I was reading. It was a nasty habit forced upon me by the wicked Doctor Wazisneme as a part of his plan to "channel my imagination in a positive manner." But reading did have its advantages. Primarily, discussing the books I read in the Institute library kept the Doctor from sharing revolting theories about my subconscious. Eventually, he even thought I was cured of whatever illness he initially conjured for me.

"Well, Mr. Quartzenkofferloferous, I've noticed quite a bit of progress in you. We have been having delightful conversations on all sorts of literature, and you have not once brought up your fanciful adventures." I chose not to tell the Doctor that there were no more adventures to relate; the silent approach seemed to be working well.

He inevitably continued, "I have contacted your mother and told her of your progress; she seemed quite pleased. And you may be happy to know that we have agreed to give you a chance to live on your own once more."

"Really?" I blurted out in the excitement of the moment.

"Does Meursault tell the truth?" That was a yes.

"May I leave right now?" I figured the worst he could've said was, "no." Actually, the worst he could've said was, "No, and now you're going to read Kate Chopin's The Awakening again."

"Well-" he started to reply. I didn't let him finish; the fluttering of papers to the floor as I ran out must have been very comic. More importantly, I was free! After three months of psychological torment and three months of not reading The Awakening-sorry, three months of other enlightening novels-I was free to roam as I pleased outside the confines of the Deluded Adventurer Rehabilitation Institute. That is, until it hit me.

The door was not supposed to be closed as I ran through it, but in my haste to escape, that small detail eluded me, unlike the seven feet of steel colliding against my cranium. What happened next was a bit fuzzy.

Actually, it was in black and white. I still can't explain that aspect of my greatest journey yet, but it probably wasn't important. Anyway, when I regained consciousness, I was in a monochromatic candy land. Lollipop trees and gumdrop houses surrounded me, along with the Ittle Bittles that were apparently the local citizens. They started cheering and laughing. Before I could ask why, a woman in a flying boat landed next to me.

"Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" she asked.

"What?" That was not a standard greeting.

"Are you a good witch or a bad witch?" I heard her the first time, but I still didn't understand the question.

"I'm not a witch at all. I'm Bob Quartzenkofferloferous, from Washington. Who are you?"

"I am Kathy, the good witch of the north." Her name and the boat somehow seemed familiar to me.

"What part of the north?" I asked.

"Minnesota." Now I knew who it was.

"Aren't you Kathy ... Wade?"

"Yes, I am." No wonder she was never found. Who would hypothesize a flying boat?

I still had more questions about this strange land. "Who are these people, and where am I?"

"They're the Ittle Bittles, and you're in Ittle Bittle Land, Bob Quartzenkofferloferous from Washington." I had wondered where they came from to work in the Secret Underground Spam Factory, but I had never imagined the sweet colorless paradise I was in now.

"And why are they cheering for me?"

"Look where you're sitting, silly." I followed her instructions and found that I was seated on the corpse of what seemed to be an upper-class citizen of turn-of-the-century New Orleans. I leapt to my feet; corpses do not make comfortable seats.

Startled, I asked, "Who is that?"

Kathy answered, "Why, it is Leonce Pontellier, the bad bastard of the south." I meet two literary characters in one day, one of them dead because of me? This was a bit too much to handle. Of course, another had to show up.

A puff of gray smoke exploded behind Kathy and soon cleared to reveal a woman in the same era dress as Leonce. It had to be Edna, the wicked witch of the south.

"Who killed my husband? Was it you?" She pointed to me.

I pleaded, "It was an accident, I swear!"

"Oh, no, don't worry. It's much better for me this way." Suddenly, my house fell out of the sky and landed on top of a previously unnoticed young man watching Edna.

"Where did that come from?" exclaimed an Ittle Bittle.

"Robert! You killed Robert!" Edna was showing hints of being upset at my house crushing her lover.

"It wasn't me!" I proclaimed.

"Is that your house?"

"Well, yes, but I don't know how-"

Edna interrupted. "Then you killed him. I'll get you, my pretty, and your little bug, too!" She then laughed and disappeared in another plume of gray smoke.

"What bug?" I then looked down and saw the largest cockroach I had ever seen. It quickly scuttled behind an Ittle Bittle, who instantly fainted, and then it scurried behind a tree.

"Let me guess. Gregor Samsa." He was yet another character I read about while in the Institute.

"The one and only," answered Kathy.

