Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck

by Dale E. Basye

  Milton stared at one of the many banners strewn across the Gymnauseum: CHAMPIONS ONLY BELIEVE IN THEMSELVES IF EVERYONE ELSE DOES, AND TRUST US: YOU’RE NO CHAMPION.

  “Yeah,” he replied softly. “This bites … mega bites.”

  “Giga bites!” Virgil added as the cheerlessleaders hopped atop one another to form a pyramid.

  Milton thought he recognized two of the girls, Lyon and Bordeaux, from the time that he was led—bound and gagged—to Mallvana, right after his second death (not that he was counting). He couldn’t be completely sure, though, what with the sack he had been forced to wear over his head and the fact that he had always found it difficult to distinguish one cheerleader from another. Across the auditorium, he saw an immaculate woman watching the cheerless leaders’ every move. The woman’s bearing was both fussy and sinister, sleek and scaly. For some reason, Milton visualized a python full of Persian pussycats.

  “We’re the Nyah Nyah Narcissisters, and we’re here to say,

  We’re like an all-you-can-watch beauty buffet!

  We’ve got the moves and grooves

  You’ve been aching to see!

  You so wish you were us….

  Don’t make us laugh! We might pee!”

  Milton gazed at the other boys sitting several bleachers below. Even though they had had only a few servings of Hambone Hank’s new recipe, they seemed … different. Lighter. More carefree and childlike. Thankfully for Milton and his not-so-secret identity, Hugo seemed to be satisfied with his altered soul food. Heck, the boys were even smiling at the squad of conceited girls brought here to Blimpo for the expressed purpose of berating and humiliating them.

  “S-P-I-R-I-T,

  We’ve got that spirit,

  Can’t you see it?

  It could raise the dead.

  From the tips of our toes to our perfect heads!”

  “So, you think Hollow Wean is the night?” Virgil whispered, though no one besides Milton could possibly hear him over the din of debutants debu-taunting. “You know, for escaping?”

  Milton nodded. “Yep. I think even if the principal rears her ugly, ugly head, it’s our best, maybe our only, chance to slip away. Annubis and I have been trading some ideas back and forth on napkins.”

  The self-centered pyramid crumbled, girl by girl, with the Nyah Nyah Narcissisters falling into a fiercely perky line. Marseille took the lead—pried it away, more like—from Lyon.

  “And you fatties can just shake your chins,

  We’re sleek as sharks, but we ain’t got fins!

  Gonna psych you out:

  P-S-Y and C and K

  So let’s yell and shout,

  And put it on display!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Milton noticed something crawling on the back of Thaddeus’s head. He stared at the boy and realized that there wasn’t anything crawling on his head but that the crawling was his head: for a split second, his thick, dark hair rippled—becoming a hazy light purple and nappy, like a child’s worn toy. Thaddeus tipped back his head and giggled at nothing in particular, his eyes gleaming like black buttons, and—with that—he was his same old self.

  It must be the Make-Believe Play-fellow souls, Milton speculated. The souls affect the boys like the Lost Souls did—mixing with their energy as they’re “digested”—only they seem to cycle through fainter, faster, and more … fantastical.

  “Do you have any idea where we’d go?” Virgil asked. “After the escape?”

  Good question, Milton thought. But he didn’t want to discourage his sensitive friend.

  “Annubis said he had some friends who could help us,” Milton fibbed, rationalizing to himself that the dog god more than likely had friends and that some of them, statistically speaking, could probably help them. “He didn’t go into specifics,” he added, which was true, as Annubis had not gotten into specifics whatsoever. “He wants to keep it on the down low, just in case.”

  And with Bea “Elsa” Bubb dropping by, Milton continued to himself, anywhere is bound to be better than here.

  Across the Gymnauseum, Madame Pompadour scrutinized her Nyah Nyah Narcissisters with the deep green liquid pools of judgment that were her eyes. Suddenly, her clutch bag began to hiss and purr. She pulled out her compact and flipped it open.

  Text message from HubbaBubb13 to Pr3ttyKat9.

  HubbaBubb13: RU there? This is Bubb.

  Of course I know who it is, Madame Pompadour thought. Who else would have a profile pic so ugly that even a bowl of Rice Krispies wouldn’t talk to it?

  She sighed and reluctantly texted a response.

