Today, everything is gigantic. Even small places like this.

Even small corners of small places.

Even small parts of small corners.

Even tiny people like you, from small parts of small corners.

Yes, even you are gigantic in your way today, in such a huge and modern time.

When you’re tiny people, you have to look up at everything. Everything seems taller.

Sometimes you feel like nothing more than a camera on the floor of someone’s apartment.

Small things look huge.

Which, in turn, makes medium-sized things look small.

This is your friend Music Duck.

Music Duck is enormous.

Music Duck staggers a bit at your sudden, bold mention of the lemon.

“The lemon? The source of sour? The lemon? The yellow lemon inside the fridge? The source of sour?”

You quietly note that Music Duck is maybe drunk.

“Listen me now. Listen to me. You’re tiny people. Even if you could somehow exit the room and cross the great wooden wilderness to reach the kitchen, you’re going to have a hell of a time opening that fridge, let alone getting the lemon from…”

Music Duck trails off and zones out in silence.

“I’m Music Duck. But you can call me Music Duck. I’m your music friend the duck.”

Music Duck zones out in silence.

You’re on the floor and you’re on your way. It’s a huge day.

It’s a toy monkey.

Obviously, it can’t talk, but as tiny people with large imaginations, sometimes you like to pretend to make it talk.

“Bed Thing?” says the monkey. “We all know who Bed Thing is. It’s the thing of the Bed, down there, on the horizon, feet and feet away.”

You take in the view. The monkey is right. You can see for feet and feet from here.

Down below, slumbering with sound pillars (not making sounds right now) next to its ears, is Bed Thing.

You are all scared of Bed Thing, the thing of the bed. You don’t know if Bed Thing has ever woken up.

You hear distant joyful laughter.

It’s getting closer.

A mysterious creature emerges.

“Hahaha!” it bellows. “My friends! I’m spasming because of my delight to see you. Did anyone ever mention something like this to you? Did I mention that I think you are looking strong? Hahaha! You caught me just as I left the underground fitness prison. So premium! Oh, my God. I remembered. There’s a special offer that I have to tell you about. It’s a free trial membership to the prison I was just talking about. Hahaha! I am going to tell you about it now, and you have no choice but to listen.”

“And did you know that my body was wet winter drizzle before I joined the underground fitness prison I was just talking about a few minutes ago? The mind was feral but, oh, how the legs and hands were domestic and withered! Hahaha! However, now! Look at me. I am as big as Bed Thing, I can barely fit inside myself, and I have to look down at you from such a dizzying height. It’s a curse and, even better, an unqualified blessing! Very good for me! You’ve got to try it for free! Go to prison with me! Confess that you are tiny!”

“Hahaha! Of course! I used to think the same thing. Then in prison, I damaged my arms into shreds so bad that they regrew in exotic new shapes and sizes. Now, I’m as big as Bed Thing, and it’s possible for you too. It’s time for you to join prison. It isn’t even close.”

You turn in unison and leave.

“Well, I’m depressed that you feel that way. Hahaha!” you hear from behind you.

It’s Music Duck’s biggest guitar. An enormous guitar for an enormous duck.

It’s the Ivory Flats, territory that Music Duck shares with Bed Thing.

You go across every single button in the Ivory Flats, but they don’t make noise. The flats must be off.

It’s Bed Thing. Bed Thing is enormous. In some ways, Bed Thing is even more enormous than Music Duck.

Next to Bed Thing’s ears are the pillars that are supposed to make sound. But they’re not making sound.

There’s something in Bed Thing’s hand.

From here you can see for feet and feet.

Some cables hang down to the bed.

You are on the bed. Somewhere deep beneath you, Bed Thing is breathing.

It’s Bed Thing’s hand. There is a button in it. Bed Thing’s hand is blocking it. You can’t press it.

You approach Bed Thing’s head.

It’s Bed Thing’s head.

It’s Bed Thing’s ear.

“Goal,” you whisper into Bed Thing’s ear. Bed Thing shouts in its sleep but does not wake up.

“Penalty,” you whisper into Bed Thing’s ear. Bed Thing shouts in its sleep but does not wake up.

You breathe into Bed Thing’s ear. Bed Thing frowns in its sleep but does not wake up.

You hum tonelessly into Bed Thing’s ear. Bed Thing frowns in its sleep but does not wake up.

You shake the bed frame.

An exercise machine falls onto Bed Thing’s head.

Bed Thing flinches in its sleep. Bed Thing is pressing the button.

Bed Thing unconsciously puts the exercise machine back in place and does not wake up.

The button is now on.

One by one, you zip-line up the wires to the Ivory Flats.

The very moment all of you stand on the buttons, a beautiful and awful noise blasts from the musical pillars next to Bed Thing’s ears.

Look at Bed Thing go!

It’s never done this before.

It’s never cried out that loud.

It’s never opened that door.

It’s never staggered from the room swearing never to go back to bed again.

You look down. There’s a horse.

You climb down the guitar and approach the horse.

“You climb down the guitar and approach the horse,” says the horse.

“You mount the horse,” says the horse.

“Forward,” says the horse.

“Look up,” says the horse.

You do. It’s a normal-sized flask.

“Onward,” says the horse.

“Look at the humanoid pile of clothes on the couch,” says the horse.

“Yeah,” you all agree. “It almost looks like a person.”

“Go under the table,” says the horse.

“Get off the horse,” says the horse.

