Fibble: The Fourth Circle of Heck

by Dale E. Basye

  “Are you listening to that awful singer too?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Mr. Nixon replied. “He’s squawking through every PA down here. It’s a blasted nuisance.”

  “Speaking of nuisances I’d like blasted,” the principal continued, “Milton Fauster. He’s the reason I’m calling. I have a hunch—actually, a little throb in my hunch—whenever that little creep is about to pull something—”

  “Don’t worry your petty little head about him,” Mr. Nixon interrupted, tapping his arthritic fingers on the coffee-ringed coffee table next to his chair. “I’m keeping Mr. Fauster, like all enemies, close. You have my promise as a disgraced career politician that Milton Fauster is snoring away in his bunk, beaten down and dispirited, posing no trouble to anybody.”

  * * *

  Marlo crept down the deserted hallway in her hair pajamas, cradling two balloons—surgical gloves swiped from the infirmary—filled with a thick mixture of powdered milk, little white lice, Elmer’s glue … basically whatever bright, white substance she could find. She turned her head around the corner and saw—just barely—three black chameleon demons marching in front of Fibble’s darkened R & D lab.

  The hallway was still but far from quiet. ARGH radio was very much on the air.

  “Swan song from the false power,” sang the Truthador in his distinctive nasal twang. “The Salesman, he skews the view. Every last man, woman, and child will bid their home world adieu.”

  Not much for the merry melodies, Marlo thought as she waited for a clear shot of the wall behind the marching chameleon guards. But his lyrics loiter around in your head, like some kind of puzzle aching to be solved.

  Marlo had to find out what P. T. Barnum was cooking up in his viral marketing laboratory. Suddenly, she saw her chance. Hefting the balloons in her hands, Marlo screwed up her brother’s eyes as she gauged her trajectory, then lobbed both balloons at the R & D wall. The balloons splashed in wet, milky explosions, turning the dark, dirty walls brilliant, uncompromising white. The guards swiveled about and eyed the glaring, dripping wall with their protruding peepers. After a moment of paralyzed silence, the three black chameleons trembled and fell to the ground—screaming as their chameleon skin struggled to process the abrupt, total change in color—before turning pale white and passing out.

  Marlo trotted toward the lab and tried the door, which was—unsurprisingly—locked. She knelt down by one of the unconscious guards and yanked a wad of keys from his belt. After a few tries, Marlo found the right key, gave it a twist, and opened the door slowly, stepping into the dark.

  “The truth is our weapon,” the Truthador sang. “With it, we’ll lead the attack.”

  Marlo felt along the wall as she padded softly into the laboratory.

  “And beat every swindler, impostor, and—”

  The fluorescent lights flicked on.

  “Quack?”

  11 • IF THE SHOW HITS, BEWARE IT

  Van Glorious, dressed in character as Teenage Jesus, walked across the Nazareth High gymnasium set to join some of his adolescent disciples—Simon, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, and Judas—at the refreshments table at the Annual Purim Dance and Social. He ladled dark, lumpy juice into wooden cups for his friends. Bartholomew took a sip and grimaced.

  “Ugh,” the tanned boy grumbled. “Fig juice. It’s not even strained. Nasty.”

  Judas, a curly-haired boy with peach fuzz on his upper lip, leaned into Jesus.

  “Brock, brock.”

  “Shut up,” Teenage Jesus replied. “I’m not doing it.”

  “Whatever,” Judas shrugged. “If I could make this dance less than lame, I’d totally do it. But that’s just me.…”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Simon interjected, flipping back his feathered hair as the band played a slow-dance number on lute, harp, and rattled sistrum.

  Teenage Jesus sighed and glared at Judas.

  “Well, since you all must know,” he explained, “I was getting a bucket of well water for my mom the other day and noticed it had all sorts of crud in it. So I was fishing out olive leaves and junk because Mom would totally freak if the water wasn’t clean … she has a thing about purity … and, well, the water turned into … um, wine.”

  Andrew gave Teenage Jesus a shove.

  “Get out!” he exclaimed.

  “Dude, my hand’s stamped, so if I get out I’ll just come back in,” Teenage Jesus joked.

  “Do it!” James and John chanted in unison.