  Pr3ttyKat9: Of course. 2 what do I owe this honor?

  HubbaBubb13: Is your new Infern Marlo Fauster acting odd?

  Pr3ttyKat9: Odder than usual?

  HubbaBubb13: Anything about conspiring with her brother, Milton? I had him tracked, but lost him just outside Blimpo. Lady Lactose informed me of some unusual readings in something called a DREADmill.

  Madame Pompadour was so mad she could spit imported venom.

  I don’t want Bubb scratching in my kitty litter, she seethed to herself. Not now. Not ever.

  Pr3ttyKat9: I M in Blimpo now. Everything is fine—

  HubbaBubb13: I will be there tomorrow to see 4 myself.

  HubbaBubb13 has left the chat.

  Madame Pompadour’s pads worked furiously on her compact’s keypad, as if she were tenderizing a freshly seized mouse.

  Initiate chat with Mi1kSh4k3

  Mi1kSh4k3: Hello, Madame. 2 what do I owe this—

  Pr3ttyKat9: Y did you tell Bubb about the DREADmills?!?!

  Mi1kSh4k3: Calm down! Dr. Kellogg noticed some odd activity in one of the DREADmills, so I told Bubb myself, rather than have her find out on her own. This way, she’ll only see what we want her to see. And if she finds the boy, all the better. We’ll be in her good graces (if she has any) and she’ll leave us alone. Don’t worry. Next stop: Fat City! :-D

  Madame Pompadour sighed. Even on the best of days, she hated emoticons.

  Pr3ttyKat9: Fine. I will see you tomorrow to hash out the details of our dastardly plan. Au revoir …

  She clenched her pearly white teeth together.

  ;-)

  Madame Pompadour shut her compact and resumed her critical appraisal of her Nyah Nyah Narcissisters. The formation of sleek, snobby girls parted, creating a row down the middle. Strasbourg sprinted down the aisle, tumbled, and then executed three back-to-back handsprings. Lyon regained possession of the microphone from Marseille and skipped around the gym floor in a wide circle, goading the front row.

  “Piggies in the front, let me hear you grunt.”

  The girls turned up their noses with their index fingers behind her, oinking.

  “Fatties in the middle, let me hear you sizzle.”

  The squad swiveled their hips while pretending to fry bacon in a pan.

  “Porkers in the rear, let out a cheer.”

  Lyon rejoined the other girls, who were now parading in a tight circle in the middle of the floor.

  “You suck! We rule! We sisters soar, you Blimpos drool!”

  Like a fireworks finale, the Nyah Nyah Narcissisters leaped in the air, their hands touching their toes, and ended their abusive routine by performing a series of cartwheels, aerials, and round-offs. The girls beamed contemptuously, their NNN jerseys heaving with each breath, and eyed the crowd under the mistaken impression that they were about to bask in waves of wild adulation. Bordeaux—thinking that the crowd needed one last stunt before detonating in a riot of noise and acclamation—jogged to the edge of the mats, turned on the pad of her foot, then made a mad dash for her “sisters” before soaring in the air. Unfortunately, as Bordeaux had failed to inform the rest of the squad of their need to catch her, she landed face-first upon the mat. Finally, the audience applauded and whooped in delight.

  Two demons wheeled King Tantalus and his woeful wading pool to the center of the gym floor.

  “Charming!” he comment
ed into a microphone strapped to a peach branch. “And what a punch line! Okay, boys, girls, faculty, demons, and everything in between, it’s the time you’ve been waiting for: our pie-eating contest!”

  One of the demons, a walking eggplant overlaid with a mesh of muscle, walked over to a table covered with a white cloth and surrounded by four chairs. He yanked away the cloth, revealing a mound of pies. The small crowd roared.

  “Now all I need are four volunteers,” King Tantalus announced. “Please look under your seats. If you find a wad of chewed gum, then come on down!”

  The crowd looked under the bleachers. Two students from Girls’ Blimpo—an enormous Asian girl and a sturdy German girl with blond braids piled on top of her head like a hunk of hair strudel—squealed, gum in their fists, and waddled down to the stage.

  “Gum!” yelped Gene as he popped an uncovered nugget into his mouth and tumbled off the bleachers.

  Milton felt beneath his seat and plucked off a hunk of gum.

