The Fungal Jungle

What a little too much humidity can do

How and when will the Mycellium Age begin? Will you be ready?

The wackiest thing about the close of the twenty-first century was that no one appreciated the old species of flora and fauna. Things with fur and scales, claws, or feathers were no more than groaty specimens of taxidermy. On field trip days, the kids would gripe:

“Oh, come on! They’re taking us to the Museum of Extinct Species again? ”

“Ugh, I hate that place. So creepy.”

“Looking at ‘em ain’t gonna to bring ‘em back!”

I guess their attitude was understandable. The age of the mycelium was in full swing. It had given us fancy tentacle hydrae, like mushroom dreadlocks, and oversized “spaghetti and meatball” fungus to play with. That one was my favorite, good old Malassezia furfur.

The impact of mushroom exuberance went right to the root of things. Everyone’s last name was Mousheroms, or Mussheron, or Musserouns. Toadstools were no longer just for toads, and the giant irradiated ones became part of everyone’s home furnishings. Mushroom House was a major outlet. We all had furniture from MH.

Fungus spores devoured the micro-plastics in our blood and took over. Every male human on the planet now had two sets of balls, the original, and the new puffballs filled with spores. To the indignation of hairdressers everywhere, most people had fungal appendages instead of hair. Some of them were quite beautiful, especially the filigree and tendril types.

We even had an amusement park called The Fungal Jungle. On Saturdays, everyone went to ride the mushroom cap water slide while our parents imbibed at the psychotropic bar where they could nurse tall, frothy mushroom milk cocktails laced with psilocybin or lysergic acid diethylamide. Our parents were so fun when they took us to Fungal Jungle. If anyone had been pissed off at anyone else in the family, the negative feelings would magically disappear. You could even test it.

“Hey Dad, are you still mad at me for breaking the silverware drawer?”

He wasn’t listening. Dad was singing one of the ancient songs of the mushroom: “Silver horses ride down moonbeams in your dark eyes.”

“Uh, nevermind. Don’t let me spoil your karaoke.”

The only thing about The Fungal Jungle that wasn’t so great was the possibility of a Spore War. This is when people from a certain fungus clan would fight a clan from a different fungus type. Frankly, it’s depressing how predictable the human element can be. Even at the park, it could cause trouble in what is otherwise the elegant and harmonious existence of the fungal world, and once one of these fracases got started, the combat was brutal.

Just imagine: a long tentacle hypha of one fungus coils around a hypha of its opponent and penetrates it, almost sucking the life out of it. The victims would fight back in much the same way, gruesome! But to be honest, this was more fun to watch than going on the slide.

“Oh boy, there’s a spore war starting over by the ringworm jellies,” said my mother.

“Can we join in?” I asked, secretly always having wanted to kick someone in the puffballs.

“Certainly not!” She reached into her handbag and handed us our clotrimazole and miconazole spray canisters. The ketoconazole was for my father, but he was still singing “Betty Davis Osmolytes”. She rolled her eyes and took the family-size econazole for herself.

“Protect yourself, kids, we can’t allow any cross-contamination, otherwise you’ll be looking like motley fungal fools. Let’s see if we can get to the parking lot before things get extra pestilential!”

My mother’s mushroom feet were fuzzier than ours, but she ran like a mycelium marathon champion, and she had to drag my father to boot, although the sirens woke him out of his mushroom stupor. He got his keys out and said, “I’ll drive. You navigate us out of this chaos.”

As the rain of spores intensified, we scrambled to protect ourselves by donning masks, gloves, and goggles. The commotion behind the festive billboards was getting louder as we reached the turnstiles, where there was already a crush of other visitors trying to get out. My mother held on to us protectively as we were nearing the gate, where the pushing and shoving was worst.

Just then, a gang of hooligans with long coenocytic hyphae started attacking the people farthest away from the exit. The screams and ensuing chaos were spine-chilling. My father turned towards the gnarliest ones, taking out his canister of lethal ketoconazole, and pushed through the crowd towards them.

“DAD!” we shouted.

“Daniel, stop, we’re almost there! Daniel! ” The crowd closed and my father was out of view.

Then we saw the mushroom cloud envelop the park.

“Oh boy,” said my mother, handing me the keys. “You guys get in the car and wait for me. Keep the windows up.”

“Is Dad fighting the other clans?” asked my brother.

“That’s the biggest mushroom cloud I’ve ever seen. Is he going to be okay?” I asked.

My mother adjusted her respirator mask.

“Oh, he’ll be fine. It’s what always happens at this damn park. I told him we should go to Enoki Acres! Mind you, he’s going to be like a fungus Christmas tree for a few weeks at least.”

“Yay!”

We loved Dad that way.

Sandolore Sykes