  “Shhh!” Teenage Jesus said, looking over his shoulder at his aunt, patrolling the perimeter of the dance floor with a scowl. “My auntie’s here as a chaperone. She’ll totally bust me if she finds out.…”

  “Brock, brock,” Judas taunted.

  Teenage Jesus sighed, succumbing to the ceaseless erosion of will that is peer pressure.

  “Fine,” he said, sticking his finger in the punch. “With friends like you, Judas, who needs enemies?”

  Judas smirked as the punch darkened.

  “I have no idea what kind of wine I make,” Teenage Jesus explained. “With the fig juice it’ll probably be gross and sweet anyway.”

  “That’s very unhygienic, nephew,” Teenage Jesus’s auntie interjected from behind him as he ladled punch to his friends. With a start, he spilled some on the woven straw tablecloth.

  “So jumpy,” she continued. “Now pour your auntie a cup before you splash it all over the place.”

  “Um,” Teenage Jesus replied. “It might be a little sweet for you.”

  “I like it sweet.”

  “And it seems like it might have … fermented. A bit.”

  “Just pour me a flippin’ cup of punch!” she shouted. “My mouth tastes like the Dead Sea.”

  The boy sighed and handed his aunt her drink. She took a sip. Her beady eyes squinted and sparkled with the gift of confirmed suspicions.

  “I knew it,” she replied, more delighted than angry. “You spiked the punch.”

  “I didn’t!” Teenage Jesus exclaimed. “Not really, anyway. Search me! I don’t have a jug or cask or anything!”

  She grabbed him by the ear and dragged him away from the table.

  “I don’t care how you did it,” the bitter old woman said. “But you did, and you’re done. No more cavorting with your long-haired friends.”

  Teenage Jesus blushed with embarrassment as the crowd of dancing teens gawked.

  “You have it out for me … you always have!” he exclaimed. “Why do you always do this to me?”

  “Because I’m Auntie Christ!” she replied between gritted teeth. “And it’s my job to make sure you lead a normal, respectable, and ordinary life! Not go off gallivanting across Judea, filling people’s heads with this peace and love nonsense!”

  A look of conviction crept onto the teenager’s face. The kind of certitude that comes when you hear your calling ringing loud and true in your ears, and you can’t help but answer it.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling like the Sea of Galilee.

  “And cut!” Mr. Welles bellowed offstage in his canvas chair by the camera. “Superb! Truly inspired.”

  Van shuffled offstage.

  “I don’t know … I was perfect, but I think the scene could’ve had more … intensity,” he said with an actor’s blend of arrogance and neediness. A short demoness with large goo-goo eyes and two pig’s tails sticking out of her head handed him a bottled water. Van turned and shrieked at the creature. “The water tastes terrible when you bring it to me! Have Marlo give me the bottle!”

  The pig-tailed demon hid her weeping face in her claws and ran out of the makeshift studio at the center of the Hellywood Hole, a cavernous, subterranean amphitheater housing dozens of demon stagehands, extras, and actors. With its scarlet fiberglass shell of concentric arches, the Hellywood Hole—to Milton—resembled the inflamed ear of the Unjolly Red Giant.

  Milton sighed, knowing firsthand through Van’s expl
osive tantrums of the last forty-eight hours that it was far easier for everyone—Milton included—to instantly succumb to Van’s irrational demands. He picked up another bottle of H2No, the trendy anti-water that Van drank, and handed it to the temperamental star.

  “Thanks, doll,” he said with a demeaning wink.

  Milton, irritated, walked back to Mr. Welles as he flipped through the day’s scripts.

  “Mr. Glorious,” Mr. Welles intoned, “As the director of Citizen Kane, Macbeth, Touch of Evil, and countless other films you’ve never heard of, I assure you that your performance made the scene utterly Van-tastic.”

  Van tucked a tuft of blond hair behind his ear and nodded, his ego temporarily sated.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, taking a swig of water, rinsing his mouth, and spitting it out on an extra’s shoes. “I’ll save my energy for the Sermon on the Mountain Bike scene.”

  Mr. Welles wiped his brow with a white hankie as Van strutted back to his dressing room.

  “Dealing with young superstars is like trying to defuse a bomb,” Mr. Welles muttered to Milton. “You’re never sure if you’re going to snip the right wire. Anyway, Miss Fauster, what did you think of the scene?”