You look up at the pile of clothes. It kinda looks like a person.

You are in the lap of the humanoid pile of clothes.

A video is playing on the computer.

You look into the face of the pile of clothes.

“I’m not really a person,” says the pile of clothes. “I’m a trick of the mind.”

Looks like it’s some anatomical diagrams.

You ponder the diagrams quietly.

“Ponder quietly,” says the horse below.

You climb back down uneasily.

“Ride,” says the horse.

“Off the horse,” says the horse with a distant fear in its eyes.

You approach the kitchen.

It’s the fridge.

You’re in the kitchen. Some items are scattered on the ground. You notice that they could be assembled into a catapult for tiny people.

You’ve assembled a catapult for tiny people from the items. Right now, it’s oriented to launch tiny people to the RIGHT.

You’ve assembled a catapult for tiny people from the items. Right now, it’s oriented to launch tiny people to the LEFT.

You all hold hands and soar through the air as one mass, launched by your makeshift catapult.

You land on the countertop, where there are four knives. You all consider the knives. Perhaps it’s some kind of knife puzzle that you have to solve.

You pick up the knives and jam them into the paper towel column, constructing a staircase. You solved the puzzle. Good thinking!

You climb your stroke-of-genius staircase.

You arrive at the flatlands on top of the counter. Wow. From here you can see for feet and feet. You can see a heavy exercise machine.

There’s a long ledge and a small bed for bananas.

You peer over the ledge. You can see the horse running around far below.

You can faintly hear the horse say, “Watch the horse.”

You keep watching the horse.

You keep watching the horse. All of you are crying and none of you know why.

You all breathe a quivering sigh. You keep watching the horse.

The horse has spilt open and a hammer has spilled onto the wooden wilderness.

It’s a gruesome scene. The hammer lies there waiting for a horde of tiny guilty people to take it.

Taken.

You land on the stove, all carrying the hammer.

The fridge is behind you.

Hammer in all of your hands, you edge onto the ledge of the fridge.

The catapult blasts you into the air and you land on the stove. The fridge is behind you.

You slot the hammer into the handle of the fridge.

You collectively shimmy your way out onto the hammer. If you propped yourself between the hammer and the door, you could probably get some leverage.

You do that. The fridge swings open and the hammer clatters to the ground.

There. It’s...

Yes, it’s the lemon. The source of sour. You behold it with many eyes.

Behind the lemon…

“We are Doubleduck,” says the creature as it turns to face you all. “We are Doubleduck.”

“Please. The lemon is mine. We own the lemon and it is mine. We own the sour. We are Doubleduck. There are so many of me, many heads from one duck and each one needs the lemon. The lemon is mine. We need it. We went too wild for the sour and this is all we have. It’s mine. We will never be big like Bed Thing. We will never be drunk like Music Duck. We will never die like your friend the horse. The source of sour is all we have.”

“Please. There are so many of me. We need the lemon and it is mine.”

Doubleduck has made their case. What are you going to do?

You get the lemon.

“Lemon, lemon, my lemon,” calls Doubleduck as you make for the exit. “Lemon the lemon,” and the two voices are harmonizing, a perfect minor third apart, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever known, but you notice the lemon, and how wonderfully sour it is.

“Lemon, lemon, no, my lemon,” sings Doubleduck in chorus with itself, and the many deep voices of the tiny people rise up around you as a kind of backup vocal track to Doubleduck. As you are surrounded by the sour aura of the lemon, the fridge door continues to swing closed.

You don’t get the lemon. You leave it alone.

The fridge door begins to swing shut. In unison, you let out a deep, sad sigh.

“So you didn’t get the lemon,” says Music Duck.

“I’m drunk,” says Music Duck. “Walk with me.”

“I’ve always been drunk,” says the enormous duck. “This flask kinda follows me around.”

“Your body is wet winter drizzle,” says that guy as Music Duck ignores him. “Hahaha!”

“Tiny people, you didn’t get the lemon, but you had a huge day, right?”

Compared to Music Duck, even a flask seems small.

You’re doing it.

None of you can believe you’re doing it.

It goes over the ledge. You hear the sickening crunch of exercise machine on trusting friend.

You approach the entrance to the kitchen.

It’s the fridge.

You’ve assembled a catapult for tiny people from the items. Right now, it’s oriented to launch tiny people to the RIGHT.

You’ve assembled a catapult for tiny people from the items. Right now, it’s oriented to launch tiny people to the LEFT.

You’ve done everything you can in that direction.

The door won’t budge. You need something to pry it open.

The door won’t budge. You need something to pry it open. Something like a hammer. Think back to anatomy class.

“Tell me, have you guys ever met and seen Bed Thing, the thing of the bed?”

“Well, Bed Thing sleeps in the big bed now, but would you believe that a mere 365 years ago he was the same size as you? Hahaha! Did you know that?”

“Did you know that you too can be a Bed Thing in just 365 years, and that all it takes is a month of your time, twice a month, for 365 years, and that these events occurred to me personally?”

You’re doing it.

None of you can believe you’re doing it.

It goes over the ledge. You hear a sickening thud.

“Keep watching the horse,” says the horse to itself as it runs.

You shake the bed frame.

An exercise machine falls onto Bed Thing’s head.

Bed Thing unconsciously puts the exercise machine back in place and does not wake up.

The door slams shut, and the plastic buffer grips the fridge again like a song fading out, and all you tiny people go quiet.