Greetings! If you’re reading this semi-legible note, it means that you’ve royally ticked off King Stenkill the Merciless, and you now find yourself falling at a maximum speed of two hundred miles per hour. As the self-elected mayor and official greeter of this bottomless pit, let me be the first to say welcome to your new home.
Rest assured that the legend is true: the pit is, in fact, bottomless. You need not worry about a quickly approaching dungeon floor on which you’ll pop and splatter like a cantaloupe. Nor will you ever arrive in China, the liquid magma core of the earth, or even hell. Let’s put it this way: if there is a bottom to this thing, we still haven’t found it.
I bet you’re probably a bit peckish. Panic-inducing adrenaline flooding your nervous system will do that. So, feel free to try and grab some of the pigweeds growing out of the walls. Don’t let the name fool you—they taste terrible. Still, pigweed can grow without sunlight, so… win?
But avoid touching the bricks if you want to keep all your fingers.
As I was saying, the very existence of this pit seems to defy every natural law known to man. But knowing that there is no end means you’ll have plenty of time to contemplate what kind of a God would even allow for this cruel abomination to exist.
Depending on your age, there’s a good chance you’ll be at terminal velocity for, oh, the next fifty to seventy years. So, you might as well get used to it.
But that’s just the downside of falling into a bottomless pit. (Downside, get it? We like to have fun here.) Now, here is the good news: we victims of the king’s bloodthirsty rule have transformed this bottomless pit into a home.
By surviving on food scraps, rotting vegetables, and mostly backwash bottles of wine tossed down here by the royal family, we’ve learned to live, love, and even thrive while mostly ignoring the terrifying reality of our eternal plunge into darkness.
Also, I realize the bathroom situation is far from ideal. If you’ve been hit by any fast-flying turds during your descent, our apologies. You’ll get used to it. Eventually.
Many of us have even raised families inside here. I myself am a third-generation pit baby. That’s right; you can have sex in here. And let me tell you, it is not satisfying.
And if vanity is your thing, the constant wind pressure smacking you in the face means no sagging or wrinkles, which would be a huge bonus if we could actually see each other. Speaking of which, how are you reading this right now? Do you have matches or perhaps impeccable night vision?
Anyway, the wife and I would love to have you over our place. It’s just a few miles south of where you are now. We’ll be the ones falling. That’s a little joke, of course. There’s no way out of this hellish torment.