  “Um,” Milton replied hesitantly, “well, the scene had energy and the acting was decent, but …”

  “But what, Miss Fauster?” Mr. Welles pressed as he scrutinized Milton with his glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

  “It’s just that Jesus is such a crucial figure in the lives of so many,” Milton continued. “And his turning water into wine was a miracle, not some teenage prank. So I guess I’m kind of worried that we’re taking too many liberties with, you know, the central figure of Christianity.”

  Mr. Welles smirked, as if the criticism were an old friend that kept reappearing unannounced at odd hours.

  “Ah, yes. I heard the same concerns when adapting Shakespeare,” he said, rubbing his dense beard. “Sure, every great story loses something in the translation to the screen, but—in the hands of a genius like myself—the story gains something even greater. It gains a new audience. If I was faithful to someone’s faith, I would be merely preaching to the converted. But by getting to the dramaturgical pith, the very marrow of Teenage Jesus, I release the timeless intensity of emotion—the passion of Christ—that will grab today’s young people where they live!”

  Mr. Welles makes a good point, Milton thought, reluctantly. But I still think his ego is eclipsing whatever is really going on here.…

  Offstage, Milton could see Van and his costar Inga Hootz—aka Auntie Christ—engaging in a heated argument.

  “You’re in my chair!” Inga screeched.

  Van crossed his legs casually as he tilted back in the canvas chair, reading Acting Up: Scrupulously Preparing for Improvisation.

  “It’s not like it has your name on it,” he replied without looking up.

  “Actually, it does,” Inga replied, pointing to her name clearly inscribed upon the back of the chair.

  Van smirked.

  “Squatter’s rights,” he said with a shrug.

  Mr. Welles waved his cigar at a thick-featured demon stagehand wearing a rotten sombrero.

  “Sancho, we’re ready for the next set.”

  The demon nodded and—with a full-body yank—pulled a large metal lever offstage. The round, thirty-foot stage shuddered and revolved like a massive lazy Susan. Mounted on top of the rotating stage were wedged, triangular sets to several T.H.E.E.N.D. shows, each shaped like a theatrical slice of pie. The gymnasium of Nazareth High spun away as a living room scene clicked into place in front of Mr. Welles and the demon camera crew.

  “Miss Fauster,” Mr. Welles said as he pushed the one-eyed cinematographer away from the camera to peek through the lens. “The next script, please?”

  Milton skimmed through the stack and handed Mr. Welles the script for the sitcom Allah in the Family. A middle-aged, Middle Eastern man with a bulging middle galumphed out to sit on his shabby wing chair. As the man nestled his butt into the well-worn cushion, it took on the dignity of a throne. A woman in a black, full-length burka and veil waddled out onto the stage and sat in a less-padded chair next to his.

  “Arshad, Edibe,” Mr. Welles said, addressing his two actors, “as you know, you’re playing Arshad and Edibe Buainain, two fundamentalist Muslims who view the changing world around them as a direct assault against their values. Unfortunately, Teenage Jesus ran a little long—”

  “Figures,” grumbled Arshad as he crossed his arms with irritation.

  “—so we just have time to do a quick teaser for the show, and a product endorsement,” Mr. Welles continued. “Lights … camera … action!”

  Arshad leafed through an Islamic newspaper.

  “Aw, look at this, will you?” he complained. “An article from the Western imperialist media on how the economy is so bad that women may have to work to help bring home the bacon!”

  Edibe, working a small loom with her hands and feet, shakes her head.

  “And we can’t even eat bacon!” she replied, shaking her head as she wove together strands of brightly colored yarn.

  Arshad rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “Allah, give me strength,” he murmured. “My wife is a few goats short of a herd!”

  Their teenage daughter, Galiah, strode into the living room, wearing a hot-pink Juicy Couture burka and a sheer, rhinestone-encrusted veil.

  “Where do you think you are going, young lady, dressed like some shameless jezebel!” Arshad yelled, throwing down his paper. “I can practically see your knees and nostrils!”

  Galiah turned to face her father as she opened the door to leave.

  “Oh, Father!” she replied in a shrill, sassy tone. “All the girls dress like this!”

