Look, I’m not making this up. These four tickets for Magic Kingdom I found in my pocket are real. Why do I have a safety deposit box at Epcot full of cash, character location maps, and over one hundred trading pins? How do I know we can save over $600 if we do our own princess makeover instead of going to the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique?
When did I get a FastPass band implanted in my hip?
I come to the Disney World parking lot and the first thing I’m doing is catching the sightlines and exits of the entire park. I know that they have more security cameras than Vegas and I have somehow memorized the exact location of every restaurant, lounge, kiosk, gift shop, water fountain, and restroom.
I can tell you the license plate numbers of all 350 buses that go to each park. I know the precise times the monorail arrives and departs from each station and which seats have just been puked on by a four-year-old.
I know that a new Pixar ride is opening this fall, but if you bribe the security guard who’s posing as a churro ice cream salesman outside the construction site, he’ll let you in to take a peek.
I also know there’s a guy sitting in the hotel lounge that weighs 215 pounds and is about to lose his shit because his kids would rather play in the hotel than go on another ride and they have five torturous days left here.
I know the best place to look for $4 water is by Space Mountain. And in this humidity, I can run flat out for a half mile to make our FastPass appointment time before I keel over and pass out. Now why would I know all that and not know who I am?
When we get inside, I need you to help me uncover the truths from my past. I need to find out who’s running this program and who made me what I am.
First, I need everyone to recognize the highly trained characters that are probably after me. Think big ears and eyes.
And we can’t risk being spotted by one of these operatives at the restaurants. When we get hungry, we’ll order food to go using our burner phones and have the cashier place it in a plain paper bag outside the restaurant. Then I’ll come out of nowhere and speed by on a needlessly loud motorcycle, grab the bag with one hand and dramatically race up several flights of stairs. I’ll meet up with you guys at the Country Bear Jamboree. No one ever goes there.
I don’t know who created me. All I know is that if we stay in this hotel, I’m never going to find out. In case something happens, take this backpack. It must have $20,000 in cash in there. It’s enough to start a new life somewhere or get us through the next two days at Disney.
We need to figure this out. I’m tired of the headaches, the nightmares, the long lines, the songs, the crowds, and the crippling heat! We need to stay alert the whole time, because I swear to God, if I even feel somebody behind me, there is no measure to how fast and how hard I will fling Walt’s cryogenically frozen head through the door of Cinderella’s castle.
The next monorail leaves in five minutes. We have 47 square miles to cover in Magic Kingdom, so, before we go, everyone hit the bathroom.