Back then there was no yellow brick road. The walls, however, had a yellow tint: sickly, water-stained, in need of a paint job and she in need of a job, a change of pace, a different life, a better life; fled to Munchkin Land not noticing the jaundiced cracked walls, unaware of their cold demeanor, and the warmth of the tiny hearts hidden within.
“You don’t really belong here.” Her name was Connie and she was a Moron. Being born into wealth she masked it well. But I could tell. I can always tell. Maybe she was right, after all Morons can’t always be wrong all the time. And so I stayed, already feeling like an outcast.
She showed me to my room. The smell was overwhelming and sour. “I’ll get a candle for that,” was all she left me with. And burn the whole place down, I thought. I think there are laws for that.
She wasn’t there to save them. In fact, she wasn’t there. The tracks kept laying, for miles they stretched. Was she still in Kansas? In the arms of the cowardly queer? Was this all a dream? The cats head did often spin backwards, but the duck man did not follow her. Nor the Chinaman. Here she didn’t need protection. Here she was the protector.