Celluloid Dreams

     I found myself within the hallowed halls of the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, a sanctuary of cinematic nostalgia. Room after room brimmed with the relics of a bygone era, VHS tapes piled high like towers of forgotten memories. The air carried the weight of countless hours spent lost in celluloid dreams.

     Amidst this labyrinth of analog treasures, a figure emerged from the shadows—Jack Packard, the harbinger of cinephile wisdom. With a knowing smile, he confirmed my suspicions, acknowledging the existence of another video store hidden away on the upper floor. A realm yet unexplored, beckoning with the allure of undiscovered gems.

     We embarked on separate paths, Jack leading the way as I ventured deeper into the heart of the house. Each step carried the anticipation of revelation, the sense that the secrets of this cinematic haven were on the cusp of unveiling themselves.

     In a quiet bedroom, I sought respite upon a well-worn bed, its history embedded in the very fabric of the room. A flicker of movement caught my eye—a feline intruder, its gaze fixed upon me. "Here kitty kitty," I cooed, inviting the creature closer. But innocence belied its true nature as it lunged, claws sinking into my flesh. Laughter bubbled from my lips, an incongruous response to the chaotic mix of pain and adoration.

     A voice in the background offered a peculiar suggestion—to wave and greet the cat as a gesture of goodwill. I complied, hoping to quell the storm brewing within this unpredictable creature. But my efforts were in vain, as it pounced once more, its playfulness edged with a dangerous charm.

     Guided by an invisible hand, I found myself in a room where Jack stood in the company of Jay Bauman. The glass window before us revealed a private domain—a shower stall occupied by Mike Stoklasa. The room hummed with electric anticipation, a hidden power waiting to be unleashed.

     Four buttons adorned the wall, beckoning us to play with the unknown. Jack's finger met one of them, and water cascaded from the showerhead, an innocuous act amidst this peculiar setting. And then, my gaze fell upon a button, an enigmatic invitation that read, "Are You Afraid of the Dark?"

     Driven by curiosity and a hunger for the unexpected, I pressed the button, igniting a chain of events. Green slime, reminiscent of Nickelodeon's playful mischief, descended from above, landing with a sickening splatter upon Mike Stoklasa's unsuspecting head.

     In that moment, the boundaries between reality and surrealism blurred, as if the very essence of cinema had taken on a life of its own. Laughter mingled with the discomfort, an amalgamation of joy and unease that seemed to define this enigmatic realm.

     Within the RED LETTER MEDIA headquarters, I had ventured into uncharted territories, where the whimsical and the uncanny danced a peculiar waltz. And as I stood before the glass window, witnessing the aftermath of my impulsive act, I couldn't help but wonder what other wonders—and horrors—awaited me in this surreal domain of cinephile enchantment.

I wake up