Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck

by Dale E. Basye

  She stepped inside, with Marlo—literally—on her tail. It smelled of exotic, soothing spices, the air thick and humid, the consistency of a good nap. Marlo crossed the white tile floor, gazing up through swirls of steam at the vaulted ceiling.

  Two demons with hands sporting extra fingers stood at the opposite end of the spa behind two plush massage tables.

  “Me-Wow is a spa with chutzpah,” Madame Pompadour explained. “It features an array of ancient and cutting-edge therapeutic techniques, all meticulously designed and administered to pamper one into a state of bliss.”

  Marlo eyed a bubbling tub of fragrant green-black mud.

  “Do you invite all the girls here?”

  One of the demons handed Madame Pompadour two sumptuous white robes and matching slippers.

  “I only invite the … special girls here.” Madame Pompadour grinned as she threw one of the robes across a gilded, three-framed dressing screen covered by patterned velvet. “The ones who are crying out for some quality time with the madame.”

  Madame Pompadour glared at Marlo’s outfit, scanning it up and down as if she were trying to erase it with her eyes.

  “Let’s get you out of … that. We’ll have it destroyed, and a proper outfit will be selected for you, one that expresses not who you are but who you could be.”

  Marlo, intoxicated by clouds of heady, aromatic herbs, nodded groggily and stepped behind the screen.

  “I’ve got our entire day planned out,” Madame Pompadour said while nodding to one of her demons. “We’ll enjoy seaweed body wraps, an exfoliating salt scrub, and vigorous shiatsu.”

  “Gesundheit,” Marlo replied as she languidly undressed.

  One of the demons filled a strange enclosed tank with gallons of white liquid poured from a huge carton marked MILK OF AMNESIA. Madame Pompadour quickly waved for the demon to hide the carton as Marlo shuffled from behind the screen in her robe and slippers.

  “It sounds great.” She yawned. “Though I may sleep through most of it…. I’m suddenly so tired.”

  Madame Pompadour grinned.

  “That’s your body relaxing … preparing to let go of tension, of worry, of … everything.”

  Marlo cocked her eyebrow at the odd tank.

  “What’s that?” she asked as a demon opened the hatch on top of the capsule.

  “It’s a sensory-deprivation tank,” Madame Pompadour explained. “It’s a surefire way of forgetting all your troubles … every last one. But why don’t you try it out for yourself?”

  Marlo scrutinized the creamy white water.

  “That isn’t milk, is it?” she asked. “I’m totally allergic.”

  “It’s … pistachio nut milk,” Madame Pompadour shot back. “Much more therapeutic.”

  Marlo shrugged as the demon slipped off her robe.

  “It must take tiny hands to milk a pistachio,” she said as she eyed the demon’s larger-than-normal mitts. “Obviously you don’t milk them here.”

  “Very droll, Miss Fauster,” Madame Pompadour said. “Now, we mustn’t dawdle. We’ve got a big day of doing very little ahead of us.”

  Marlo slid into the tank.

  “Ooh, it’s like sinking into a hot vanilla milk shake. So how come you’re not soaking in this stuff?”

  Madame Pompadour shot her demonic assistants a look, quick and quiet, as if shot with a silencer.

  “Side effects.”

  “Side effects?!” Marlo yelped as she bolted upright in the tank.

  “Yes, such as utter tranquility. As the director of Heck’s premiere Infernship program, I can only afford to be so relaxed.”

  “Oh,” Marlo muttered as she succumbed to the Milk of Amnesia’s velvet tug.

  Another demon, cradling a small jar of blue goo, began to slather the mixture onto Marlo’s face as she settled into the tub.

  “What’s this?” she mumbled.

  Madame Pompadour folded her arms smugly, a wry smile forming on her thin pink lips.

  “My own, personal mixture,” she said. “A moisturizing, deep-penetrating mask, a blend of chloroform, ether, bergamot, and mud dredged from the bottom of the Bermuda Triangle.”

  Marlo slid into the milky bath. Her expression was as blank as a new chalkboard.

  “I can feel it … working … already,” Marlo mumbled, every thought, every memory slowly loosening its grip on her mind. “It’s like taking a vacation … from myself. It’s … nice.”

