Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck

by Dale E. Basye

  “As easy as smuggling two elephants out of a maximum-security circus,” Milton mumbled, discouraged, as he and Virgil pushed open the double-wide doors leading to the boys’ locker room.

  12 • HEALTH CLUBBED

  MILTON AND VIRGIL wrenched themselves into their burlap leggings, like two enormous sausages attempting to slip on their own casings. The marriage of coarse burlap and plump thighs gave birth to a wailing nursery of welts.

  “Can you help me with this?” Virgil asked, holding out his black rubber tube top.

  Milton nervously cased out the empty locker room. It was pretty much an unspoken rule that one never, ever helped another boy with his gym clothes. It was a surefire way to guarantee that one’s school social calendar would be jam-packed with torment, derision, and—more than likely—wedgies. Milton sighed and grudgingly helped his friend pull on his skintight rubber tube top. Finally, Milton tugged and jerked the smelly piece of synthetic workout gear into place.

  The bell rang. Gym class hadn’t even begun and Milton was already exhausted. He shambled toward the door. Though he was getting better at operating his Pang, it still performed with a slight lag behind Milton’s will, like an old arcade game with an unresponsive joystick. They passed a warped fun-house mirror strategically placed by the exit, with the obvious intention of getting in one last demoralizing dig before the portly boys underwent the full-body anguish of gym. But Virgil—his attitudinal glass perpetually at half full—took a look at himself and shrugged.

  “It could be worse,” he murmured at the grotesque, contorted image staring back at him. Milton, however, was unrecognizable to himself. The surreal sight of Jonah was like watching someone else’s out-of-body experience. He tugged straight his tube top, his reflection doing the same a split second later. Milton was his own puppet—a grossly overweight marionette of meat that was slowly digesting its master. Milton sighed (with Jonah sighing shortly thereafter) as he and Virgil parted the curtain of hanging chains and hooks and stepped into the Gymnauseum.

  Beyond the entryway of red-and-black-checkered foam mats was a huge two-story-high open warehouse space filled with rows of peculiar machines. The gray metal contraptions were splayed open, their twin doors like the petals of sinister brushed-steel flowers. Tucked inside each one was an industrial-sized metal hamster wheel.

  Demons in white laboratory smocks paced a second-story walkway edging the wall above the Gymnauseum floor. They scrutinized the open area below and scribbled observations on their clipboards. A short man dressed completely in white bounded up a flight of stairs to the walkway. He gripped the banister and smiled down at the children forced to assemble before him.

  “Well, well,” he clucked as he took in the sheer mass of Blimpo’s student body. “And we’re all about getting well here, in my Fatness to Fitness Center!”

  His eyes—twinkling with a merry madness—settled on Milton and Virgil, who were still lingering in the Gymnauseum entryway.

  “Hurry, my boys,” he said with crisp, manic exuberance. “This is the only place where haste doesn’t make waist!”

  Milton and Virgil trudged across the foam mats to be further savaged by bad puns and good cheer, no doubt. The mats hissed beneath their feet before slowly refilling the jumbo-sized indentations left by the two boys.

  “Remember,” Milton reminded his kind-yet-often-naive friend, “I’m Jonah. Got it?”

  Virgil nodded. “Yep, I got it. Jonah, like the minor Hebrew prophet who was called by God to preach in Nineveh but—after disobeying and attempting to escape by sea—was thrown overboard in a storm as a bringer of bad luck and then swallowed up by a giant fish.”

  Milton stared at his friend, his Pang mouth gaping like a mackerel on the deck of a fishing troller.

  “Yeah,” Milton replied. “Something like that.”

  “Gym dandy!” the man in white declared with a clap of his hands. “As many of you know, I am Dr. Kellogg, your health education teacher.”

  “Kellogg?” Milton whispered to Virgil. “As in cornflakes?”

  “Yep.” Virgil nodded. “And his cereal isn’t the only flaky thing about him.”

  Several blubbery boys collected around Virgil and Milton. Milton now knew what a main course felt like.

  “Hey, Virginia. Who’s the new kid?” asked a boy with short prickly hair and cheeks so big that he looked like a butt with eyes.

