Last time, on Deviant Dispatches...
A young woman on the move. An apartment hungry for bat-like affection. And possibly a secret passage...
And now, the stunning conclusion.
The Batcave is pretty cool. Thanks to some incredible sidekicks (a.k.a. moving helpers), we already have a passable living room and bathroom. The bedroom's even in tolerable shape, and the kitchen was assembled enough for Spousal Unit to make some gourmet spaghetti last night. There is little to no highway traffic noise, the neighbors have been friendly, and the only loss in the move was a bottle of cayenne pepper sauce whose head wasn't screwed on very tightly. (It went on a murderous rage, dousing everything in its path with spicy vengeance. Luckily, it was in a plastic bag and no one was hurt in the assault.)
This place will be awesome once I get used to it. But the one thing I cannot and will not tolerate is the basement. I will never go down there alone. Here I am, unable to go down there to snap a picture in the name of this blog, because its terror is so terrific.
The basement door is at the bottom of a doomed stairway. We need a key to get in; we don't need one for the front door, but for some reason, heaven forbid anyone sneak in and pay for a load of laundry. The ceilings are about a foot too low, and everything is the same shade of dark grey concrete (minus the unusual and suspicious stains here and there). Support poles - painted a sickly yellow - appear less than five feet from each other, and there are twists and turns despite the open cavern of evil at the main entrance.
The laundry room itself is a puddle of normalcy in the midst of a freak tornado. The brightly painted walls and recently updated machines do not fool me; I know a scene from a serial killer movie awaits me in the other room. And possibly a serial killer. Maybe even basement-dwelling bats.
Batcave, this is not what I had in mind when I asked for a secret passageway.