  Madame Pompadour nodded to the demon, who secured the tank’s hatch with three swift, powerful turns of its wheel.

  “Oh, forget about it, Miss Fauster,” Madame Pompadour murmured as she played with the newest charm dangling from her wrist, one marked MARLO.

  “Forget … everything.”

  26 • RUNNiNG OUT

  OF ESTEEM

  THE TEACHER LAY slumped across his desk. He looked like a snoring top hat. The boys lumbered to their seats and forced their considerable bulk into the undersized chairs. The maddening squeak of massive, corduroyed thighs struggling into torturous metal and wood awoke the teacher.

  The man scowled down his bulbous red nose at Milton, who fidgeted inside his tightening Pang skin.

  “My goodness, boy,” the teacher said with a snide drawl, “you look like you’ve been beaten with a whole forest of ugly sticks.”

  The boys (except for the ever-loyal Virgil) laughed. The teacher clapped his ears.

  “Apart from the yap of a new puppy on Christmas morning, nothing offends my delicate ears more than the cackling of children!”

  The teacher pushed himself away from his desk with a grunt and wobbled over to the chalkboard. VaniTV screens crowded with perfect, tan boys and girls playing volleyball on a beach were bolted to the wall on either side of the chalkboard. The teacher scowled at the screens. Scowling back at him was a hideous, warped parody of himself—lumpy, wrinkled, and swollen, like a piñata of the Elephant Man that had been bludgeoned beyond recognition.

  “Egads! If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, someone must have stolen my eyes,” he grumbled as he wrote on the chalkboard: “W. C. Fields, Self-Esteem.”

  Wheezing, the teetering grouch returned to his chair.

  “It’s my unfortunate job to teach you bloated, useless wind-breakers about self-esteem,” Mr. Fields droned. “But let me tell you this: as much as I can’t stand the sight of you, I will treat each one of you the same way that I would treat anybody else. And that’s terribly.”

  Milton squished inside his Pang suit to get comfortable. But it was no use: in the Pang, the most he could hope for was something just outside of tolerable.

  “Stop fidgeting … Jonah Grumby,” Mr. Fields scolded while consulting his seating chart. “You’re making me queasy. It’s like watching a Jell-O mold that wants to eat you.”

  Gene raised his hand enthusiastically, causing the back of his neck to jiggle like a pack of excited hot dogs.

  “Are you married to Mrs. Fields, the cookie lady?” he asked hopefully.

  The teacher massaged his tired, splotched-red face between his hands. “No, but I worked with Amos and Andy on the vaudeville circuit, before Amos became famous.”

  Thaddeus, wedged tightly in his seat near the front of the classroom, chose that moment to break wind. The boys giggled, some releasing their own wind in response.

  “Unfortunately, that’s the most intelligent thing I’ve heard all day,” Mr. Fields replied dryly. “Anyway, I like to start off each class with a story and a smile. A story because I love the sound of my own voice and a smile to get it over with.”

  Mr. Fields gave what he thought was a smile. It wasn’t. It was more like a grimace on its day off. The teacher folded his pink, piggish hands together.

  “Once upon a time, there were two ponds,” Mr. Fields began. “One was filled with runoff from a toxic-waste dump, and the other sparkled with fresh water from a clear stream. One day, one of the filthy, disgusting, contaminated fish poked his head out of the muck and saw a flawless,
beautiful fish stick her sleek head out of the clean pond. He thought about her for days. Finally he decided to jump into the other pond and profess his love for the pure, perfect fish. And one day, he did just that. And, surprisingly enough, the beautiful fish was so touched by the revolting fish with the big red nose that she agreed to marry him. And they did. Got married. And all the while, the toxic fish tried to live in the sparkling, pure water, but he had mutated so much in his poisoned pond of filth that the clear water only made him sicker. So he lay down on the bottom, where the sediment settled, which made him feel a little better, but not much, and he spent most of his days complaining. Slowly, over time, the beautiful fish’s love and respect for the dirty, no-good fish turned to loathing and disgust. And ever since, I can’t stand water because of the things fish do in it.”

  Mr. Fields took off his top hat and wiped his forehead with a filthy handkerchief.

  “The end,” he grumbled.

