The car park is an empty expanse of cracked tarmac, not a soul in sight. Strangely, the jungle and scrub seem thinner around this place, though, only grasses (all dry and dead-looking) having encroached on the car park. A road leads around one side of the building, marked Drive-thru on a peeling sign. The closer you come, the more heavily you feel the presence of that huge figure on the roof. The building seems to sag gently under it. The silhouette in your periphery has you constantly on edge, unable to shake the sensation it is moving, but whenever you look up, the blank stare and deranged grin on its concrete face send a deep terror through you, and you must look away. The windows are dim, but the sign on the door declares We're Open! and you remember how Welcome that first sign made you. Past the dimness, you can make out a dull orangey light inside. There is a smell you can't place, it makes your mouth water, and your stomach clench.
Consider:
Yumbo, there's no need to feel down I said, yumbo, pick yourself off the ground I said, yumbo, 'cause you're in a new town There's no need to be unhappy Yumbo, there's a place you can go I said, yumbo, when you're short on your dough You can stay there, and I'm sure you will find Many ways to have a good time It's fun to eat the YUMBO It's fun to eat the YUMBO
Water has seeped under the plastic covers of the posters advertising various offers and new products. You can see WHY NOT TRY in dark blocky letters, the ink bled out into feathery patterns across the rest of the page. The maniacally grinning likeness of The Yumbo Man laughs through a mask of bubbled paper and brownish algal growth. He is holding something in his hands, blotted out completely by rusty orange mould. He holds it up like a sacred relic, like an answer. The closer you peer, the darker and thicker the mould seems, its texture reminding you of the cheese on a fresh yumbo, it obscures everything, until you blink and it seems, for a moment, to cover every surface of the world, every surface of you- You blink again, and you are standing back from the posters, in the shadow of the rooftop figure. Your face feels hot. You keep your gaze away from the posters.
THE IMPROBABLE ISLAND ENQUIRER "Ban this sick filth" - est. 2009 GLAZIERS' GUILD ON STRIKE, DEMANDS INCLUDE HAZARD PAY The recent mysterious explosions at the embassy and pub complex in Improbable Central have left the Island Glaziers' Guild on strike until they receive hazard pay for their role in sourcing raw materials for the repair work. A spokesman for the guild, who wishes to remain anonymous, informs the Enquirer that glaziers are expected to source their own material before cutting it to shape and size at the worksite. "With Titan numbers significantly reduced as a result of, we presume, Network negotiations, and the new speedy Green Titans, it's a real race to reach the peak," they explain, "and our grappling and safety equipment is our own responsibility. When it's just the occasional pizza accident here or there, or the aftermath of a Yumbo-drunk yob deciding now's the time to test the future of human-powered flight, it's manageable. But damage on *this* scale requires a real effort, and until the Network sees fit to recognize how much manual labor goes into each window the Island will just have to learn to live with drafts. Why, I hear some kind of magical ritual in the north blew out windows all across the mountain! We feel for the residents, really we do, but they can best ensure we get back to normal business by adding their voices to ours when it comes to the Network." (con't, p. 9) PRIEST SOUGHT IN MYSTERY EXPLOSION Witnesses to the spectactular eruption of the Prancing SpiderKitty claim that they saw a giggling figure in a cassock legging it in the direction of the swamp, and swear that they were not Wanker-addled at the time. Network staff are reviewing footage but would appreciate any leads (con't, p. 5)