  “It’s Virgil, Hugo,” Virgil answered. “And his name is Mi … um … my friend. Jonah. Jonah, these are the guys. Hugo, Thaddeus, and Gene.”

  Thaddeus scrunched his scrunched-up face at Milton. His flabby arms stuck out limply at his sides, like a dinosaur frozen in mid jumping jack.

  “He looks like something my cat would have coughed up, only magnified a million times,” Thaddeus said.

  “Let us not squander our energy on words!” Dr. Kellogg barked, his elfish demeanor more akin to a troll after soaking in a tub of Hyper Viper energy drink. “We must conquer the mouth, the gateway to the body. It gapes open, weak, for far too long—like the doors of a convenience store. The mouth should, instead, open only for healthful foods, such as Hambone Hank’s Soul Food—”

  A collective “yum” echoed throughout the Gymnauseum.

  “—and my Off the Eaten Path Dusted Double Lentil Trail Mix Biscuits.”

  The “yum” was quickly overtaken and subdued by a chorus of “yucks.”

  The teacher’s eyes narrowed. He scowled at his large pupils through his tiny pupils.

  “But they are almost completely nuts!” he explained.

  “Like you,” Hugo muttered.

  A wave of poorly stifled giggles passed through the crowd.

  “And I will not tolerate snickers!” Dr. Kellogg snapped.

  A loud rumbling erupted to Milton’s right. Gene rubbed his bulbous belly.

  “Mmmm … Snickers,” he muttered with longing.

  Dr. Kellogg scanned the group of boys with visible distaste.

  “Another outburst like that,” the teacher scolded, “and the nurses will administer a round of hot jalapeño colonics. Do I make myself clear?”

  Milton forced his Pang suit to nod.

  “Yes, sir,” the boys replied in terrified unison.

  “But let us not waste our precious energy outside of the DREADmills….”

  The doctor looked at the white watch on his wrist.

  “Speaking of which, demons, please forcibly escort the students to their exorcize session.”

  The demons eagerly obliged, prodding the boys into the large hamster wheels.

  “It’s not so bad,” Virgil consoled unconvincingly as he was led to the contraption next to Milton, “once you get used to it, that is.”

  Milton stepped onto the mesh wheel. The sides closed around him as if he were a fly in a metallic Venus flytrap.

  “Just, whatever you do, don’t fight it!” yelped Virgil over the squeak of the DREADmill’s hinged walls.

  Milton swallowed, with his Pang suit gulping shortly in kind.

  “Don’t fight what?!” he yelled.

  And with that, the sides of the DREADmill sealed shut, submerging Milton in complete darkness.

  13 • WALLOW THE LEADER

  WELCOME TO GRIZZLY MALL: FORMER HOME OF THE STATE’S SECOND-LARGEST BEAR-THEMED MARSHMALLOW STATUE! read a banner draped above a massive charred crater, the last place that Milton and Marlo Fauster had stood together on Earth as living, breathing human beings.

  Next to the scorched bruin-shaped shadow was a small plaque: COMING SOON: CHRISTO’S SOFT PRETZEL GRIZZLY BEAR TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF MILO AND MARGO FOSTER AND DAMON RUFFINI.

  Above the mall commons on the second floor, just outside of the Grizzly Mall Food Court, was one of those seasonal stores. Only, instead of switching out storefronts every Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and so on, Mazel Top-to-Bottom—owned by Michael and Marcia Smilovitz—catered to a very targeted audience, namely the Chosen People of Generica, Kansas (w
hich, at last count, topped out at just over a dozen … slightly more if you include nonpracticing).

  Mrs. Smilovitz took down the Rosh Hashanah decorations in the window to prepare for her big Yom Kippur display.

  “This will really knock them on their tuchases,” she said with a Day-Glo Yahrzeit candle in her mouth. “Could you hand me that neon Star of David, Warder Chango?”

  A tanned man with a scraggly goatee wearing a blue robe stood at the base of the ladder.

  “What? Oh yeah … totally, Mrs. Smilovitz. Here you go.” Warder Chango handed her the electric six-pointed star. “And, like, thanks so much for letting us rent the back of your store for our … club,” he added.

  Mrs. Smilovitz secured the Star of David at the top of the display with some spirit gum.