  Milton looked around the class and observed the same baffled expression that he himself was trying to express through his lumpy Pang skin.

  “And the moral?” Milton asked.

  Mr. Fields bolted up. Then, after swaying unsteadily for a bit, he succumbed to gravity and sat back down in his chair.

  “The moral is that there isn’t any moral!” the teacher barked indignantly. “Why should stories have nice, tidy endings when life doesn’t?”

  Mr. Fields’s nose was so red that had there been any cars in the classroom, they would have waited for it to change to green.

  “If I was forced to dredge up some sorry excuse for a moral from my—that—sobering tale,” he said, grinding out each word slowly with his nasal voice, “then it would be that, in this and all worlds, there are the haves and the have-nots.”

  He scanned the overweight boys with his dull, yellow eyes.

  “Or, in your cases, the haves and have-way-too-muches. Look at those boys and girls on the screens….”

  The class watched the beach volleyball game on VaniTV. The players effortlessly leaped, swooped, and bounded like Greek gods and goddesses on spring break.

  “It’s like they’re an entirely different species. There’s simply no comparison. The fickle finger of Fate endowed them with perfection, popularity, and health. The only thing healthy about you-all is your appetites.”

  Milton heard Virgil sniffing back a tear next to him. Indignation welled up inside Milton.

  “You will never be them … not as liked, not as respected, not as happy,” Mr. Fields taunted. “Not even close.”

  Milton stood up, shaking.

  “Doesn’t what’s inside account for anything?!” he spat. “Isn’t that what this place is all about—the possibility of becoming better people? One last chance before we turn eighteen?”

  Mr. Fields sneered.

  “Sit down, boy. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “No, I won’t!” Milton replied. “Every boy here has the chance to make himself perfect inside … at least better. To make smarter, healthier choices and live a happier afterlife. We all have wings inside of us. It’s just a matter of learning how to use them.”

  Mr. Fields snorted.

  “The only wings inside of you, boy, are buffalo wings. Lots of ’em, by the looks of it.”

  Milton seethed inside his Pang suit. “You don’t know who I am. Who I am really.”

  “Oh, I think I know exactly who you are, Mr. Grumby … inside,” Mr. Fields hissed, grabbing a yardstick off the blotter on his desk.

  “You do, do you?” Milton fumed. “You have no idea. In fact—”

  Virgil grabbed Milton’s leg.

  “Don’t blow your cool … and your cover, Jonah,” Virgil whispered.

  Milton sighed and slowly settled back into his unsteady chair.

  Mr. Fields snickered as he slapped the yardstick in his palm. “A smart, healthy choice, Mr. Grumby,” he said.

  Mr. Fields stooped over, grumbling, and pulled out a heap of Bibles from the lower drawer of his desk. He laid them in a tall, perilous stack before glancing down at his seating chart.

  “Um … you … Mr. Farrow.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fields,” Virgil replied, straightening in his seat, his kind eyes sparkling with attention.

  The teacher stared at Virgil, affronted by his eagerness.

  “Tone it down a notch, son,” Mr. Fields replied. “You’re not going to win any brownie points here.”

  A wave of stomach rumblings shook the classroom.

  “Mmmm … brownies,” Gene muttered with groggy yearning, as if slowly waking from a wonderful dream.

  “Mr. Farrow, come up here and pass out these Bibles,” the teacher said wearily.

  Virgil uprooted his husky-sized frame out of his petite-sized desk and lumbered to the teacher’s desk. As Virgil passed the books out to the seven boys, Mr. Fields put his shabby shoes up on the desk and leaned back in his chair.

  “Now scooch your desks together with a partner.”

  The boys heaved and grunted into pairs. Milton flipped through the dog-eared Bible and raised his hand.

  “Yes, Buffalo Wings?”

  “What are we supposed to be doing?” Milton asked. “How is anything in this class supposed to build self-esteem?”

  Mr. Fields held up a Bible.

  “First of all, you great, galumphing eyesore, no one ever said this class was intended to build self-esteem. It’s just about self-esteem. And how there isn’t any point in having any if you have no reason to have it. Otherwise it’s just a lot of hot air in a lead balloon. But that isn’t to say you big-boned buffoons can’t be of some use to me. I want you all, as I have been attempting to do for so many years here, to scour this good book you hold in your hands and search for loopholes.”

