Snivel: The Fifth Circle of Heck

by Dale E. Basye

  “They’re really going through with it,” the principal muttered as she leaned against her massive mahogany desk. “An actual trial.”

  She stroked the thicket of bristles sprouting from one of her chins.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of eager witnesses,” she murmured to herself as the feathered demon backed his way out of her lair. “But what lawyer would possibly represent the epitome of all evil? I mean, most every attorney throughout history has struck an unfortunate deal with Satan at one time or another.”

  Principal Bubb etched another scowl into her permanently scowled face.

  “Whoever he is, he’s a complete fool. He’s just inherited a case no one could win.”

  Algernon Cole squinted at the bare lightbulb dangling before him. He tittered nervously as he gazed into the moat of complete darkness beyond.

  “Sure, why not?!” he laughed. His ponytail—thinning hair corralled into a scraggly graying braid of feigned youth—bobbed behind. “This is all some kind of joke, anyway. Are you guys with a community theater group of some kind? I used to dabble in my day. Had an addiction to grease paint and limelight. Knew my way around a show tune. We did this groovy, nondenominational version of Godspell one summer solstice.…”

  A large, leathery fist smashed the top of the claw-marked table.

  “Enough!” the beastly voice bellowed like a garbage disposal full of gravel.

  The creature heaved a bulging folder across the desk. Algernon Cole pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his long nose.

  “Do you think he has a shank to stand on?” the creature roared.

  The newly deceased lawyer winced and patted his aching stomach.

  “Ugh, those jelly beans are certainly having one heck of a disagreement with my tummy … whoa. Anyway, the defendant has a record longer than a box set of Grateful Dead bootlegs, but I’m always up for a challenge. Even in this weird dream.”

  “For the millionth time,” the beast roared, “you are dead.”

  Algernon Cole shook his long, narrow head and laughed.

  “Right. I’ve got long legs, Mister Boogeyman. You’re going to have to work harder to pull them.”

  “It’s Boogeyperson,” the creature clarified.

  “This is one crazy, crazy dream,” the spry lawyer mumbled. “No more off-brand colas and Funyuns for me. They aren’t even particularly ‘fun’ … or ‘onions’ for that matter.”

  “So you don’t have any conflict of interest,” the creature thundered from the darkness, “considering who—or what—the defendant is?”

  Algernon Cole shrugged and pulled up his mismatched socks: one beige, the other light brown.

  “Hey, I’m a lawyer. If my fee can earn me some interest, then there’s no conflict,” he chuckled. “Seriously, who am I to judge? I leave my scruples outside the courthouse … along with my watch, belt, and class ring. Those metal detectors are touchier than a blind masseuse! I’ll be honest with you, Mister Dream Monster. I’m looking to make a name for myself, so I’ll represent anyone who’ll have me. Besides, every felon deserves his day in court. Even this”—Algernon Cole squinted at the top sheet of the folder—“Louie Cipher fellow …”

  Damian Ruffino stared at the television in his older sister’s moldy basement. Sunflower-seed husks stuck to his lower lip, and he picked at a small white feather sprouting from his pimply chin.

  “I don’t believe it,” he murmured. His dark, cruel eyes—accustomed to dispassionately viewing the world as a petting zoo of chumps to be fleeced and/or bullied—were glittering with the realization that he was now the chump.

  An unnaturally tanned woman, so orange that she should have a Sunkist sticker stuck to her blank, chemically smoothed forehead, peered out of the television from behind her news desk.

  “Local gamesters are flocking to Fragopolis—Generica’s new video-game hot-spot—to go to Heck,” the woman said with a smirk.

  “Heck?” her male newscasting counterpart interjected beside her. “You mean like—”

  “Yes,” she replied as the game’s Gothic logo appeared on a screen behind her. “H-e-double-hockey-sticks for kids. Bad kids. It’s the latest gaming sensation, drawing crowds not seen since last summer’s tragic all-toddler tractor pull. In the game, players are sent to a special place—a terrible place—in the underworld reserved just for naughty children.”

  “Dumbian!” shrieked a bloodcurdling voice—as sharp and furious as a tornado in a knife factory—from upstairs. “Your girlfriend is here.”