  “Well, you seem like a nice enough bunch of goyim,” she said as she scrutinized the star’s placement with a scowl. “Except for that big mean boy …”

  “Yeah, well, Damian has been through a lot,” Warder Chango replied cautiously. “You know, dying, coming back …”

  Mrs. Smilovitz climbed down the ladder.

  “That’s still no excuse to be so rude. But at least he’s not as skinny as the rest of you. Skin and bones! I’ll drop you off a plate of blintzes as soon as I’m through.”

  She plugged in the star, which radiated to vivid, crackling blue life. Mrs. Smilovitz clapped her hands.

  “Joy vey!” she cried.

  Warder Chango looked at the clock on the wall. The big dreidel pointed to five.

  “Whoa, I gotta go, Mrs. Smilovitz,” he said as he rustled to the back of the store. “You know, almost time for … choir practice.”

  “You kids have fun,” she called out as Warder Chango parted the thick curtains leading to the store’s stockroom.

  Inside the room was a congregation—if you could call six men, two women, one little girl, one big boy, and a ferret a congregation—all wearing blue hooded robes and somewhat lost looks upon their faces.

  “How nice of you to join us, Warder Chango,” said the Guiding Knight, a tall, rat-faced man positioned in the back of the room behind an altar. “Now, at last, we may begin.”

  “Sorry,” Warder Chango muttered as he joined his fellow cult members. “I was just helping out our landlady.”

  The Guiding Knight cleared his throat.

  “O, Lord, we—the Knights of the Omniversalist Order Kinship—beseech thee, fuel our humble labors in the promotion of truth and power, unity and control. Enrich our hearts with that most excellent gift of entitlement so that our acts may be full of the spirit of smug, secret self-knowledge. Give us strength to overcome our setbacks….”

  He paused as he surveyed his shabby, makeshift church, crowded with boxes of Hanukkah candles and bar mitzvah favors.

  “And at last,” he continued with a sigh, “may we enjoy the blessedness of the eternal realm that you have tastefully furnished for us, and us alone….”

  A large cruel-looking boy lazing on a dark brown Barcalounger at the back of the altar burped loudly. The Guiding Knight gritted his teeth.

  “So may it ever be.”

  “So may it ever be,” replied the small group of spooky acolytes.

  The Guiding Knight banged a gavel against the altar and nodded his head to a dotty old African American woman sitting before a pipe organ. The woman sent her arthritic fingers to work across the yellowed keys, filling the stockroom with oozing waves of warped, crooked music.

  The boy on the Barcalounger clapped in a slow, sarcastic way. The old woman smiled in misinterpreted gratitude. The Guiding Knight stiffened, straightening his purple velvet scarf affectedly.

  “I, your Guiding Knight—whose purpose is to superintend all procession—will hereby commence this meeting of the subordinate chapter of the lower Midwest sect of the Knights of the Omniversalist Order Kinship!”

  The enthusiastic gavel-banger banged his gavel enthusiastically.

  “First item,” he declared, “and last, not to mention everything in the middle.”

  He turned to address the boy on the altar behind him.

  “O, Damian Ruffino, our most valued Bridge to the other side, the one—”

  “Second one, actually,” chimed in Necia Alvarado, a bony girl with gleaming black eyes who languidly stroked a sleeping white ferret. “If you count—”

  “We don’t,” snapped the Guiding Knight.

  Damian sighed as he finished his bag of sunflower seeds. For some reason, ever since he was brought back to life using the etheric energy of twenty-seven sacrificed chickens, he had developed an intense craving for seeds and Gummi worms.

  “You mean Milton Fauster?” Damian said with a smirk. “Good ol’ Milquetoast? It’s okay. You can say his dweeby name. I know he was your first choice to … to …”

  “‘To better prepare for our imminent arrival in the Next Life and hasten the Last Days, which serve as our new beginning,’” concluded the Guiding Knight with the offhanded authority of something recited so many times that it had become second nature.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Damian said as he pecked at a seed in his hand. “The one who dies first to make sure everything is ready for you on the other side, then calls for you and the other 14,216 people who believe in your—our—Omniverse, or whatever.”

  The robed congregation bowed their hooded heads as one.

  “The everlasting everyplace where everything is possible,” they murmured reverently.

