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When the sun begins to set, when the Ink Machine fountains start to slow, when the floorboards creak a little louder than usual, people flock to Club 66, to listen to the tales of a weary old man, who rests by the fire in a creaky rocking chair. Whispers abound about how this man ‘knows everything,’ how he ‘sees through all the dark corners of this here park.’ If you can get him talking (usually with the help of one of Club 66′s fine beverages), he can tell you most anything you want to hear (and a few things you don’t).
On this particular night, however, the talespinner is not in his usual seat. The regulars who have come to love his yarns anxiously await his return. About a half an hour later, the old man throws open the door and stumbles into the pub. He is splattered with ink from head to foot, and his shoes leave wet, black footprints on the wooden floor. He sits down in his rocking chair and takes some deep breaths. One of the eager listeners moves towards him with a glass in his hand, but the storyteller waves him away.
“No need for that, this time around,” the man says in his tired, ragged southern accent. He stretches in his chair and sighs. “I’ve got quite the story for you tonight.” The listeners move in a bit closer. Even the bartender moves to the close end of his counter and leans on a stool. The old man clears his throat, and begins his tale.
“Now, as some of you might already know, I work in this here enterprise. I do odd jobs around the park, and even help with liftin’ haevy appliances a little over at the animation studio.”
One of the newer patrons of the bar scoffs. “You?” he sneers, eyeing the man’s ragged frame and tired eyes. He is quickly shushed by the other, more experienced listeners.
The ink-splattered storyteller continues. “Tonight, though, was defferent from other nights. I finished settin’ up the fixtures in the new park attraction, and I decided to swing by the studio to visit an old friend of mine. When I arrived at the building, I noticed that it was pret-ty dark in there. I thought that the place might’ve stopped work early, but I saw a light on in one of the rooms, though, so I unlocked the door and entered the building. It was pitch black in there. I could not see my hand when I waved in front of my face. Fortunately, I never goes nowhere without a lighter. I flicked it on, and I could just see enough to keep myself from trippin’. I heard a faint grinding noise comin’ from the main hallway, so I went over that way, with the floor creakin’ every step of the way. When I came into the hall, I saw a faint light coming from the very end. The grinding noise was gettin’ louder, along with a sorta chuggin’ sound. As I crept closer, I had the good sense to flick off my lighter. As I neared the end of the hall, I saw the Ink Machine. Not the fountains, those are outside. I mean the real Ink Machine. And it was going.”
The storyteller shudders in his chair. The listeners, now even more attentive, crane forward in anticipation of what the storyteller will say next. One of the braver ones asks “Going? Going… how?”
Suddenly energized, the storyteller leans forward in his chair very far and very fast, so fast that he almost falls over. “I mean going! Its valves were chugging, its gears were grinding, and ink was spewing out of its nozzle by the gallon! And all the while, the most unearthly screaming was coming from within it’s machinery! Don’ know how I knew, but I could feel it… Someone was inside it.” As he said this, the storyteller had stood up and was pacing about the room, making wild movements with his hands, but now he sinks back down in his old rocking chair.
Now he says, in barely above a whisper, “As I walked closer to the horrible device, I heard footsteps coming from the side hallway. I his myself quick as I could in a dark corner, and waited to see who it was. When the person came into view, I almost blew it by gaspin’. It was Mister Drew! He walked over the machine and just started talkin’ to it! Or… whatever was in it, I suppose. My curiosity got the best of me, and I crept over to listen. What he said… well, it made this old man’s blood run cold, it did. ‘They all doubted me… even Henry… None of them saw what this really means. But you… You’ll make my dreams come true…’ As he said this, he chuckled to himself. ‘…Sammy Lawrence. You always were a visionary, weren’t you? But now… It’s time to wake up.’”
The tense listeners hang onto every word as the storyteller speaks his words. “That time… Well that time, I really did blow it. I screamed. Mister Drew whirled around and saw me, crouchin’ down in the middle of the hallway. We both stared at each other for a few seconds, and then, without thinkin’ for one goshdarn second. I took off runnin’. I heard Drew behind me, but he wasn’t givin’ chase just yet. Instead, he threw some sorta switch on a wall, and, as I was runnin, I heard the sounds of bursting valves and splashes. Every single ink pipe in the place had burst, and the hallway was quickly floodin’. I knew that it was slowin’ me down, and now o’course Drew was chasin’ me. He almost had me. Almost. If I had been one second slower, he would have grabbed me and done God knows what. But I got to the exit and slammed the door right in ol’ Mister Drew’s face! Then I rushed here with all I had. He’s bound to be lookin’ for me now, and, to be perfectly honest with you, I’m surprised he hasn’t found me yet.”
The listeners look confused. One of the younger ones speaks up. “Wait… so you mean this… that story you were telling us… That was true?”
The storyteller sighs. “You think I made all that up.”
The skeptic nods. “Yes, I do.”
The storyteller nods understandingly, then gets up from his seat, causing the crowd to step back warily. “You mean to say, that I came about half an hour late, refused your offer of a beverage, and most importantly, sprayed my pants with GODD**N INK, just so I could sell this joke to you?”
Before anyone can answer, the door of the club bursts open. On the other end is an ink-splattered, tired, and very annoyed Joey Drew. He stomps inside, causing the crowd to draw back around him, and comes face-to-face with the storyteller. The storyteller spits in Joey’s face. Joey grabs him by the shirt. “I should have known you’d be here,” he spits out. “You always were a sucker for this dingy bar… Norman Polk.”
Joey Drew drags Norman out the door without another word. Norman only stares at the dumbstruck spectators. “Don’t forget about this.” is his final warning.
And that was the last time anybody saw Norman Polk. Ever since then, screams could be heard from within the Toon Maze, and many (especially those who were present at the bar that night) report sightings of a tall, ragged figure skulking in the darkness of the attraction.
All who go in to investigate, however, never come out again.