v_knidh8er | (no subject)

[OOM: New Loompaland, more specifically the underbelly of New Loompaland. Even more specific than that, the trash compactor adjacent to the furnace.]

Oompa Loompas are an arboreal species that never would have sullied themselves with matters like waste control, had Wonka the Wicked not intervened. That's not to say that they aren't clever, quite the opposite really, it's just that the idea of something better than just tossing waste to the ground had worked so well up to that point. By modern standards Loompa Technology is far from state of the art, but it has a certain whimsical charm one rarely sees in something so practical. Waste not, want not could very well be the official Loompa Code.

The Loompa Trash compactor is a perfect example of this. Constructed of thousands of discarded holiday chocolate tins, it is a patchwork of color that is both pleasing to the eye and wholly functional. By compacting the refuse before burning it, the Loompas are able to harness a week's worth of energy from one burst of initial furnace power. Thus the heart of New Loompa land has more output than input, making it far more energy efficient than the factory.

Threaded | Flat

The heaps of garbage within the machine are dimly illuminated by a solitary light on the ceiling—a lime-green bulb giving the refuse an almost toxic glow. The only sound is the peaceful clunking of the flotsam as it bumps together, floating in the shallow pool of goo that rests permanently at the bottom of the compactor.

The tranquility is broken by a deathly groan from the murky depths. A clatter of beer cans follows, and there's a definite slurp as Indiana Jones sits up in the debris-covered ooze. His disorientation is not aided by the crippling absinthe hangover that pounds at his temples. Ugh... where the hell am I?

A moment passes as his senses finally start to process the environment. ...and WHAT is that unholy stench?

After some choice words are directed at the slimy liquid that now coats his exquisite white tuxedo, Indy drags himself to his feet, shoving aside several empty cartons that look suspiciously like egg nog. The uprightness is quickly remedied as he doubles back over and spends several minutes retching into the rotting matter, each gasp for breath causing extra nausea as more of the stink is dragged into his airways.

Finally, when there's nothing left in his stomach, he straightens and blearily wonders how to get out of this horrible chamber.