Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck (41 page)

“So, Principal Bubb,” Annubis went on, “as it is your job, and has been for time immemorial to—quite expertly, I may add—assign awful, grubby children to the circles most suited for them, wouldn’t you think that Fibble—the circle reserved for liars—would be the best choice for Mr. Fauster?”

The horde of demon guards grumbled and nodded in assent.

“Fibble?”
the principal exclaimed. “But that’s—”

Annubis rolled his eyes toward the bank of cameras. Principal Bubb froze in the burning stare of thirteen scrutinizing lenses recording every word, every gesture, every decision. She sighed. The principal may have nabbed Milton, but she still had to play things safe, considering the even-more-volatile-than-usual state of Heck. A rash decision now could erupt into a scaly, stubborn rash she’d have to sit on for quite some time, bureaucratically speaking. Sadia would have to wait.

“—exactly where I was thinking of sending him,”
the
principal said, switching her verbal horses midstream. “At first, that is. That little creep can work his way down to Sadia. Once we confront his …
lying.”

She clapped her claws together.

“Guards, strap this lying liar to the back of my Heckifino. And he’s extra farty today, Mr. Fauster.”

The demons clicked their hooves together and goose-stepped out of the Deception Area, dragging Milton/Marlo kicking and screaming behind them.

“I’m Marlo!”
he/she screamed as he/she was hauled through the Surly Gates.
“And this isn’t over!”

Principal Bubb turned quickly to Annubis.

“This isn’t over!”
she yelled in a whisper as she grabbed Marlo/Milton by the arm. “As for you …”

Bea “Elsa” Bubb’s pus-yellow eyes burned. Though, after an indecisive moment, her scalding scowl cooled to a simmering stare.

“You may return to your post … but I assure you, Big Sister is watching you!”

The principal’s No-Fee Hi-Fi Faux phone rang. As Principal Bubb read the caller ID on her thumb thimble, Annubis leaned into Marlo/Milton’s ear.

“I will track down your pet, Lucky, in the Furafter,” he whispered. “He’s either down in the Kennels or up in the Really Big Farm. In any case, as I search for my family, I will try to reunite you with a member of
yours.”

Marlo/Milton’s eyes welled up with appreciation.
He/she wiped away a tear and, with surprise, noted a smudge of mascara on the back of his/her hand.

“Thanks,” Marlo/Milton murmured. “You’re a boy’s
… or whatever’s …
best friend.”

Meanwhile, Principal Bubb gulped as she stared at the number scrolling in a slow, foreboding orbit around her thumb thimble: 1-666-666-DEVL.

“Hell-hello?” she stammered into her outstretched pinkie. “This is Principal Bubb.”

Lucifer crossed his gleaming black hooves on his ottoman: a mummified thirteenth-century Turkish soldier on all fours. His massive plasma wall flickered like a window into an alternate reality, one that Lucifer himself wished were far more “alternate” and far less “reality.”

“I know who I called,” he seethed into the near-invisible phone embedded into his bloodred manicured claws. “That’s why I called you and not, say, my tailor, masseuse, or financial adviser. Are you watching what’s going on?”

Reflected in his raging serpent’s eyes were unruly images of Blimpo as skewed and distorted by the Underworld Retribution Network Short Attention News crew. The unnaturally tanned newswoman clutched her microphone as if she were grasping a SENSATION (Society for Entertainment News Shows
Announcing Terribly Incredible Occurrences Now) award, which, as a matter of fact, she was hoping this very story would earn her.

“This is Barbra Seville with URN News—on the scene and on the ball. We interrupt tonight’s edition of
When Grandparents Attack
with this live report. As you can tell by the Golden Archway behind me, I am in Blimpo—the circle of Heck reserved for the full-figured—and, I can tell you now, the situation here is a full-blown fracas, a flabby free-for-all, the likes of which this reporter has never seen.”

The pimples on Principal Bubb’s forehead—which happened to form the shape of a shark fin peeking above her monobrow—grew shiny with nervous perspiration.

“I am, I mean I always watch what’s going on,” the principal went on. “I take great care to watch what’s going on, is what I mean to say—”

“Are you watching what’s going on in Blimpo
… on the news?”
the devil clarified with gnashed fangs. “If you could call it
news.”