  “Right,” Damian said, sitting up and dusting off his hands. “But the big diff between Milquetoast and me is that he didn’t want to be your Bridge and I do.”

  The Guiding Knight held his fist to his mouth and gave a fake cough.

  “Which brings me to our next item in our spiritual itinerary,” he continued tentatively. “And that is the question of when …”

  “When?” Damian asked.

  “Yes, O, Bridge. When will you, exactly … be our Bridge? To the other side.”

  Damian—the reigning bully of Generica who had devoted his life and brief death to the art of intimidation, thuggery, and malevolence—glared at the man.

  “I’m sorry,” he said unconvincingly. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Yes,” the Guiding Knight said as his forehead beaded with sweat. “Right, that’s the point: we follow you. I—we—would just like to know when you will be sacrificed so that we may all be saved?”

  “Oh,” Damian replied with a yawn. “That. Short answer: when I’m good and ready. Long answer: when I have more … believers.”

  The congregation murmured.

  “The problem with you people,” Damian said, pulling the lever on the side of the Barcalounger so that he catapulted forward, “well, one of your problems, is that there just ain’t enough of you. If I’m going back to Heck—I mean, the Omniverse—then I want to arrive with a real bang. Lots of followers. Enough KOOKs—”

  “We prefer ‘Knights of the Omniversalist Order Kinship,’” the Guiding Knight interjected.

  “Whatever. I just want to have my own built-in army of devout do-whatever-Damian-says-ers with me so that I can really shake things up down under.”

  The white ferret on Necia’s lap stirred awake.

  “Ooh, look who’s back from his widdle nap,” Necia cooed as she scritched the animal behind its tiny ears. “My Lucky.”

  Lucky looked up at the girl, his eyes glazed with sedatives, and hissed.

  “Someone got up on the wrong side of the cage,” she said.

  Lucky—Milton’s beloved pet who had been left in Necia’s twitchy hands ever since his master had been “popped” in a tub of popcorn in a funeral home furnace—sniffed the air groggily and trained his burgundy eyes on Damian. The hair on his back raised as stiff as a brush made of porcupine quills. Lucky hissed and spat.

  “Junior Knight Necia,” the Guiding Knight commanded, “please do something about that disagreeable creature.”

  Damian shuddered as he locked eyes with Lucky.


  “I have a few suggestions,” he said with disgust. “Like maybe a charitable donation to an animal testing lab …”

  Necia scooped up the animal in her dark, spindly arms and walked toward a cage in the back of the stockroom.

  “He’s so sweet when he’s not awake,” she said. “Looks like my widdle fuzzy wuz needs more of his special sleepy snack.”

  Necia stooped before the cage, opened its squeaky door, and forced Lucky—who, even when sedated, could still put up a formidable squirm—inside. She took a small eyedropper from a vile next to the cage and gave a few squirts into a bowl full of scrambled eggs and liver. Necia put the bowl in the cage, and Lucky, ravenous with hunger, went at the bowl like, well, a starving weasel-like animal presented with its favorite food. After a few lusty bites, Lucky’s gobbling grew sluggish. He valiantly snapped up one last morsel of liver before passing out cold.

  The Guiding Knight grew impatient.

  “Damian—”

  The brutish boy waggled his finger at the wooden, self-important man. The Guiding Knight sighed.

  “O, most revered Bridge,” he corrected. “How do you propose adding to our flock? We’ve always preferred a low profile, for sanctity’s sake, not to mention tax reasons.”

  “Well, all that’s about to change,” Damian said, looking at his watch. “I’m taking this second-rate cult to the top. We’re talking Damiantology! You know, fame, fortune, celebrities, lots of dues, hardly any don’ts, using negative energy for the public bad—”

  “I believe you mean—” interrupted the Guiding Knight.

  “I am mean—and I want everyone to be able to harness that awesome nastiness and take it straight to the top. Well, not actually the top, because that’s where I’ll be. But right below.”

  Mrs. Smilovitz parted the curtains. The Guiding Knight shot the organist a look. The old woman nodded and began to play. The congregation joined in.

  “Oh, Lord, Kum Bay Yah.”

  Mrs. Smilovitz grinned and clapped. “Such beautiful voices! Though I never could understand that mishegas song. So sorry to interrupt, but you have a visitor …”