  Milton gulped. Looking for loopholes in his contract had once been his overriding obsession. He had recently lost sight of it, what with dying again, roaming the after realms with dispossessed phantoms, and rescuing his best friend and all.

  “After all, a thing worth having is worth cheating for,” Mr. Fields continued as he tipped his top hat over his eyes. “And just think how good you’ll feel about yourselves if you help me out of this dreary dimple in a baboon’s bottom. So, young men, get cracking while I get napping.”

  Milton and Virgil sidled close together and studied the Book of Books.

  “Hmmm,” murmured Virgil. “Here’s something: ‘Do not join those who gorge themselves, for they shall become poor, and drowsiness clothes them in rags.’”

  “Yeah,” Milton replied, his mind churning as it always did when confronted by a good puzzle. “But aren’t the poor blessed or something? Guaranteed a place in the kingdom of God?”

  “I think so.”

  “Wait, here’s something else,” said Milton. “‘The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, Behold a man gluttonous.’ It sounds like even Jesus was accused of having, you know … a big appetite.”

  “I’m Jewish, so that ‘Son of Man’ stuff is not really my specialty,” said Virgil with a shrug of his shoulders. “Here’s another one: ‘Behold joy and gladness … let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we shall die.’”

  “A little grim, but encouraging. This one is a bit nicer: ‘Take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.’”

  “Amen,” Virgil murmured.

  “Yeah, it almost sounds like an order. Get a load of this: ‘Whose God is their belly, and whose glory is in their shame, who mind earthly things.’”

  Virgil crinkled his freckled nose.

  “I don’t like the sound of that one.”

  “But wait,” Milton continued feverishly, “it makes overeating seem like a weakness, an addiction, almost. A venial sin more than an absolute one that hurts other people.”

  Virgil stared at his friend with eyes devoid of comprehension.

  “A veal sin? Like eating baby cows?”

  “No, venial,” Milton explained. “It means forgivable. Something not worthy of, in our case, etern
al darnation.”

  Virgil mulled over this theological nugget.

  “So being fat maybe isn’t so bad after all?” he said, his chest puffing out slightly, giving his belly a run for its money. “I’m not … evil. Just a little weak-willed?”

  Milton smiled at his friend, so wide that Virgil could actually see Milton’s teeth through his grinning meat mask.

  “Why would I rescue someone evil? I only rescue the best!”

  Virgil leaned in close to Milton, his eyes darting about guiltily.

  “So,” he whispered, “have you and Annubis thought of a way out of here?”

  Milton, through his borrowed Pang eyes, stared at the snoring teacher.

  “No,” he murmured. “Not yet. But he’s got some ideas cooking.”

  Virgil stared off into space. His eyes glittered as if he were wearing diamond contact lenses.

  “Maybe it isn’t just about escaping,” Virgil said in a voice deeper and surer than Milton was accustomed to. “Maybe it’s about something more.”

  27 • SOME ASSEMBLY

  REQUiRED

  LYON, HER POM-POMS shaking softly in neutral, sneered at the crowd of overweight boys, girls, and teachers perched upon the Gymnauseum’s bowed bleachers.

  “Hey, Dijon!” she shouted in her silver satin, two-piece cheerless-leading outfit. “Do you know why Blimpo is like a candy store?”

  Dijon smiled, her teeth sparkling like pearls chemically whitened at great expense.

  “No, Lyon. Why is Blimpo like a candy store?”

  Lyon jutted out her hip in sassy defiance.

  “Because it’s full of so many big, fat suckers!”

  The five girls laughed wickedly, then assembled in a V-for-vain formation.

  “Hey, Bordeaux!” Lyon called out, twirling like a top. “Do you know what time it is?”

  Bordeaux furrowed her eyebrows at her watch.

  “I, like, so don’t know!” she replied with a dopey curl of her lip.

  “It’s time for a Nyah Nyah cheer!” Lyon screeched.

  Milton and Virgil wriggled uncomfortably at the very top of the bleachers.

  “Wow, and I thought these things were bad when I was alive!” Virgil said.