  Damian blanched. The only thing in this world and the next that truly terrified him was his horrible, horrible sister Harrida. But, considering that their mom and stepdad vanished after the accident at the Paranor Mall, fearing any legal repercussions their troublesome, once-dead-now-living son may have incurred, Damian had nowhere else to go. Damian’s adopted-then-soon-commandeered cult—the Knights of the Omniversalist Order Kinship (KOOKs)—had disbanded after the Guiding Knight had attempted to poison Damian with illegal Japanese jellyfish beans. Luckily, for Damian anyway, his barely-lawyer Algernon Cole was the one who kicked the proverbial bucket after scarfing a handful of killer candy.

  “Is our show on?” said Necia Alverado, a spooky, rat-like girl from his former cult, as she stepped onto the crusty orange shag rug. For some reason, she still felt that Damian was, in the words of the KOOKs, “the Bridge between this world and the next”—some kind of super savior. While Damian didn’t buy the whole “Bridge” thing, he had put it on layaway, never knowing when he’d need to exploit Necia’s creepy devotion for his own gain.

  Damian gave a soft cluck before clearing his throat.

  “Nah … I’m watching something else,” he replied from his nest of junk-food bags and straw in front of the television. Damian leaned in close as a familiar face appeared on the screen.

  “… Dale E. Basye, creator of the Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go game, along with Virtual Prayground Industries, is the focus of parental backlash,” the anchorwoman continued. “A group called AGHAST—Adults Galled by Heck and Such Things—is waging a nationwide publicity campaign against Basye’s ghoulish gold mine of a game, claiming it leaves its players numb and oddly soulless …”

  Necia scooted next to Damian and handed him a small plastic bag full of worms.

  “This is all the bait shop had,” she said with a tight twitch of a smile. “They were out of your night crawlers, so I got you a wad of the dark-red ones.”

  Damian tilted his head back and swallowed a wriggling pinch of worms.

  “Thanks,” he forced himself to reply, expressions of gratitude as foreign to his tongue as Latin. “Did you get me a bag of that other stuff, too?”

  “Your Choco-full of Oinkrageous Flavor-Brand Fudge-Dipped Pork Rinds?”

  “Yeah,” Damian replied, wiping drool from his pimply chin.

  “Hmm, let me see …”

  Necia’s perplexed expression quickly gave way to one of mischief.

  “Of course I did, silly! I know they’re your favorite,” she said as she pulled a large brown-and-pink bag from her tote. Damian quickly snatched the bag from her hands, bit the corner off with all the intensity of a soldier pulling a pin from a grenade, then emptied the contents into his mouth. The precision blend of chocolate, pork, fat, grease, and MSG sure hit the spot. In fact, apart from the sunflower seeds and worms, Choco-full of Oinkrageous Flavor-Brand Fudge-Dipped Pork Rinds were pretty much all he ate lately.

  Necia examined Damian’s face.

  “That stuff is making you break out. I saw something on TV that can help cover your zits up at least.”

  Damian wiped chocolate pork dust off his snubbed nose, which now seemed oddly rigid and cast with a yellowish tinge. He didn’t mind the weird “chickeny” stuff he was going through since his return from the dead, but his etheric energy—the energy gluing his physical and spiritual selves together—was all wonky. Damian had lost his etheric energy when he died, yet he’d regained it, somewha
t, when the KOOKs had sacrificed a flock of chickens to bring him back from the dead. He had found himself growing increasingly out of phase with himself—his body and spirit unaligned, in need of some kind of supernatural chiropractic adjustment—making it challenging for Damian to live up to his notorious bullydom.

  “Isn’t Kickin’ with the Kult on?” Necia asked, referring to the hot new sitcom inspired by the Knights of the Omniversalist Order Kinship tragedy that she and Damian watched, if not religiously, at least with a fervent zeal. “Hey, who’s the old guy on TV? He looks familiar.”

  “Dale E. Basye,” Damian replied, fuming. “The jerk who stole the idea I stole. The idea that was going to send the KOOKs straight to the top of the death-cult heap.”

