It didn't take very long for me to get the idea that there might have been something very funny in that punch, for within minutes, a gentle but pervasive roar began in my ears, and the buildings started to buckle and bend toward me.
"Hoo-boy," I thought to myself, searching for an isolated spot in which to hide. A vague pressure in my bladder inspired me, and I made my way to a nearby row of Porta-Lets.
Once inside, I leaned over and relieved myself, then I paused to review my strategy. Suddenly, the chamber shook madly, and I was nearly deafened by the sound of a rushing wind. Wedging myself into a corner to avoid being buffeted around by the crazed motion of the room, I crept up to the narrow window near the ceiling.
I seemed to have been caught up in a funnel of wind that had pulled up a bewildering assortment of other bodies from the French Quarter revelry. A Lucky Dog vendor blew by my window still hawking for customers. A group of tourists from Iowa dressed in matching douche bag costumes were chasing their go- cups in mid-air. A fraternity boy, oblivious to the tornado, was still retching into his hat.
I don't know how long we spun around that way, for a sudden change of current knocked my head against the wall, and I lost consciousness.
When I came to, the noise had ended. The rent-a-john had stopped moving, and from outside there could be heard sweet birdsong.
As I opened the door, I was greeted by a soft flood of technicolor light, in contrast to the earlier part of my day, which, I had just realized, had been in black-and-white.
I found myself in a beautiful landscape of fantastic forms and vegetation. There were three little people before me, dressed in festive apparel. I had never been anywhere like this before, yet I knew instinctively where I was.
"Is this Oz? Am I in the Munchkin City?" I asked the little men. I checked beneath the Ports-Let, and, as expected, two feet sprouted out at an odd angle. "Did I just kill the Wicked Witch?"
One of the midgets spat. "Nice going, asshole!" he said. "Yeah, this is Oz. This is the Munchkin City, alright. But that's the Good Witch of the North you just murdered in cold blood. She was our last Good Witch! Thanks a lot, shithead."
"And what's more," the head munchkin--who, as I later learned, was chief bouncer for the Lollipop Guild--continued, "her magic was the last power that protected our city from the deadly predators and harsh climatic conditions that pervade the neighboring lands to the South." Following where he pointed, I could see that even now the luxuriant foliage was beginning to whither, and, from just over the horizon, came a sound, much like the howling of huge wolves, but much scarier.
"I'm afraid we've no choice but to leave our homes," came a voice from the middle of a nearby crowd. Standing on a podium was an unusual looking midget with an over-sized head shaped like a cheeseburger. This turned out to be Mayor MunCheese, leader of Munchkin City. "Our town is no longer safe. Pack what belongings you can carry, and assemble at the foot of the Yellow Brick Road by noon."
"Ere's the one what snuffed our witch!" one of the sprites said, pointing at me. All noise in the town stopped as the natives turned to stare. A few tot munchkins across the creek began throwing rocks.
"Who are you, sir, and why have you deigned to curse our land?" demanded the mayor.
"I don't know anything about it!" I protested, "I was carried here by a wind. It's not my fault!"
"Crucify him!" the crowd began to chant, but was cut off by the mayor.
"It has never been our way to punish anyone. Until now, we have always been a civilized people. This will require consideration. Lock him up!"
Two farming munchkins came at me with sickles. I was forced into one of their stables, and kept heavily guarded.
More startling than the abrupt change in the weather, however, were the changes in the Munchkins themselves. Without the magic of the Good Witch to inspire and lead them, they began to revert to their days of primative savagery. Even as I watched, their skin darkened and became matted with hair. Their faces took on a dull, greasy look, and fangs could be seen just beginning to jut out of their lips. Quarrels began to break out among these once peaceful midgets, and, increasingly, more of their speech was being taken up by grunts, growls, and profanity.
By the time it became absolutely necessary to evacuate the town, they still hadn't decided what to do with me. It seemed the Mayor was still reluctant to break Munchkin Law, but the popular pressure to kill or torture me was growing by the minute. They slung me in the back of the caravan and headed out for greener pastures.
Or so I thought. By sunset, their condition had deteriorated to the point where there had been several rapes and a few murders along the trail. I had become disgusted by the new-found Munchkin sport of catching squirrels and flaying them alive, which seemed to provide them with no end of merriment. They were temporarily halted when they came upon a sheep, surrounded it, and joyously kicked its ribs in. At this point, a shaking Mayor MunCheese ran towards me and my guards.
"The Town Council!" he panted, "I tried to reason with them! They will revive the ancient rite! They won't--AAARGH!!!" He fell over, a make-shift spear firmly embedded in his Sesame-Seed Bun. Behind him stood as crowd of the tribe's biggest, fiercest specimens.
"W-what are you going to do to me?" I stammered.
They grinned. "Burn you-HUH! At the stake! Plenty good. Make heap big supper!" They laughed and drooled.
Within minutes, I found myself tied to a wooden post, a fire raging around my feet. Before I lost consciousness from the smoke and the pain, I discovered the Munchkins' new, dire mission as they danced around me wildly, chanting:
We're off to eat the Wizard...
We're off to eat the Wizard...
I came to with a pounding sound from the outside of the Porta-Let. Still befuddled, I opened the door. In the doorway was a full-sized man in a janitor's uniform.
I couldn't believe my eyes. "You mean it was all a dream? I'm still alive? I'm back in New Orleans?"
"Wrong, wrong, and wrong," he said. It was then that I made out the patch on his breast pocket, which said, "Property of Hell: Custodial Dept." He continued, "You're dead alright, no dream. And we've all heard about how you got here, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Those poor little Munchkins!"
I took the streetcar home. You ever have one of those days?