Todd was reading in his study a book sitting in a slick brown leather wing-backed chair. It was covered in dust, as no one had read it in a long time. Todd’s library smelled of strawberries and cream and fine wood, a bowl of which sat on a small side table, made as it was of mahogany. Todd enjoyed these little moments, about a man getting swallowed by a whale.
Todd had been swallowed by a whale the previous weekend, when he stayed at the world famous Bermu-Delta Hilton. His escape, made all the more difficult by his fear of baleen, was ill-founded being a toothed whale. As its color was irrelevant, I can inform you that it was definitively a white whale, though no one can be certain, with a black spot. Coincidently, Todd’s book was about a white whale, the title of which no one can be certain, with a black spot.
After his escape from the whale’s vast interior, he stayed at a hotel, which smelled of fish juice and low tide. Todd had been out enjoying a day on the beach, when a tidal bore, sunny and without a cloud in the sky, had ripped him from land, though it was chilly and he wished he’d brought a jacket.
Upon finding himself in the belly of a whale, Todd found himself in the belly of a whale, after the tidal bore had ripped him from his library smelling of mahogany strawberries and cream. Almost immediately he realized he’d lost his car keys somewhere in the foaming wash of whale spittle and saltwater, and though he looked for them desperately, it smelled of fish juice and low tide. What was Todd, trapped in the belly of a whale, sitting in his strawberry scented wooden library, to do?
Answers are easy to find as whale-swallowed car keys, though you might not find the ones you’re looking for. Todd decided to dog-paddle out of the whale’s open maw, which was the only stroke he’d ever mastered and which it did every so often to take in a mouthful of whale morsels. With powerful canine-like movements, Todd thrust himself toward the toothed jaws, not afraid of hell or high water. When he made it to the lower mandible, he saw his keys stuck between two teeth, which he reached for and pulled out with all his might. The whale, sensing a commotion, spit Todd out like a sunflower seed rolling and tumbling through the sea.
Todd dragged his nearly lifeless body out of the dripping ocean and found himself on a beach much like the one he’d left, only reversed, for he’d before been looking at the sea and now was looking at the sand, beautiful and blue as the sky above. He still had his wallet and keys, which read “Bad Mamba Jamba,” and decided to treat himself to a night in the world famous Burmese-Delta Hilton, which had been given to him by his best friend Fragg that he’d pulled from the toothed jaws of the whale.
He slept all night like a rock cuddled between soft silken sheets. When he awoke the next morning, feeling refreshed as a juvenile songbird, he went out to the street and found his car, whistling a joyous tune. He drove home using the GPS take-me-home function, watching for other cars on the road. You can never be too careful, thought Todd, reading a book about strawberries and cream in his white-whale scented mahogany study.
When Todd arrived home, he realized he was at home.
Only he wasn’t.
They weren’t Todd’s keys.
Nor Todd’s home.