You are now an immobile but conscious stone statue. The fountain man pulls out with a loud scraping noise, and looks you over. Then he shrugs, puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles. After a few moments he whistles again, pauses and repeats again and again.
A minute or so later, the door swings open, and a burly man in an old jumpsuit enters wheeling a dolly.
"Keep your pants on, I'm coming," he says the statue man finally starts whistling, "Oh, that's right, you don't have pants."
The statue glares and then speaks in a surprisingly gravelly voice, "Would you rather someone was wheeling you out of here on a dolly, fat man?"
"Watch those threats demon, I'm part of the union, you cannot touch me."
The statue man hisses, "No, I just get fined if I do. And you keep up this attitude, and I may just consider the fine worth it. Now get this lump of stone out of here quickly, I can sense my next prey coming down the corridor now."
"Right, uh, hope he or she is better looking than this one. No way the gallery will take it looking like this," he says shaking his head as he manipulates the dolly underneath your feet, and begins strapping bungies around your body.
You are outraged and shout think, Hey what's wrong with my body!
"Fine, then take it to the Art School. It's not that bad, maybe a few well placed chisel marks and it'll be saleable," the statue man orders.
You're wheeled out the door, and just as the door swings shut, you hear the sound of the other door's handle turning. The man pushes you on the dolly begins to whistle "Another One Bites The Dust."
You are rolled down a dingy service corridor. Each door has a sign sticking out perpendicularly from the wall announcing where it leads. It's amazing. You see the sign above your head as the exit door is secured reads, "FOUNTAIN MAN ROOM". The doors are incredibly close. You know there were no other doors on either side of the door you just exited, but in the corridor the next doors are only separated by two inches. The next door is labeled, "ART GALLERY," but the fat man wheels you passed that with a hrumph.
"Wish you were a looker, then I wouldn't have to push you so far," he mutters as he stomps down the corridor.
Signs rush pass as he starts moving faster, "BARBER SHOP," "ZOO," "LIBRARY," "WORKSHOP," "SANTA'S WORKSHOP," "ANCIENT EGYPT," "APOTHECARY'S", "TOY SHOP," "TRANSMUTATIONS R US," "BORG CENTRAL," "TIME LORDS & TAILORS," and many other nonsensical combinations. Slows down "TINKER'S," "SAILORS," "THIEVES SCHOOL," "ASSASSIN'S ACADEMY," "ART SCHOOL," and he stops.
He opens the door. You are wheeled into a wood floored room, and up on to a canvas covered platform. There are chairs and tables arranged around you with clay, hammers, chisels, carving tools and other sculpting paraphenalia on each table. The fat man unties your bungies, and slides you of the dolly. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his sweaty brow.
"There you go. Now maybe I can get some rest," he pauses and looks back in the direction from whence he came and groans, "Oh, great he's got another one for me." You strain and hear a faint whistling coming from the doorway. He wheels the dolly out closing the door behind him.
An old woman enters in a black silk full-length Edwardian dress wearing a heavy leather work apron. A group of young men and women in early 20th century dress enter behind her.
"Class, it looks like you have your work cut out for you today. Take your seats," she commands officiously.
Then she walks over to you, "This sculpture has a number of flaws, and I'd like each of you to identify one for the class. We'll start with Mr. Rogers."
A young beardless man wearing a tie and bright cardigan sweater stands up. In a slow measured voice he says, "Well, first I'd say, his shoulders are too narrow for his body."
"I don't think so. He's very realistic," chimed in a lady with long black coifed hair and an oddly distant expression.
"Miss Drusila, please wait your turn," says the old woman with an exasperated tone, "But you are right, it is too life like. People want realistic fantastic art, not realistic like real life. That was this artist's principal mistake. Art should be idealized. Now, Miss Drusila, since you want to talk, point out a flaw on this statue."
"Oh, well, it's toes are wrong - you know too realistic. His big toes are longer than his second toes, but ideally in the Greek Classical style, the second toe should be longer."
"Quite right, Miss Drusila. You and Mr. Rogers, may be seated. Now, Miss Ann Trope, what is your interpretation."
