Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck

by Dale E. Basye

  “There,” Milton said as he held out the cruel device in front of him. “We’ll need to find something to replace it with, though, so Chef Boyareyookrazee doesn’t notice.”

  Annubis scanned the kitchen, settling on a hamper overflowing with soiled laundry beneath a chute.

  “There should be something in there,” he said, motioning toward the mound of dirty clothes.

  “That is so unsanitary!” Milton said with disgust as he sifted through the collection of dirty laundry. “Why would anyone collect filthy underwear right next to where food is prepared….”

  Annubis smirked.

  “Oh, right,” Milton continued. “We’re in Heck. I keep foolishly expecting a shred of logic or decency down here. My bad. Oh wait … here we go.”

  Milton exhumed what he prayed was a sock garter that looked something like Annubis’s shock collar. He wadded the original collar in a pair of black bikini briefs, then stuffed it down in the hamper.

  Virgil grabbed a dark gray Brillo pad from the sink. “This kind of looks like the shock box.”

  Milton, with a little ingenuity and a lot of lentil casserole as fixative, was able to fashion a reasonable facsimile. He secured it around the dog god’s neck.

  “Okay,” Milton said, eyeing his handiwork. “Next up, your new recipe—do you think using solely the souls of Make-Believe Play-fellows could work?”

  Annubis opened a larder above the deep fryer. Inside were dozens of Make-Believe Play-fellows, quivering with dreamy curiosity inside their jars as the culinary artist formerly known as Hambone Hank inspected them.

  “I think so,” he said, rubbing his bristly chin thoughtfully with his paw. “They will definitely be lighter, due to their weak etheric composition. At least there should be less navel residue.”

  “Navel residue?” Virgil replied. “You mean that gunk in our belly buttons is because of your barbecue?”

  “Yes.” Annubis nodded. “The souls, specifically. The navel is an umbilical scar … the cord through which we initially receive our souls. The souls themselves remember and leave behind a faint, ectoplasmic residue. These Make-Believe souls, however …”

  He sniffed the jar with his keen, wet nose.

  “Amazing. Energy molded by pure imagination. The flavor is weak, rather like using imitation butter instead of real butter, but—even though it’s a tall order—I’ve become quite the short-order cook.”

  Milton clapped his hands together. Virgil winced, half-expecting his friend to yell “gym dandy.”

  “Then we’re in business.”

  Milton grinned. It was amazing how, when a puzzling problem evolved into a problematic puzzle, his mind gained clarity and confidence. He had purpose. And he had friends.

  Milton put his arm around Annubis.

  “Every dog has his day, my friend, and you are about to get yours.”

  24 • AS QUEASY AS PiE

  AT THE FRONT of the classroom, a scraggly, ancient man stood half-submerged in a deep kiddie pool fitted with wheels, at the center of which grew a peach tree. Whenever the famished teacher reached for a piece of the juicy, swollen fruit—which was often—the branches pulled away from his grasp: just inches from his trembling fingers. And whenever his ancient, leathery voice became parched from thirst—which was also often—the water receded before he could get any.

  The frustrated teacher, King Tantalus, poled himself and his mobile pool to the chalkboard like a gondolier, only substituting his crutch for an oar. By giving the handle a few quick rotations, he pushed out a piece of chalk at the crutch’s tip, which he used to write: “Gastrophysics: the application of the laws and theories of physics to the interpretation of gourmet cuisine.”

  “Told you,” Virgil whispered to Milton, who had not believed that there was any such thing as “gastrophysics.”

  “First, some good news: tomorrow there will be a peptic rally in the Gymnauseum,” the old man relayed, his voice as dry and rough as the tongue of an old boot. “Now the bad news: tomorrow there will be a peptic rally in the Gymnauseum.”

  Gene raised his hand.

  “What’s a peptic rally?”

  “Good question, Mr. Blankenship.”

  Gene smiled brightly, happy that—while he rarely knew the answers—he could at least pose a good question.

  “A peptic rally is like a pep rally, only less so. It’s an unfortunate tradition here in Blimpo: a way to boost morale while dampening self-esteem.”

  King Tantalus eyed a fat, succulent peach that bobbed coyly on the branch just above his head. He sighed.

