BEEP!.....BEEP!....CLACK!...BUZZ!

7:30 A.M. was the time the beady yellow hieroglyphic looking characters on the old Sony clock projected as it shook, screamed, and fell.

These are the normal sounds of every morning in the studio apartment of Alan Santos.

He has been listening to this same faux wood textured alarm go off repeatedly for three progressively draining years…Every consecutive day of every consecutive year Alan Santos managed to keep repeatedly knocking his plastic alarm clock off of his equally weathered nightstand, each time chipping away at the sickly light green paint. He couldn't relent to the necessity of getting out of bed for much longer as he thought of the impending day.

So, he rolled out of bed, poured himself a bowl of bran flakes, emptied an expired bottle of Coconut milk, and scarfed his cereal until the inside of his mouth seemingly mirrored the texture of the cereal itself.

After a shower he opened his small closet to an endless array of identical white polos and black slacks. Once he finished this seemingly mindless ritual, he laced up a pair of gray sneakers as he walked out of the door to his soul crushing telemarketing job.

“Some sort of high-tech baby phone toy?” He asks himself as he holds a cigarette to his mouth and lights it amid the aerily dim mist that the businesses, malls, and street vendors seemed to omit. “This town has always been bleak, but never to this creepy degree.” as Alan again thinks to himself about his surroundings as he often does on his way to work.

However, today he barely has any time to think about anything as he literally walks into the fading red cinder block building that he calls his workplace. Once inside it becomes obvious that the place is obscenely white, “Oppressively White” as Alan notes. Not un similar to a sterile lab.

“Santos!” a deep voice bellows. Alan looks behind him and a bald square man with beady eyes and a stringy pathetic red mustache is standing against him as he retrieves equally pathetic coffee from the break room.

“Get to your post!”

“Whenever you can grow a nicer beard.” Alan mutters equally upset, but twice as aghast, knowing that Old Caldwell can't keep employees to save his life and that having a three year tenure is like wearing a bulletproof vest.

“Oh how contentment can do things to a man if he isn’t careful.” He thinks as he sits down to make his first call of the day. What an accomplishment for a telemarketer, to sit down at a secure position, and make one of many calls to convince parents to buy fake cell-phones for their infants, just to watch them be brainwashed into buying more plastic shit for the rest of their lives.

“What a fucking life.”

Alan picks up the phone, and he just hears a violent screech going directly into the speaker.

“Cut it.”, he grumbles, not knowing what in Hell is going on.

“Step-Outside, you will be forced out of your brick and mortar cage nonetheless, but this will make it more comfortable at the very least……….”

states an equally off putting, but enticing and willowy voice.

At this moment a sensation latches onto Alan’s waist and he is locked into a momentary euphoria as a familiar aerie mist enters the room.

As far as he knows his body has started dissolving, and he feels every separate square inch of every part of his body being pulled toward some certain and maybe even divine center.

Alan Santos is no longer on earth and he knows it, he feels his body being back as one, and opens his eyes to a deep ocean of stars. His eyes burn, the air he is breathing currently seems to be suffocating him, and the painful sensation surrounding all of his bare skin has convinced him that he is molting.

“ Well, it’s been a nice life.” He says as he thinks about the bracket-style Mortal-Kombat tournaments that he used to have in the studio that he once shared with his two best-friends.

“WHOOSH!”

A Icy blast of air rushes to his face, and his legs buckle as he slams against

Looking up, he notices that he is now in a city that is just as bleak as his own, but only in terms of the color surroundings, but those who are walking the streets

Alan is seeing things, and he has no conceivable idea as to how they exist. Fish in bowls being somehow melded onto the bodies of men seem to be a commonplace, for example. He saw a gaggle of monkeys waltzing out of what seemed to be a bar no different than the humans of his city would, and eventually a monkey that appeared to be kept alive by some mysterious advanced scientific method or a deeply revered magical text.

As he walks up to Alan a putrid stench of rotting flesh seems to walk with him. It is hard to tell whether his fur exists in dying patches, or if the coat of glimmering cybernetic watches, bracelets, backpack, and chestplate covered it all. The monkey appeared to have no difficulty whatsoever in accessing his equipment. He was constantly shifting his hands youthfully between knobs and adjusting input and output frequencies for various functions. When he finally is able to take a look at his surroundings he looks at Alan with a simultaneously curious and scrutinizing expression . After looking at Alan as if he is some exotic specimen for at least two solid minutes, he finally says,

“Come on. Let’s get you suited up, so you don’t die, at the very least. Your kind doesn’t seem to do well in these conditions.” says the possibly undead speaking primate as he gestures towards a massive grave mound in the shadow of a purple and orange sunset.

“Maybe the familiarity of a common beauty is something that should be celebrated” Alan thinks to himself as he shivers against the atmosphere.