  “Wow,” Virgil said with awe. “Lucky.”

  Lucky, Milton reflected sadly.

  When Milton had escaped from Limbo, he had done so at the expense of his etheric energy—the spiritual glue that kept his body and soul fused together. After his pet ferret, Lucky, had inadvertently interfered with Milton’s attempt to harness the life force from a swarm of bugs, the two had shared a peculiar energetic bond. I haven’t felt his energy in weeks, Milton recalled. I still feel somehow connected to him, but it’s so dull, so sluggish, so … un-Lucky.

  Milton noticed the longing in Virgil’s eyes as his friend stared down at the festivities brewing on the Gymnauseum floor.

  At least I can pass a little luck on to Virgil, Milton thought.

  “Here,” he said, tossing his friend the disgusting, still-sort-of-squishy wad of gum. “Eat your heart out.”

  Virgil grinned from ear to ear.

  “Thanks!” he called out behind him as he made his way down to the table.

  The boys and girls grabbed their seats and eyed the pies with unreserved gusto.

  “Now, before you we have a selection of fine pies,” King Tantalus announced. “Humble Pie, Mince-Mystery-Meat Pie, and Dingleberry Pie—courtesy of our very own Chef Boyareyookrazee.”

  The flush-faced chef tipped his towering toque and grinned wickedly.

  King Tantalus whispered to the children. “I would avoid the Dingleberry at all cost,” he cautioned.

  The boys and girls nodded gravely as demons tied bibs around their stocky necks.

  “On your mark, get set … go!” the teacher called as the contestants shoved pastry into their mouths.

  “Great form!” King Tantalus commented. “Crust first, ask questions later … a winning strategy!”

  Virgil stood up as he rolled a pie into a flaky, oozing burrito.

  “Look at Mr. Farrow go! It’s like he’s bagging groceries in his gut!”

  The German girl eyed Virgil with worry and stood up next to him, seeing his pie and raising him another.

  “Whoa, ante upped!” said King Tantalus.

  The girl, however, began to turn a sickly hue reminiscent of the Jolly Green Giant in the throes of envy.

  “I must remind everyone that what goes in must stay down!”

  The girl charged out of the Gymnauseum, her hand to her mouth.

  “I warned you about the Dingleberry,” King Tantalus said, shaking his head.

  A buzzer blared.

  “We have a winner!” King Tantalus announced after a quick study of the empty pie plates. “Mr. Farrow, who can swallow, it seems, just about everything—including his pride!”

  A sloppy, pie-eating grin spread across Virgil’s face.

  Mr. Presley, seated with Mr. Waller on the sidelines, hooted and hollered.

  “Nicely done, son!” the rhinestone-studded man yelped. “Your pie eatin’ takes the cake!”

  Virgil blushed modestly underneath gooey patches of Humble Pie.

  King Tantalus waved for Virgil to come closer.

  “So, Mr. Farrow, would you like to know what you’ve won?” the scraggly, partially submerged teacher asked.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Well, in honor of our principal Bubb’s impending visit,” King Tantalus explained with a smirk, “you’ll have the esteemed privilege of … giving her a hoof massage on behalf of Blimpo!”

  The crowd groaned. Gene, who was on the verge of hurling anyway, ran out of the Gymnauseum, retching.

  “That’s sariously nasty,” Mr. Presley mumbled with a sneer.

  Virgil’s grin faded gradually, like an old picture left in the sun. Tears welled in his eyes.

  Mr. Presley rose out of his seat with a grunt, shaking his head as he joined Virgil at the center of the floor. He wrapped his arm around the mortified boy.

  “Now, now, son,” he soothed, “Principal Bubb’s nasty feet aren’t worth your tears, which reminds me … I just wrote a song ’bout tears. Do ya wanna hear it?”

  Virgil looked up at Mr. Presley and nodded faintly.

  “Okay, then,” the teacher replied as he caught the guitar Mr. Waller threw him. “A-one, a-two, a-three …”

  He strutted out across the mats, hips swaying.

  “I cried so many tears on the day you left me,

  That those bitter poison tears made a strychnine sea.

  Chlorides, sulfates, sodium, and pain …

  A magnesium, calcium, and potassium rain.”