  “Yes … all the girls in the harem!” Arshad spat.

  Galiah sobbed and ran out the door. “You are totally incomprehensible!”

  Arshad shook his head.

  “Maybe so,” he mumbled. “But I make a lot of sense.”

  Edibe held out a tray of pastries to Arshad.

  “Something else that makes sense,” Arshad continued, “is the delicious, portentous taste of Doomsdanish®.”

  He unwrapped the mushroom cloud–shaped pastry, and took a big bite.

  “Mmm … a taste to die for!” Arshad said with a wink. Just then, Galiah reentered the room, strutting to the tray, and scooped up several Doomsdanishes.

  “Be sure to collect them all!” she said with a mischievous smile. “Like me and all of my totally cool friends do!”

  Galiah ripped off the cellophane, lifted her veil, and sunk her teeth into the flaming skull-shaped pastry.

  “Oh, and Father,” she added with a smirk, “bite me!”

  The family laughed good-naturedly as the stage lights dimmed.

  “And … cut!” Mr. Welles shouted as the stagehands shuffled props around to prepare for the next shot. Milton sidled close to him as he handed the rotund director the next script.

  “Doomsdanish?” Milton commented. “That’s kind of creepy.”

  Mr. Welles nodded while he flipped through the pages of the script.

  “Yes, I have to concur, Miss Fauster,” he replied. “But show business is indeed a business—and these disturbing products from Fibble are paying for my comeback.”

  “Fibble?” Milton croaked. “But that’s where they send kids who lie.” Like my sister disguised as me, he thought.

  “It’s ingenious, really,” Mr. Welles said, distracted, as he framed the set with his hands. “Who better to devise ways of marketing to kids than kids themselves? I probably would have thought of that myself, had I thought of it.”

  Just then, a stooped demon pushed a cart of mail next to Milton.

  “Delivery for Mr. Welles,” the ancient creature wheezed, holding out a bulging manila envelope with no return address.

  The writing, Milton noticed as he studied the envelope, was precise yet florid and very distinctive.


  The Man Who Soldeth the World! Milton thought. It must be the next episode!

  “I’ll take that,” Milton chirped as he snatched the envelope quickly from the demon’s leathery hands and signed for it. “Mr. Welles is really busy.”

  The wrinkled demon shrugged its bony shoulders and pushed its overflowing mail cart away. Mr. Welles chewed on his cigar like a tobacco-filled pacifier, deep in thought as he perused his script.

  “So, Mr. Welles, you—um—mentioned that there was a place where I could watch dailies of the latest shows and review submissions—”

  “The Vidiot Box,” he grunted, gesturing to the back of the bowl-shaped band shell behind the rotating stage.

  Milton nodded and clutched the envelope tightly underneath his sister’s alabaster arm.

  I know that television is bad for you, he thought as he stomped toward a large wooden crate sprouting dozens of cables, but I have a feeling it’s going to get a lot worse unless I do something. What that something is, I’m not quite sure … but I have a feeling this freaky show will show me the freaky way.…

  12 • REIGNING CATS AND DOGS

  ANNUBIS PADDED ONWARD in the dark. The tall, slender jackal-of-all-trades who had extracted and appraised the souls of the darned for time immemorial (before impulsively eating his gelatinous associate Ammit) had no idea how long he had been walking. His extended tour of duty in Limbo’s Assessment Chamber had permanently hampered his concept of time.

  Despite this setback, Annubis was certain he was traveling in the right direction. His love for his family—his lovely Weimaraner wife Anput and young daughter Kebauet—was like a compass inside him, leading the deposed dog god straight to the Kennels: the howling, mewling basement of the Furafter, where the cries of the caged echoed, unheeded, off cold concrete.

  As Annubis staggered forward, the ground beneath his hind paws began to crinkle. Newspaper, he thought. I must be close. Annubis sniffed the air. Mingled musks, sour-sweet breath, the corn-chip smell of paws, and the ever-present undercurrent of ammonia. Closer than I thought.

  Suddenly, the darkness surrounding him was blasted away as a bank of blinding bright lights exploded up ahead. Annubis winced and shielded his sensitive eyes from the harsh light. Through his paw-hands he saw a guard tower topped with a cluster of piercing klieg lights.