  “… Dale E. Basye has been unavailable for comment regarding the harmful effects of his supposedly dangerous video game,” the anchorwoman continued with a flip of her lacquered hair. “But the mobilized mob of outraged parents that make up AGHAST are determined to draw Basye out his self-imposed seclusion in his Las Vegas home with a massive protest.…”

  “Should we go to Fragopolis and play his game?” Necia asked hopefully as she tightened her already tight mousy brown hair with her twitchy rat fingers.

  “I’d sooner eat sushi off a boys’ room floor,” Damian grumbled. “I’d like to give that middle-aged goon a piece of my mind, though—and by ‘mind’ I mean merciless fists, and by ‘piece’ I mean blow-after-crushing-blow.”

  “… AGHAST are looking for children who have suffered from playing Basye’s wildly popular game to join them at their Las Vegas protest,” the anchorwoman said. “Those interested should contact the organization at the number below.”

  The male newscaster shook his head dismissively before releasing the full power of his bleached-white smile.

  “I don’t know what all the fuss is, Storm,” he chuckled as he straightened a stack of blank papers on his desk. “Let the kids play their Pong or whatever …”

  The downy white feathers on the back of Damian’s neck ruffled as he hatched a rotten egg of an idea. He turned to Necia and gave her his most messianic smile.

  “How would you like to go to Vegas with me? To see that guy?”

  Necia blushed and hugged her bony, stockinged legs. “I thought you said he was a complete jerk.”

  “Yeah, he’s a complete jerk,” Damian said with taut malevolence, “but he won’t be complete for long … not if I have anything to do with it. Of course, we’ll need money. You can help out with that, right, Necia? My one true believer?”

  If Damian was anything—besides unrepentantly despicable—he was determined: determined to leave his smudgy mark on this world (and the next), and determined to exact his considerable revenge upon Dale E. Basye.

  “Sure,” Necia said demurely. “As KOOK treasurer, I still have some of our membership dues. It should be more than enough.”

  Damian stared at a cigarette burn in the rug, practicing looking completely empty. He’d have to appear as vacant as a roach motel on the moon if he were to join forces with AGHAST as their game-damaged poster boy. If he played his marked cards right, he could mobilize a new group of reactionaries to do his bidding, draw Dale E. Basye out of exile, and take what was wrongfully his: everything.

  THE TERAWATTS TUMBLED roughly into the next level. Milton was sore all over, as if he had played a game of slug bug at a Volkswagen factory. He rubbed his eyes. A grim, aquatic light rippled around him.

  “I think I’m going blind,” he said. “I can barely make out anything. It’s like we’re submerged in the Black Sea after an oil spill.”

  Sam/Sara groaned in a weary, two-part harmony and rose to their feet.

  “I think this place is feeding on our senses,” Sara said as her brother scanned the arena. “The last round seemed to affect your vision. But there’s not much to see here. It’s pretty dark. Plus, it’s weird.”

  “I can barely feel my arms and legs,” Sam finished in his slurry, sleepy voice. “It’s like I’ve gone kind of numb.”

  Milton realized that, in the last few moments, his aches and pains had been replaced by a strange, faraway tingle.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  The other Terawatts nodded, save for Caterwaul.

  “Not me,” she said, her wide, wet eyes glittering. “I’m actually the opposite. I can even feel your guys’ breath on me. It’s kind of creepy … and crawly. I can feel every stitch of this stupid armor suit.”

  “Ten … nine … eight,” the demon emcee bellowed from above as the ceiling blinked with a hundred eyes.

  Flickering red lights spilled out above, forming words.

  “Perpetor?” Milton murmured, screwing up his eyes toward the ceiling.

  “Palpator, dimwit,” Sam grumbled as he tried to stare down the glazed multitude of eyes staring down at him.

  Ariel, still senseless on the ground, stirred as if fighting to emerge from a bad dream. Just then, two figures shot out of the darkness and ran across the coliseum’s vast muddy plain: a small bespectacled boy and a blue-haired girl.

  “It’s … you and your sister,” Sara gasped.

  Snapping at the heels of the two children was a horde of brawny demons brandishing pitchforks. The figures disappeared into the murk beyond.

  “Three … two … one. Begin Palpator: Sense-o-Round Two …,” the announcer roared.