You are humiliated as students come up and poke and prod at you with comments ranging from your ears are mishapen to the indentations in your butt cheeks are unrealistic to you genitalia are disproportionate (one saying too large, one too small, and one saying the scrotum and cock don't go together). Finally, the last student attacks the placement of your belly button, and sits down.
"Very good class, you've identified the flaws. Now it's time to identify the solutions. You are each to sketch the sculpture as it is and how it should be. Then you will render your corrected version in clay, and the class will vote on the final design. Then we can break out our hammers and chisels and carve this flawed statue into a real work of art. Charcoal pencils ready, go!"
Instantly, notebooks fly open, and pencils scrawl furiously. You wonder what they have planned for you. The idea of chisels and hammers is not too pleasant to you.
After a few minutes, the art instructor begins moving among her pupils making comments on their drawings.
"No, James, this is the before drawing, the statue's ears are bigger," she corrects.
"Very good, Drusila, you've captured the expression of perverse joy on the statue's face perfectly."
"Oh, Mr. Rogers, you've already started on the revised statue. What a novel idea, I'd never thought of turning him into a satyr, but it does go with the facial expression. I do like the way you carved the horns into his head. Very clever."
"Ah, Miss Trope, are you sure about that?" she asks.
Two young women seated next to each other, "Me or her they ask in unison?"
"Ann, I was speaking to your sister Helio, since I'm standing next to her."
"Oh, well, I thought you didn't like my work."
"I will look at it soon enough. Now Miss Helio Trope, getting back to your sketch. You've made the focus of your sketch that sunlit window, and the statue should be at the center of the sketch, since it is the subject."
"Yes, ma'am," conceded Helio apologetically.
Just then a fly flew through the window and began flying around your head. You want to shoo it, but you cannot move. It finally lights on your nose, and you tune out the class and teacher for now. The fly crawls up your itching nose. Who knew stone could feel so sensitively.
The fly is right between your eyes rubbing his forelegs together, and then to your amazement, he speaks, "So got turned into a statue, huh, kid?"
You try to answer, and scream in your mind, "YES! YES! YES! I AM HUMAN! HOW DID YOU KNOW? CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
The fly covers its forelegs with its mid legs as it squats on your nose on it's abdomen and hind legs.
"Not so loud, kid! I can hear your thoughts, just like you can hear mine. It comes from being enchanted. Most flies don't have the language skills, I do. Believe me. I've tried striking up a conversation with one before. It's "sugar, sugar, sugar," this, "feces, feces, feces," that, and "corpse, corpse, corpse," over there. No real conversation at all." The fly sighs.
"So, you want me to try to get you out of here, before Mr. Caligula over there gets a chance to lop off your cock and balls and carve a fig leaf from the stub?"
"Caligula? What? Did they really say that?"
"You should pay better attention. Dang, let's see," the fly buzzes off and flies around you darting in between your legs and arms, "Oh, I see what he means about the fig leaf. You must weight a couple hundred pounds, and I weigh a fraction of an ounce. I better get help. Back in a sec." The fly darts out the window.
You mind shout after him, "Hurry back." Then turning your attention back to the class, and the teacher.
"Now, Mr. Verne, you can hardly be serious. That looks like at cat man? No, I haven't read The Island of Doctor Moreau, nor do I intend to, it's hardly suitable reading for a young woman now is it?"
"Oh, come on, a lawn jockey. Do you realize how much stone we'd have to chisel away to make that, Mr. Crowley?"
"Well, I was thinking a lawn jockey would look nice in front of my house," he began.
The teacher cut him off,"We're trying to design something saleable for the gallery."
"Well, lots of people like lawn jockeys. They're ornamental and functional. You can tie your horses to them when you get home," he countered.
"You should be more imaginative, Alister, like Miss Nesbit here. Elizabeth, that's a really smart idea."
"Now everyone get to work on your clay, we'll vote in an hour."
An hour reprieve, will the fly bring help, or will you be chiseled into a eunuch or worse? All you can do is stand and wait.