  “And since many of you boys will, more than likely, be forced to participate in some kind of demoralizing competition as part of tomorrow’s assembly, we will, today, focus on the art of pie eating.”

  The group of boys were now held enrapt by their odd teacher, thanks to the pairing of—to them—the two most beautiful words in the English language: “pie” and “eating.”

  “Competitive pie eating is the rapid consumption of sugary, artery-clogging pastry way past the point of satisfaction,” he continued.

  King Tantalus made a sudden lunge for the nearest peach. The branch flicked itself inches out of reach.

  “One day, my luscious friend,” he muttered. “One day …”

  He returned his attention to the class.

  “First, training: as far as pie eating goes, contrary to popular opinion, abstinence does not make the stomach grow fonder. You must keep your stomach expansive.”

  King Tantalus squatted quickly to the bottom of the pool, flailing his cupped hands by his knees. The water withdrew until it was—as was to be expected—tantalizingly out of reach. The teacher cursed in Greek under his breath and surveyed the obese boys before him.

  “Check, by the looks of it,” he replied dryly.

  A roly-poly demon, who looked exactly like an upright doodlebug, from its hard black armor to the tips of its feelers, knocked on the door with several of its many spindly arms.

  “Yes,” King Tantalus snapped. “What is it?”

  “Delivery,” the demon chirped. “By orders of the Burgermeister and Lady Lactose. These are being installed in all of the classrooms. Hallways, too. As some kind of a motivation tool.”

  The teacher eyed a peach through the corner of his eye. He tried to snatch it, but the peach yanked itself away, trembling afterward slightly, laughing at him with its little fruit body.

  “Fine,” King Tantalus said miserably.

  The demon struggled to roll a massive plasma-screen television into the classroom. He set it against the wall where it suddenly flickered to life.

  King Tantalus stroked his long white beard in contemplation while the boys stared at the screen. A logo—an irritating silhouette of a girl thumbing her nose—gave way to a neon pink title:

  VANITV IS ON THE AIR!

  The title spun away, and a collage filled the screen—quick-cutted to the point of near incomprehension—depicting young, attractive people with perfect bodies not only enjoying their active, vivacious lifestyles, but also fiercely flaunting them.

  Techno music pulsed like the heartbeat of a robot with panic disorder.

  “Hey, Jonah,” Hugo muttered from the desk behind Milton’s. “I hope—for your sake—you switched Hambone Hank’s recipe to its perfect, original blend.”

  Milton swallowed hard. He turned to face his blackmailer, the boy with cheeks like an igloo duplex.

  “Did it taste the same this morning or not?”

  Hugo swirled his tongue in his mouth to summon the memory of his last meal.

  “Well,” he recalled. “It wasn’t exactly the same … the spices were a little weird at first, but I have to admit: it was melt-in-your-mouth wonderful—and it better stay that way, if you and your friend ‘Milton’ know what’s good for you.”

  Milton got goose pimples at the mention of his name out loud; however, on the forearms of his flesh suit, they looked more like moose pimples.

  On the television sc
reen, the hyperactive explosion of physical perfection continued. A parade of flawless, flaunted bodies leading flawless, flaunted lives. Suddenly, though, the screen was cleaved into two. Occupying the left-hand side of the screen was Milton’s class, staring dumbfounded at the television like a gruesome herd of startled bovine.

  “What the …?” Thaddeus muttered. His televised self, warped, contorted, and swollen to new levels of portly unsightliness, muttered as well, only it came out as a low, disagreeable bray.

  “Class,” interjected King Tantalus, “there will be plenty of time for you all to watch television later on….”

  “B-but,” sputtered Gene as his broadcast counterpoint grunted, “we’re on TV … sort of.”

  King Tantalus appraised the screen.

  “Ah, yes,” he said before pivoting backward abruptly, in hopes of surprising a nearby peach that, unsurprisingly, escaped his grasp.

  “I could almost feel the fuzz on that one,” he mumbled sadly. “Anyway,” he continued, addressing the class, “it seems to me a simple yet effective form of contextual torment: juxtaposing impossibly exquisite ideals of human beauty against caricatures of your own selves, drawing out and exaggerating your ample flaws.”

