How long was that?  25 minutes? An hour?  Three hours?  Everything feels like an eternity when I’m hungry.

 

The pyramid was a steady flat slope incline but Cynthia had enough of a grip to scramble up using her free hand to keep from sliding back.  Her other hand was full as she swung “Thunder Slice,” her newly named sword that allowed her to punctuate her string of profanities waving it above her head.

 

She was able to keep momentum forward without sliding back to the great entrance, perhaps 150 feet above the ground.  The entrance was 30 feet tall and just as wide and was guarded by large Egyptian-style statues of monstrous men with exaggerated animal heads festooned in the finest cardboard materials.  She entered into the darkness shuddered as chunk chunk resonated through the pyramid.

 

Reaching her hand out into the blackness and shuffling her feet… Goddammit! shuffling her feet right into stubbing her toe on a step.  As her eyes adjusted she could faintly make out markings on the bottom dozen or so steps.  They rose up and up until they stopped at a ceiling.  She was stuck.

This whole pyramid can’t just be a stairway up?  Can it?  Is it some bad metaphor for death or tombs or Egyptology?  No.  And why is Egypt the only country with a -tology?  Why no Denmarktology?  That’s it, I’m going back to school to pursue and pioneer Denmarktology!  The floor felt hollow.  She could have cut a hole through the floor like she made for Thunder Slice but she also didn’t know if cutting a hole would lead her to fall hundreds of feet and break every bone in her body.