The Desk: Mystagogue Amok The tour group descended the second flight of steps toward the underground museum. As they approached the dank coldness of the poorly lighted foyer, the small crowd was subdued by a musty presence. Its acrid odor seemed to penetrate mercilessly into the throat and lungs of each member of the group. The walls were cold and moist, and fungus lined the ancient cracks between the stones. The catatonic tour guide began to methodically chant the well-rehearsed details of his monologue. He narcotically began to describe each work of art. First a sculpture, then a painting, and finally, the curious architecture each vied for the attention of the disinterested onlookers. None would receive any, until they reached "The Desk." "The Desk" was a painting that seemed to have a life of its own. The author had manifested some ancient and malevolent curse on his otherwise inanimate canvas. The image was that of a desk, that looked more hauntingly like an altar. Behind it lay a dark, red sky. Thin red lines amidst the clouds of a summer sunset sprawled bloody riot across the sky. Thick, dark drops of blood coagulated beneath a dagger on the surface of the desk. The desk itself had legs that served a function more than merely to support its surface. They were living appendages, anatomically complete with talons that reached down to choke the suffocating, dusty earth beneath. Four hideous arms reached out from the upper corners of the desk. As the tour guide began to articulate the details of this work, he seemed to exorcise the heinous arms from the constraint of their two-dimensional prison. No one dared to vocalize what all those who were present felt. There was an uneasy feeling of imminent danger. It was as if the painting were crying out for someone to reach up and touch it. One young man approached the image and, without understanding why, lightly ran his forefinger across the surface, drawing blood as he caught it on a nail in the frame. A child in the group began to cry. The presence of an unwelcomed stranger exerted a tangible weight in the air, which pressed down upon the now fearful crowd. Screams more forceful than stricken terror in the dead of night reverberated through the narrow passageways. The crowd passed quickly into an adjacent room. The curator turned and revealed the horrible truth. An ancient desk was on display. It seemed to have a life of its own. Behind it, the dark, red sky of the summer sunset glowed through an open window. The curator turned upon the terrified crowd and, wielding a dagger, made his contribution to the thick, dark pool of blood coagulated on the surface of the desk.