting right.
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