I needed some answers. "You all are supposed to be in books: Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis, Tim O'Brien's In the Lake of the Woods and Kate Chopin's The Awakening, to be exact. How is it possible that I am talking to you?"

"Bob Quartzenkofferloferous, you are in the land of Ap. All things written are possible here." I was getting very uncomfortable.

"Right ... How about you let me borrow your boat and I fly back home?"

"I'm sorry, I can't do that. This boat is for my transportation alone. If you want to know why, you can make your own hypotheses." I've already read several.

"Then how do I get home?"

"You must see Sorcerer."

"Sorcerer?" My question was more out of astonishment than ignorance; it had to be Sorcerer from Tim O'Brien's In the Lake of the Woods.

"The supreme Sorcerer of Ap, in the capital city. He's governor there, and he should be able to get you home." I was surprised to see he won a political race; maybe the residents didn't know about the My Lai massacre, or maybe they didn't care.

"How do I get there?" It's not like there was a road sign.

One of the Ittle Bittles spoke: "Follow the yellow book road." Another chimed in: "Follow the yellow book road." Indeed, I was standing on a road paved with yellow books. I doubted the reliability of the road if it rained, but since this was Ap, it probably didn't. So I walked out of Ittle Bittle Land on the yellow book road as the Ittle Bittles sang. Unfortunately, the hideous vermin that was Gregor Samsa meekly followed me.

The path was uneventful until I reached a fork in the road. I almost stepped on the fork, which certainly would have been painful, but I luckily noticed and threw the fork off the side of the road so no further travelers would have to risk injury.

"Ow!" said someone in the bushes where I threw the fork.

"Sorry!" I tried to apologize. The old man in tattered robes climbing out of the bushes started ranting about the ungratefulness of children. The cockroach, seeing an opportunity to hide, ran under the now unoccupied shrubbery so it wouldn't bother me.

"Kids these days; they have no respect-no respect at all. First Cordelia refuses to flatter me, then Regan and Goneril kick me out of their homes, and now you-what's your name?" He stared at me with one eye while the other wandered.

"I'm Bob Quartzenkofferloferous," I replied, cautious yet trying to be friendly. "And you?"

"Don't you even remember your king?"

"Excuse me for asking, but what king?"

"The king of Britain!" The scraggly old man frowned.

"I'm not from Britain. I'm from Washington."

"Oh. Maybe you can help me, then. I am King Lear."

"The King Lear, from the play of the same name by William Shakespeare?"

"Yes. Now will you help me?"

"Help you with what?" From what I read, I knew King Lear had more problems than riches.

"My Fool told me I don't have a brain because I gave up my kingdom and divided it between my three ungrateful daughters, so I would like to get a new brain. Do you know where I could find a mind?"

I knew just where he could find a brain. "I bet Sorcerer in the capital city could help. I've been told he can get me home, and if he can do that, he can surely find you a brain." He certainly needed one; by the flowers in his hair, I could tell he had already lost his mind.

"We're off to see the Sorcerer, then. As king, I shall lead. Which way?"

I pointed down the yellow book road and let Lear think he was leading the way. Gregor Samsa followed a few yards behind us.

Eventually, we came across what seemed to be an apple orchard. Lear informed me, "It seems we have entered an apple orchard." For somebody without a brain, he sure knew how to point out the obvious without realizing what it meant. As I had not eaten since entering the land of Ap, I grabbed an apple. The cockroach scurried into the orchard.

"What do you think you're doing?" shouted the tree. I was quite startled, but Lear, in his partially insane state, seemed to think the trees were alive all along.

"We're just passing through and Bob wanted a bite to eat," he explained with a strange calm.

"How would you like it if somebody walked up to you and started picking your apples?" retorted the tree.

Lear replied, "Those ungrateful daughters ... They'll never have my apples! Never!" I mindlessly munched on the apple I picked. Unfortunately, the tree was even more angered by this and started to throw apples at all of us. Lear and I managed to dodge them, Lear with his crazy raving and me with my sharpened survival skills. Gregor Samsa was not able to dodge the fruit projectiles, and an apple struck him and lodged itself into his back. He seemed to be in more than a bit of pain as disgusting liquids oozed out of the wound..

"You killed Gregor Samsa!" I yelled at the tree.

"He's not dead yet. He has just been violated in a symbolic manner," the tree replied. The cockroach wiggled its legs.

"I'm pretty sure he's dead. Let's go, Lear."

