Wonders and Horrors

Truly, the end times cometh. In days past, my pater and I did venture into the Southern Void, an endless expanse of nothingness, through which thousands travel and none stay. Much was monotony and insignificance; but in this, emptiest of lands, fellow travelers were most often of note. Of these things, and more, do I speak - of these wonders and horrors, precursors to the end of things.

Was there a truck cab - such as might power the mightiest of eighteen-wheeled behemoths - that did, upon its back, carry other truck cabs, stacked one atop the other diagonally, like a half-dozen gigantic school chairs.

Was there a pond of tortoises beyond number, that did breed in the heart of California's Technology, and did aggress on our innocent selves.

Was there the Nixon, who did appear in the motel of our night's respite, and who was planted by the snake in the garden, my own father, who did deposit it in my unsuspecting book; was the Nixon, the trickiest of Dicks, fallen by error into the toilet, and then the trash; and was he born anew on the following day, traveling from his southern demesne even so far as my own home.

Was there another truck, an eighteen-wheeler in full, carrying a large van (or, possibly, a small truck) upon its own bed.

Of these things and more did we see - three-headed cows and five-legged dogs, a plague of locusts and a rain of blood - of these and more were in our path, but never did we fear, for the power of the Garage Door, handcrafted in the ways of old, was ever before us. And thus we needed not worry of any thing.