Principal Bubb glanced at the various demon guards—most of which she had “borrowed” from Blimpo—huddled beyond the Surly Gates.

“Blimpo? But I was just there….”

The principal immediately and literally bit her tongue. It had slipped and was now paying for its
clumsiness: in blood. Hopefully, Bea “Elsa” Bubb thought, the devil hadn’t picked up on her blunder.

“You were just in Blimpo?!”
Lucifer shouted, not only picking up the principal’s blunder but also hurling it over his majestic horned head. “And now it’s falling apart. Fancy that.”

“I just caught Milton Fauster,” the principal blurted out. She had wanted to present this fortuitous turn of events to Lucifer elegantly, strategically, all gift-wrapped and tied up with a bow. But she had panicked and carelessly tossed out her news as if it were her turn in a game of hot potato.

“What?” Lucifer said, distracted, as Gene and Thaddeus toppled Blimpo’s Golden Archway before high-fiving one another and giving V-for-victory signs at the camera. “Milton Fauster? It’s about time. Wait, something’s happening.”

Barbra Seville shoved her microphone into Virgil’s face.

“An URN News exclusive!” the newswoman gushed. “I have with me now the instigator of this rotund rebellion, Vern Fallow—”

Virgil’s face reddened.

“It’s actually
Virgil Farrow
—”

“Whatever,” Barbra continued. “An exclusive interview by any other name is just as exclusive. So, Mr. Farrow, what do you, a
shy
Guevara, a Gandhi for the
grossly obese, have to say for you and your insurrection of ample midsections?”

Virgil stared at the camera with the open, paralyzed horror of a dwarf rabbit in a wheelchair at the sight of a swooping hawk. He swallowed.

“I …
we,”
he managed, “are the … the BOWEL movement.”

Barbra cocked her eyebrow at the camera before emitting a nervous twitter.

“Darned children say the
darnedest
things!” she snickered.

Virgil appeared confused. “I don’t know why people think that’s so funny,” he said, shaking his head. “It stands for ‘Blimpo: Overweight With Erroneous Laws.’ And we feel this whole place is … is … illegal. And should be shut down. Having a healthy appetite, even if it makes you sick, isn’t a sin. It’s more like a weakness. Or a choice. Or something in between. After all, it doesn’t really hurt anyone, so why should we be down here?”

Virgil’s speech was like a baby bird that had been nudged out of its nest, where—after a momentary free fall—was now taking tentative wing.

“We accept the fact that we were sent down here for whatever it was the Powers That Be Evil think we did wrong. But we think that you’re all
nuts
for expecting us to take it sitting down … especially in those awful, super-small chairs.”

Behind him, Hugo was leading the bound vice principals of Blimpo in a humiliating circuit around the grounds. Lady Lactose squirmed in the restraints wrapped around her and strained toward the camera.

“Don’t listen to these ungrateful, root-beer-bellied delinquents!” she shrieked. “Serves them right … taking extra servings. Justice will be served!”

Virgil turned to address the curdled, girdled queen.

“You only see us as you want to see us—in the simplest, most convenient terms: a bunch of selfish, food-obsessed fatties. But we’re more than that … we’re smarter than that.”

Lady Lactose snorted until milk ran out her nose.

“Yeah, you boys are brilliant.
Geniuses
. So smart you should form your own club for brainy, blubbery boys and call it
Immensa
!”

Thaddeus prodded the group forward, sending Lady Lactose tumbling to the ground.

“Boo-hoo,”
he mocked.

“Hey,” Hugo replied. “Don’t cry over spilled milk!”

Virgil continued his speech to the camera.

“Inside, lots of us kids here in Heck are essentially the same. Only, those of us sent to Blimpo crave rich foods because we feel poor inside. But I have the perfect recipe to fill us all up. Take two cups of self-discovery, one cup of self-acceptance, twelve ounces of respect for others, a dash of open-mindedness, and a heaping tablespoon of collaboration. Stir the contents slowly, as our
finest qualities often take a while to develop. Then cook the whole thing over the fire of conviction. Sure, the weak may have inherited the girth, but so what? If we stand together—all of us—we could all stand to inherit a whole lot more.”

Lucifer clapped his hands together angrily, turning off the television. On the other end of the phone, Principal Bubb winced.