  The small trickle of drool that had been dangling from Gene’s open mouth connected with the top of his desk.

  “So, to conclude our pie-eating primer,” the teacher said, “let me sing the praises of the pregame stretch, widening your stomach to get it growling just before the big event.”

  He gestured to a nearby sack in the corner of the classroom.

  “Now, if one of you would pass out the contents of that pouch over there, you may all practice the art of comp-eating against one another at your leisure, while I tell you about the upcoming holiday.”

  Virgil, being the closest to his teacher’s soaking-pool prison, picked up the sack and pulled out a half-dozen foam-rubber pies with long strings attached to their middles. He passed them out to the boys.

  “What are we supposed to do with these?” Hugo asked as he examined his simulated pastry.

  “Why, eat them, of course,” the teacher answered simply. “As fast as you can … then just pull them out when you’re through and repeat. Now, next week is Hollow Wean, so you’ll need to—”

  Gene raised his hand, the flab of which settled in several rings around his shoulder.

  “Mr. Blankenship,” King Tantalus replied wearily.

  “My mother won’t let me celebrate Halloween,” Gene said. “She says it’s evil.”

  “I’m not talking about Halloween as in ‘trick or treat, smell my feet,’” the teacher interrupted, “but Hollow Wean, as in ‘oh, poor me, I feel all empty inside. It started when I was little and began confusing the act of eating with emotional fulfill—’”

  As all teachers, living or dead, know, there is a moment when you lose your class, and King Tantalus realized that this was such a moment.

  “It’s basically a chance for the faculty to have a good laugh at your expense,” he clarified plainly. “Getting you into embarrassing costumes in the middle of the night, forcing you to perform for disgusting food …”

  The bell rang. A flicker of an idea was kindled in Milton’s head. It danced, weakly yet purposefully, like the flame of a candle.

  Costumes. Chaos. The perfect cover for escape! Milton thought as he plodded out of the room.

  “And rumor has it that we’ll even have a special appearance from our very own Principal Bubb,” King Tantalus continued.

  Milton shuddered as his brief flicker of hope snuffed out with a wet sizzle.

  25 • TENDER LOViNG SCARE

  MADAME POMPADOUR TUGGED Marlo into her office by her wrist and shut the door behind her, sealing Marlo inside the tastefully decorated tomb. Madame Pompadour grinned, a lioness with a mouthful of veneers, and beckoned for Marlo to sit down next to her on the luxurious, sophisticated cream-colored love seat. Marlo felt as comfortable as a prisoner having tea and biscuits with her executioner on the gallows.

  “I would like to apologize for my unconventional techniques in attempting to mold you into something you’re clearly not,” Madame Pompadour said as she scooched closer to Marlo on her dainty haunches. “I assure you, every hurdle was designed to teach you how to soar. The devil’s office, for instance. It is true: he does indeed have a work space here, but it is only one of—”

  “Let me guess,” Marlo interjected. “Six hundred and sixty-six.”

  Madame Pompadour smirked.

  “Yes, very astute. I find my girls are much more motivated when under the impression that the embodiment of all evil is just down the hall, take a left at the broken umbrella plant and sulfur watercooler.”

  Marlo trembled as violently as an old man playing Yahtzee, trying desperately to gather her wits before they were shaken apart. Madame Pompadour had set her up to fail while Farzana had simultaneously set her up to succeed. Marlo didn’t know whom to trust less. And after Marlo had blown up at Madame Pompadour, instead of being instantly clawed apart, she was taken—albeit roughly—back to her office for a little dead-heart-to-dead-heart chat.

  “Since we may have started off on the wrong foot,” Madame Pompadour said genteelly, “I thought this might be an opportunity for us to set our personalities aside and develop a rapport.”

  Marlo’s gaze darted back and forth from Madame Pompadour’s green cat eyes to her tiny forked tongue as if she were watching a tennis match. They seemed as if they had different agendas, her eyes not seeing eye to eye with her words.

  “You might say that I’m something of a … fashist,” Madame Pompadour continued pompously. “Fashion is many things. For one, it is a visual language with its own distinctive grammar, brimming with unconscious symbolism. Most ensembles speak clearly and to the point.”

