Dome, Desert, Castle

Authors Note: Just because this story is written partially in the 2nd person doesn't mean you have to imagine yourself as the protagonist. I certainly wasn't imagining you as the protagonist when I wrote it.

If one were to dream for many nights, and remember what one dreamed once awake, and make careful record of those memories, then one might notice some patterns in those records of those dreams which hint at a possible escape from dreamland, and vague instructions on how to achieve that escape. If one were to take note of those dreams, and compare those notes with others who are similarly observant, then, perhaps with some trial and error, one might come to a red wooden doorway in the dreamland, which, once exited, opens unto a vast desert. By standing in the desert and looking back, one will notice that all the dreams of one's life up to that point have taken place within a massive dome of white marble, with a single red wooden doorway the only exit. When next one sleeps, they will still be in the desert, and will remain there until they return to the red doorway and go back into the dome that is the dreamland.

If one were to temporarily forsake the normal variety of dreams, and wander through the infinite and tedious desert, one might eventually find oneself inspired to wander in a particular direction. And, if one dutifully followed those directional-inspirations for a time of four years, give or take, then one would come to a castle in the desert, with an exterior made out of giant uncarved boulders, as if built by some pre-masonic primeval architect. The interior of the castle is more luxurious, with walls covered entirely by gems, and floors of glass. The lord of the dream-castle that lies a distance four years journey through the dream-desert from the dream-dome is a man of about seven feet tall, whose face shifts over time, so that in March he might look sharp and angular with intense eyes, but someone who visits him in December will see that his face is doughy and pleasant, like Santa Claus.

This man, who introduces himself as King Buttslap, offers a deal to anyone who arrives at his castle. If the visitor agrees to let King Buttslap slap him or her on the butt a few times, he will record the visitor's name in his large metal book, along with some details about their life. The details are always chosen by King Buttslap, and he will not alter them for any price. For instance, about Mark Twain the king might write,

"Prominent American Humorist and Author. Born in Florida, Missouri. Distinctive Moustache."

The advantage of this deal is that even if all trace of the visitor is lost, for instance, if the human race were to perish, or the entire universe were to be destroyed, their existence and the existence of all other visitors to Castle Buttslap will be recorded forever in his large metal book, in the indestructible and unconquerable realm of dreams.

You do not need to take careful record of your dreams to find the location of the red wooden doorway to exit the dream dome, nor do you particularly need to heed the whispers in one's mind that would serve to guide you through the dream desert. The process for escaping the dream dome has been broadly known and publicized for some one hundred years, and the route through the dream desert was definitively ascertained some six years after that.

So, by following the widely accessible instructions, you have exited the dome, traversed the desert, and now find yourself with an audience with this king. And he says to you,

"Today is not only a momentous occasion in your life, but a momentous occasion for all humanity! For today is the day that I retire my buttslapping practice, and begin my career in butthonking! From now on, I will continue to offer my typical deal to visitors to my castle, but will instead be requesting butthonks instead of buttslaps in exchange for my record-keeping. You are the first guest of this new era. Not only that, but if you accept my butthonks, yours will be the first entry in my new book!"

Your heart catches in your chest. Your mind is racing, trying to process all the implications of what you have just heard. But you are dreaming, and your powers of logic and analysis are not what they are in waking life.

"Will the old book be okay?"

If you were awake, you would have phrased the question, "How will this affect the buttslap-era book?" But of course, such eloquence is difficult in dreams.

"Have no fear. The preservation of the old book, which I will henceforth call the Buttslap Book, is under no threat. I will preserve it and keep it open for visitors to peruse, as always."

You are sure there are more relevant and important questions you should be asking, but in your dream-addled fugue those questions seem as fleeting and elusive as... something. Some sort of weird bug that can't be caught. Or ghosts. Yes, ghosts. That works better. Or shadows at a rave, because the lights flicker so the shadows are always moving around, and even if they weren't you couldn't grasp them because shadows are incorporeal. There are people who memorize the new entries in the book every night in their dreams and then make a record of them in the waking world, and those people must be lucid indeed to accomplish such a task, you think to yourself.

"Okay... Alright, I accept the bargain. The deal."

"Good choice!"

The King's flutterlings fluttered all around the room and formed a cylinder around your lower half, coalescing into something with some amount of grip strength and then pulling down your pants. Then they became diffuse again and flitted over the surface of your naked butt, like a light breeze. But warm instead of cool.

The King arrived at your butt and laid his hands on it, touching it all around. His touch was like a blind man trying to identify a mysterious object by feel. His touch was also like a detective (or "cop" if you will) (not to be a smart ass), pulling at a man's face to see if he is wearing a realistic rubber mask. Then, with no additional fanfare, he honked your left buttcheek three times with his left hand, and then your right buttcheek three times with his right hand.

And then he wrote down your name and information in his book, and then you woke up.