When he left his grandmas house it was raining and there was a bad vibe in the air. There were crazy booming sounds like far off construction, a steam hammer or trains coupling but not coming from any certain direction. Just cataclysmic echoes coming off the clouds out to sea. ET thought he would go check out the “Graffiti Submarine” out at the abandoned amusement park on the outskirts of the west side of town.
There were some condos that never got finished where the kids liked to steal lumber for bike ramps, then a patch of forrest called “Cleft Palate” and beyond that huge over grown parking lots for a half mile until you climbed over some fallen barbed wire fences and there it was. “Red Erik Raggnarsen’s Silly Scandanavia,” this place was legendary.
Every ones parents had a story about coming here as kids, it was like a cheapo version of Disneyland with all kinds of cultural rip offs. Rides based on the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Trex all yellowing here in the mist. The steel was low quality from China, rumored to be scrapped ww2 ships.
The food quality was bad and the rate of injuries and fatalities was too high for the original family to keep the place open. One corporate takeover after another, stripping down old rides for new trends like comic book characters in the 70s, bad horror movies, Japanese monsters and hair metal bands in the 80s.
Painting rust won’t stop stress fractures. The last big concert there was Metallica, Slayer and Maiden. If it wasn’t for birds chirping and owls taking over the ruins it would have a haunting quality. Even in the submerged blight of rocket ships, roller coasters and aquariums burned down and open to the sky there was something fascinating about nature displays and antiquated science from generations long gone.
You could practically hear the music of times past in this half flooded place where animatronics and rides falling in on them selves. Endless piles of half submerged lost dreams yellowing in wind battered decay. The site was prone to violent storms so it closed down sometime in the 80s. Now its a home to hobos, vandals and biker gangs.
The local ruffians were called the “Drunken Werewolves” a bike club that was supposedly started by his fathers high school pals in the 70s had set up in a shack far yonder on the edge of civilization. Only light came from their parties on the other edge of the sprawling parking lot, almost a mile away across overgrown fields of cracked cement.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
This place had a lot of strange stories, dinosaurs lurking among the reeds, giant crabs who pinch off swimmers feet, giant black birds from space that eat kids playing in the weeds, and a zombie disease that turns people into walking bad dreams.
ET had a favorite spot, the Yellow Submarine ruins where you could walk in plexi glass tubes under the lake and there was a skateboard ramp that looked like a crime scene from A Clockwork Orange. There were heated waterslides and even a theater were they used to do hotrod shows covered in trippy 60s style artwork. Rip offs of Zap comics, Vaughn Bode cartoons and Rat Fink Monster Rods.
The area had no new graffiti, but he noticed some scaffolding. He hopes they won’t mess up the spot. Beyond the rides is a little fantasyland styled after European castles and medieval seafaring culture that was mostly burned down he came to a series of cement domes that used to be aquariums. The ceiling long fallen in and pine trees growing from the mossy black water. Rays of light come down from the cracked cement and rebar, dragon flies and frogs grow large here.
Walking to the edge of the sea where luxury yachts and pleasure cruises once took onlookers around dioramas of great Naval battles. Looks like something from a WW2 movie with fibre glass men in crawling agony silted in scenes of Iwo Jima, The Pelopenesian War and early armor plated ships from the Civil War. Among a row of 15 foot tall fiberglass vikings that looked like they were pulled from those muffler shops that used to have the big guy out front, but now with horned helmet and spiked club instead of a spiffy mechanic outfit.
Out in the gloom ET can see camp fires under the piers where the winos hang out. If you wanted some exotic drugs from the city, the train hopping bums there would get you angel dust, speed, mescaline, X or heroin. Truth is he only came here when he was down on his spirits. This place was dangerous, more than once disputes ended with a floating body or half burned set of legs with no identifying marks. This was also where grandmas and stern fathers would warn kids skipping school that this is the end of the road for the “cool kids” who don’t do their homework and get disenrolled from the tribe.
Smelling a camp fire ET went down to see who was down here hanging out. There was an old bum named Whistler who was always down to hike to buy beer for the change. A crazy Vietnam vet named Monkey and his wife Lucinda who were from another tribe on the Canada side and always hiding out when they were on the lamb.
A couple young kids his age who were off to them selves and not friendly. Greeting all the bums he noticed one set of crazy eyes off into the shadows, who uproariously laughed with a growly voice but did not introduce him self. Whistler had some vodka and weed he was willing to share and ET handed him a pocket full of half smoked cigarette butts in return.
ET felt comfortable here. He would listen to stories about the hippie days and Vietnam, about conspiracy theories or the latest surveillance the harbor patrol had in helicopters. These winos always had great music on cassette tapes, industrial and punk bands form the Seattle scene. ET felt a lot cooler down here.
These toothless bums weren’t judging any body, but sometimes their rotten teeth and cold sores gave him pause drinking after them. He never worried about having his throat slit or his backpack stolen if he fell asleep here. For some reason over the camp fire he saw all the winos as Rhinopithecus Tibetan snubnosed monkies, giant hungry centipedes and smiling alligators. The weed must have been laced.