  Fiery red letters and numbers appeared above.

  GRAVITY: –4

  RESISTANCE: +7

  The children’s armor rippled and twitched. Milton fought for control of his Unity-Tard suit. Inside, tiny cattle prods zapped his muscles, forcing him out toward the center of the arena. His friends, limbs spasming with shock, were forced there with him.

  Twizzle-zip!

  The sultry form of Principal Bubb’s severely altered alter ego swished into view, clad in a clingy chain-mail evening dress.

  “You know me, you worthless guttersnipes,” she said, her harsh words flowing like poisoned honey. “I’m not the touchy-feely type. But for your sakes, you’d better get in touch with your feelings: while you can still feel them …”

  Her throaty cackle echoed throughout the Sense-o-Rama as she was enveloped in shadow. A wave of putrid stench, like the smell of thousands of decaying fish carcasses, spilled out from the far end of the arena. A mountain of writhing spikes slid into view amidst the churning murk.

  “Behold the mighty Tactagon!” Bea “Elsa” Bubb roared. “A creature whose bear hugs no one can bear!”

  Glorm!

  The creature rumbled forward, briefly illuminated by a wobbling band of simulated underwater moonlight. Even though Milton’s vision was faltering, there was no mistaking the monstrous threat before him. The Tactagon was the size of a small hill, carpeted with countless barbed tentacles. And it was coming closer.

  Snorfle!

  The Sunshine Sneezer lurched forward.

  “Am … being … played,” he grunted. He leapt into the air, hovering—almost swimming—before returning to the ground. “The physics of this round,” he muttered as he fought for control of his armor. “They’re different. Like floating in water.”

  A portal slid open to the left of the Terawatts.

  Schwaa!

  Out shot a half-dozen weapons, clanging at their feet.

  Words blazed above.

  WEAPON: SHRIEK-SPEAR

  Milton stooped down and felt around the slick floor with his numb hands. He grabbed a weapon and held it up close to his face. It was like a trident, with tiny windmill blades covering its tines.

  Milton sprang into the air, soaring above the heads of his friends before gently floating back to the ground. The monster lumbered forward in a patch of billowing, pale-green light. Milton’s fuzzy vision could make out a shaggy form, mottled in splashes of blue and pink, swaying its sawtooth limbs like a sea anemone. Milton turned to his friends.

  “I say we slash our way to the next level, then rush back for Ariel. Maybe, for once, we just sur
render to the game and let the kids above fight.”

  Sara shrugged.

  “It couldn’t hurt.… Well, it might, but it’s worth a try.”

  The Terawatts trained their tridents ahead in the leaden gloom.

  “Now!” Milton yelled.

  The children were tugged into the air by the players above, like marionettes on rubber bands wielded by invisible giants. Milton waved his Shriek-Spear in the air.

  Wheeeesh!

  Its windmill blades screamed. Instantly, the Tactagon flung its gigantic, jagged tentacles wildly in every direction, slicing open the armor on Howler Monkey’s chest.

  Wargle-lash!

  Howler Monkey screamed as he was tossed against the Sense-o-Rama’s sloping wall. Another tentacle lashed at the Sunshine Sneezer’s back, sending him spinning in the air.

  Skeech!

  The boy slammed into Sam/Sara, with the three Terawatts sent sprawling onto the muddy floor.

  Milton swung his trident in whistling arcs above his head.

  Wheesh! Wheesh!

  The Tactagon bowed what must have been its head—a hideous, mewling orifice surrounded by twisted, translucent horns—and vented a piercing, keening shriek.

  Squeeeerp!

  Milton sliced at the air in front of him.

  Wheesh! Squeeeerp!

  The creature screamed.

  Hans had gone overboard without a life vest. Every square inch of his school locker real estate had been devoted to a picture or news clipping of Marlo. Hans’s obsessive dedication to her bordered on serial killer, though Marlo had little to worry about, being dead and all. He even had a calendar of crucial Marlo-centric days: her birthday, her unbirthday (Marlo assumed Hans couldn’t quite bring himself to celebrate her death), and various supposedly Marlo-specific days of mysterious import only to Hans.