The Big Guy Downstairs flushed as red and angry as just-plucked madder root. “First, Limbo’s security was brought into question after the Fauster boy’s escape; then Rapacia was sent reeling after the Grabbit’s attempt to suck our profitable little underworld into a self-made black hole, and now
this.”

He sighed a fallen angel’s sigh: full of lost light, an eternity of bitterness, and no hope whatsoever for redemption. Lucifer looked down at the manuscript splayed out on his lap. His dashing tail swayed with a playful confidence.

“Still, not all is lost,” he said with a dazzling grin that blended perfectly the predatory precision of a shark’s bite with the hypnotic smile of a veteran car salesman. “I have something up my sleeve,” Lucifer snickered as he patted the manuscript’s cover—
Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go
. “And it sure as
heck
isn’t my heart!”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Principal Bubb murmured, not understanding anything other than the fact that her
moment of victory had been taken away from her and that Milton Fauster was somehow to blame. She had expected Lucifer’s praise at the boy’s capture to flow like champagne. But instead it had gone down like a can of flat generic soda left open in the back of the refrigerator.

Her snout flared as she saw the boy, still maintaining his innocence, shoved onto the barge that bobbed atop the waste-clogged waves of the River Styx. As Milton/Marlo was lashed, squealing, to the back of the principal’s Heckifino, Bea “Elsa” Bubb smirked. Above all else, she had
him—
and this scrawny boy who shouldn’t be here was about to have his butt gold-plated and placed in her trophy cabinet.

Note to self
, the principal reflected,
acquire trophy cabinet
.

As Principal Bubb boarded the gray barge, Marlo/Milton was now alone, shivering despite the flame spouting from between the two gilded hockey sticks on the wall. She/he watched her/his brother/sister struggling on the back of the principal’s ridiculous, gobbling beast.

Now that Marlo is relatively safe as
me, Marlo/Milton surmised,
I can work the system from the inside, perhaps from the root of all evil itself
. She/he glanced at the slogan behind her/him on the wall:
COME FOR THE HEAT … STAY FOR ETERNITY
.

“We’ll see about that,” Marlo/Milton murmured as
the phone rang. Even if it meant legally tearing down each and every circle, Milton wouldn’t rest in peace until Heck rested in pieces.

“Thank you for calling,” she/he said as she/he answered the phone with a knowing smile. “How may I misdirect your call?”

BACKWORD

For so much of our life and death, we pine to be someone else, someone perfect. Inside and out (usually out). The catch is that no one is perfect, in particular those who say they are, since conceit is a flaw; therefore, those who claim they aren’t perfect are closer to being perfect, unless they are just feigning humility because they read this, and nothing screams “flaw” like feigned humility. And reading ahead. And screaming “flaw.”

The point is, we should spend our time wanting to be ourselves—deliciously flawed as we are—rather than wanting to be someone else
.

Let’s say that you wanted to be, I don’t know, let’s call her Zazu Zenith. First, let’s assume that you
aren’t
Zazu Zenith: a multibillionaire pop star/actress/perfume/clothing line with a face that
launched a thousand A-list parties. Now, it’s no one’s fault, really, that you aren’t Zazu Zenith. Not being Zazu Zenith is hardly a crime: after all, people who are
not
Zazu Zenith outnumber those who
are
by about 6.5 billion to 1. This makes “not being Zazu Zenith” the second most common moral failing on Earth—just after “taking a piece of candy from a box of chocolates, biting into it, realizing it has some weird whipped pork and jelly bean crème center (with just a hint of braised rhubarb), and putting it back.”

Sometimes the only thing separating the “flawless” from the “lawless” is the letter “f.”

Down in the hot, humid, and humility-free recesses of Heck (where there
is
no recess), the laws are changing, and many are finding themselves hip-deep in all manners of stews, jams, and pickles. Even those divine, pristine creatures upstairs may soon find themselves down in it
.

But this mess of perfection and misconception, flawlessness and lawlessness isn’t simply confined to Below and Above. It’s about to leak into the In-Between. Gush, in fact. And a whole lot of people—namely, you and all of your friends—may be in for a rude awakening, like the unfortunate child who actually falls asleep at a sleepover, waking up to find that their so-called friends have done something terrible to them
.

Sweet dreams
.