"Onward!" He led me out of the Freudian apple orchard without that nasty cockroach; nobody liked it anyway.

Soon after leaving the forest, Lear and I came across a beach. It would have been a nice day for a swim had there not been the bullet-ridden corpse of an Arab and what seemed to be a tin Frenchman there. He was made of tin, and he definitely looked French, if you know what I mean.

The tin Frenchman tried to speak. However, he couldn't move his jaw and he was trying to speak French, which I couldn't understand anyway.

"I think he's saying, 'Mmm-m-mm,'" Lear informed me.

I searched the Arab for valuables and found only an oilcan, which I promptly discarded. Lear, obviously insane, took the can and started oiling the tin Frenchman's joints. The metal man said something, but it was still in French. I asked Lear if he understood what was said.

"Yes. He said something in French." Lear, as always, was not creating a positive situation. Apparently, none of us were ever going to understand Meursault or his motives in killing that Arab.

I tried to find some "French to English" switch on the metallic Frenchman, but all I found was a small engraving on his chest which read, "Meursault, from Albert Camus's The Stranger," and a slot that was labeled, "Insert heart here." Being the helpful adventurer I am, I told Meursault to follow us to see Sorcerer of Ap, where he could certainly find a heart and maybe learn English. He nodded.

After passing by the beach, the yellow book road led King Lear, Meursault, and me to a small jungle-a rather dark jungle.

King Lear asked, "What do you two think is in this jungle?" Meursault said something in French.

I suggested, "Lions and tigers and bears."

"What?" asked Lear.

"Lions and tigers and bears."

"Lions and tigers and bears will come of lions and tigers and bears. Speak again," demanded Lear.

"OK, how about ... door-to-door salesmen?" Lear seemed to be unusually correct in his observations in Ap, so I decided to suggest something less threatening than wild beasts. Just then, a door-to-door salesman jumped out at us.

"Boo!" he yelled. I was a bit startled but certainly not frightened, Lear muttered something about disrespect from door-to-door salesmen, and Meursault was emotionless, as usual.

"Aren't you scared?" asked the middle-aged salesman.

"Well, not really," I answered, "But it was a good try."

"I can't seem to do anything right these days. I was just virtually fired from my job after seven thousand years of service-seven thousand years! And then I try to crash my car to get insurance money and I land in this jungle. I am such a wimp."

"I'd rather not call you Wimp. What's your name?"

"Loman. Willy Loman," he answered dejectedly.

"Well, Willy, maybe Sorcerer of Ap can give you some courage," I suggested, trying to prevent The Death of a Salesman.

"It's worth a shot. Which way is this Sorcerer?" With that question, Meursault started walking down the road. Lear quickly moved ahead to lead, and the cowardly Loman and myself followed.

Finally, we reached the capital city. To tell the truth, it wasn't much of a city. The "city" was composed on one white building designed in a Greco-Roman style.

"Where's Sorcerer?" I wondered aloud. Expensive pyrotechnics and a loudspeaker answered my question.

"I am the all-powerful Sorcerer of Ap. What do you want?"

"Besides wanting to know who the guy with the microphone is?" He was standing just a few yards away from us, wearing a trench coat.

More pyrotechnics exploded. "Never mind John Wade. He is a nobody who couldn't even win a gubernatorial election in Minnesota. What do you want?"

"I want to go home, Lear wants a brain, Meursault wants a heart, and Loman wants courage."

"Hmm ... Alright," agreed the booming voice.

I was confused. "Don't you want us to prove ourselves? Shouldn't we do something like kill the wicked witch of the south?"

"No, she committed suicide earlier today. She just walked into the water naked and drowned. I don't think she could handle her wicked ways."

"Oh, great. I was worried for a second there." After all, she had threatened to "get" me. "So ... How about our requests?"

"I have already granted them." I looked to the others in my group. Lear was ranted about the fires Sorcerer created, Meursault was perfectly motionless, and Loman looked at his feet.

"I'm still here. This is not my home," I informed the "all-powerful" Sorcerer.

"Ah, but you are home. Wake up." So I did.

When I regained consciousness, I saw my mother. Not exactly a welcoming sight, but it was good enough for me.

"I was so worried about you! You gave yourself quite a bump when you ran into that door. Not exactly the smartest thing to do, but I'm glad to see my favorite son healthy again," she bubbled.

"I'm your only son. Hey, wait a second, you weren't in my dream..."