  The girls started screaming. Mr. Presley, looking years younger, as if the energy of the crowd was turning back his spiritual odometer, beckoned for Virgil to join him. Virgil trotted over beside the sequined singing sensation.

  “I got the words written on the inside of my sleeve,” Mr. Presley whispered, adding with a wink, “Now, that’s a trade secret, son. Be sure to keep it to yourself. Now, I got them all warmed up for you. I’ll lay down a low, slinky baritone and you come in with that crazy opera thing you do, just like in class. Okay?”

  Virgil nodded and shared the mic with the King of Rock and Roll.

  “These elements dissolved, make the ocean taste salty,

  Like tears when the wiring of love proves faulty.

  The ocean’s salinity is thirty-five parts per thousand,

  Your love was divinity, now my heart’s stuck in quicksand.”

  The blend of their voices was peanut-butter-and-chocolate perfect. Mr. Presley’s surly, smoky rumble and Virgil’s clear, piercing soprano braided together snugly, weaving an achingly beautiful tapestry of tone that completely enveloped the audience.

  “Thoughts of your lovin’ won’t let me be,

  And I feel like I’m drownin’ in your strychnine sea.”

  Mr. Presley shimmied the crowd into a frenzy while Virgil’s voice soared. Its richness embraced the crowd like a warm, musical hug. Milton watched as his friend became transformed. Virgil wasn’t the big-boned, freckle-faced boy whose innate sweetness made him the target of many a mean spirit. No, with his chest puffed out and his tone pitch-perfect and assured, Virgil was pure confidence with a side of aplomb.

  Milton noticed a burly girl with wavy black hair sitting several bleachers below him. Wedged onto one of her arms was a weird magazine. The shimmering pages fanned out around her forearm, as if her arm were wearing a dress made of electric fashion ads. But one of the pages captured Milton’s attention. A picture of a girl who seemed strangely familiar and strangely unfamiliar at the same time. A girl with black eyes, bluish hair, spooky, sun-challenged skin, a turned-up nose …

  “Marlo!” Milton exclaimed as he hopped down the bleachers. He grabbed the girl’s arm.

  “Sorry, but she’s my sister,” Milton explained to the girl. She stared back at him with flat, fishlike eyes. It was as if she were drugged or had been forced to watch public television during a pledge drive.

  “I’ll, uh, give you your arm back in just a sec,” he said as he scanned the brief article.

  Madame Makes Over Miscreant Miss!

/>   Marlo Fauster, the lucky recipient of a much-coveted scholarship with the Girl Friday the Thirteenth Finishing School, has just graduated with dishonors. Her first real underworld job? We hope you’re sitting down (because she certainly will be) … the devil’s very own, personal deceptionist!

  Madame Pompadour, Infernship program headmistress and Statusphere’s very own publisher/editor/columnist/sales manager/circulation director, had this to say about her latest low-flying, get-up-and-go-getting protégé.

  “Miss Fauster came to me, quite frankly, a crazy mess,” Madame Pompadour elegantly states through her girlish, cherry-red lips framing refined, pearly white fangs that glisten like captured moonlight. “But I always appreciate a challenge. Through my expert tutelage, effortless grace, infinite well of patience, and unrivaled humility, I took what was basically a feral, ill-mannered, uncouth blob of insalubrious clay and—like a modern-day Pygmalion—transformed this No Flair Lady into the epitome of élan. I expect great things from her. And there will be you-know-what to pay if she doesn’t deliver.”

  Miss Fauster, immaculate in her crisp new Donna Skaran French Navy Cotton Viscose Constructed Trouser Suit …”

  Milton was mesmerized by Marlo’s photograph. It was as if—yes, he was almost sure of it—she had allowed someone else to put makeup on her face. Marlo’s hair also seemed as if it had actually been brushed and perhaps even styled. With product. She looked like a model. Not like a skinny, hot-shot Brazilian fashion model with a name like Vendetta or anything like that, but like one of those models who still had to work part-time at a coffee shop in between photo shoots for the local outlet store.

  Though Marlo looked good, she didn’t look like Marlo. It freaked Milton out. Her crooked grin, like a regular smile that had been broken and glued back together poorly, was now smooth, perfect, and somehow joyless in its perfection. How an alien would smile after observing humans through a high-powered Double Hubble telescope. And the fire behind her eyes had been snuffed out. That scared Milton most of all.