  She waved her gloved hand at Marlo, as if batting away an objectionable smell.

  “Yours, for instance,” Madame Pompadour said with disdain, “is a metaphor composed of thrift-store hand-me-downs.”

  Marlo looked down at her outfit: her deep burgundy vintage waistcoat, silk Victorian mourning gown, Goth-Darn-It tights (with carefully fabricated holes), and shabby granny boots. It was, in Marlo’s mind, a tastefully distasteful collection that merged the essentials she had managed to save from the Surface with some choice finds nabbed in Mallvana.

  “It has an ‘angry baby’ energy about it,” Madame Pompadour continued as her eyes assessed Marlo’s clothing, interpreting it like a ready-to-wear Rorschach test. “Ill-fitting, ill-matched childishness with a touch of noisy frolic, dampened by a disparate, funereal mess of hopelessness bequeathed from a time of which you have no real understanding.”

  Marlo fidgeted self-consciously.

  “Right,” she replied. “That’s what I was going for.”

  Madame Pompadour smirked.

  “While I find your costume personally repellant—a stinging slap on the chic, if you will—it is, I grudgingly admit, preferable to many of the fashion atrocities so prevalent on the Surface.”

  Marlo realized that this was probably the closest thing to a compliment that would ever slide off the scratchy cat/serpent tongue of Madame Pompadour in Marlo’s general direction.

  “We are all books judged by our covers,” Madame Pompadour said as she padded across the floor toward a towering armoire. “See for yourself. Come.”

  Marlo swallowed and reluctantly joined her. Madame Pompadour opened the doors of the armoire, revealing a dazzling collection of clothing, everything from an Amber Argyle Afghan to a Zippered, Zebra-Skinned ZeBra.

  “People don’t wear clothes just because they like them,” she explained. “No, there are much deeper forces shaping one’s fashion persona. Pick a few combinations and I will tell you what they mean.”

  Marlo shrugged and pulled out a miniskirt, boots, and sheer blouse. Madame Pompadour held her fist to her chin in contemplation.

  “Summer babe by day, club queen by night. Streamlined but not shy
. Another, please.”

  Marlo picked out another ensemble, trying to be as random as possible.

  “Hmm, a see-through shirt, preppy sheath skirt, and pink flats,” murmured Madame Pompadour. “Quel mixed messages! This may be the sign of a deep schism, someone literally skirting their childhood issues.”

  Madame Pompadour closed the armoire’s doors. Marlo felt a pang of disappointment. She was almost having … what was that word? It had been so long … oh yeah: fun.

  “Secondly, fashion is manipulation,” Madame Pompadour said, smoothing down the scales of her snakeskin skirt. “To choose an outfit is to choose a self-definition, a way to use our vast vocabulary of clothes to lie to our advantage. To fashion ourselves into anything we want, or—more accurately—anything we want others to think of us.”

  Marlo crossed her arms, trying hard to resist the madame’s verbal catnip.

  “Is that what you’re doing with your big plan for Statusphere?” she posed with a scowl. “To fashion the underworld to suit your … your …”

  Marlo stared at the mirror behind Madame Pompadour’s desk.

  “Vanity?”

  A small storm cloud passed over the sky of Madame Pompadour’s perfect face. She blew it away with a sharp, hollow laugh.

  “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for,” she replied. “In fact, you remind me of myself, when I was just a kitten, err, girl. Before I learned that it takes sharp, expertly manicured nails for a girl to claw her way to the top.”

  “But what is your plan, anyway?” Marlo asked from beneath a muddle of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

  Madame Pompadour sashayed to her desk.

  “There’ll be plenty of time to talk about that after our … girl time.”

  Oh no, Marlo thought. Girl time.

  Madame Pompadour flicked a switch beneath her desk. To her right, the green bookshelf with the cast-iron grill opened, exposing an elegant room beyond.

  “Welcome to my little slice of Heaven,” Madame Pompadour purred. “Or as close as one can hope to achieve so far south. Behold … Me-Wow. My own private spa. Just for me. A place to curl up and dye, or wax, or simply unwind.”