I may have recently stumbled across a literal demonic death cult, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.
In an entirely intentional attempt to isolate myself from any sight or sign of humanity as possible, I unintentionally found myself lost in some remote corner of Black Star Canyon. And somewhere between realizing I had one hell of a walk back to my car and crying for my mother, I heard a strange chanting coming from deep within the old, abandoned mine shaft I’d foolishly chosen to expel both urine and insight into my predicament.
To make a long hike through a dark, winding series of tunnels and tangentially related annecdotes short, I eventually found myself in a vast, underground cavern with an equally vast, underground lake. And in the center of the lake were a bunch of strange little men chanting a strange little diddy to a strange, yet maddeningly large, fleshy skelatal something or other sitting right there in the water like it was a kiddie pool.
Having spent my fair share of afternoons in Irvine, I can’t say I haven’t seen worse. But once I witnessed this entity drink the wailing souls of several middle-school science teachers, I figured I’d seen most of what they had to offer and politely left without signing the registry.
And to make things even worse, I didn’t realize I’d left my keys by the toilet until I’d already made it back to the parking lot.