Fermented

My allergist told me this morning, in an off-hand kind of way, that I should not ingest anything that has been fermented.  Then she paused, slowly pivoted, and turned to look me fully in the face.  She emphatically repeated, “Nothing that has been FERMENTED.” 

The room grew dim as a swirling inter-dimensional vortex cracked open behind her; sucking all the fun and optimism out of the world while simultaneously providing the perfect backdrop to her suddenly robed and cowled figure. 

(Que evil laugh. Now make it echo!)

As her shadow grew both in size and volume, it merged with the vortex - nearly swallowing the room into darkness and despair.  She began to tower over me as she raised her clawed hand, index finger pointed menacingly.  Her voice, raspy as a crypt door, grew in volume as she began listing off bounties that would be henceforth denied to me, “Beer. Wine. Hard Cider. Yeast Breads. Aged Cheeses. Mushrooms. Soy Sauce. Vinegar (I’m okay with that). Yogurt. Miso. Your Will To Live. Hope for a Bright Future.”

I heard a baby crying in the distance somewhere, but I was powerless to help it - even if I was the type to save babies, something more dire was happening here.  I couldn’t tear my eyes off the evil specter that had once been a friendly, non-threatening woman.  Tears and bargaining didn’t sway the demon as she slowly continued to name off basic essentials of life that I could no longer partake of; her eyes growing larger and more hateful, until they became the only things I could see.  Then, finally, darkness.

I have no memory of my escape; the details are a blur.  As I slowly came back to a fully conscious state of mind, I found that I was parked at a convenience store, sipping a cold diet pepsi and holding a receipt for the enormous amount of money I had paid her to shatter my dreams.  No one would make eye contact with me; all being too cowardly to look into the eyes of one who has faced a great evil and was still feeling the effects of the resulting temper tantrum.

If I were one of those in-your-face optimistic types, I’d say something inane that makes me sound like a giant asshole to normal people.  I’m not one of those overly-optimistic-because-I’m-hiding-a-deep-rage people.  Right now, I’m a realist, and as a realist, I will tell you that the hero of this story was Fun, and that hero was brutally murdered.  There is no happy ending to this story. 
No. Happy. Ending. (Echo)