Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck (15 page)

“A
Tyrannosaurus rex!” Milton screamed as he galloped faster, the wheel becoming a shimmering blur in front of him.

This is ridiculous
, Milton thought feverishly, his mind whirring as fast as the treadmill he was trapped upon.
This is just some kind of motion simulator, like at the Puny-versal Studios Kiddy Freak ’n’ Fun Park in Florida. But why does this seem so much more … real?

Major Bummer, his nostrils flaring like a winded gorilla, reappeared.

“Well, well,” he said, looking Milton up and down with his ice-blue eyes. “Looks like we’ll have to come up with something less …
run-of-the-mill
. Get it? Sometimes I slay myself … though I’d much rather slay you, maggot. Fear Level Three!”

Milton was now, for all appearances, in the north hallway back at Generica Middle School, the one that led from the locker room out past Threat Row—where all the bullies hung out—to the buses. The DREADmill urged Milton onward as a yellow and black school bus
pulled up at the back of the school. Milton’s heart pounded with a familiar anxiety, and his limbs went numb with fear.

“If it isn’t Milquetoast Fauster,” a cruelly familiar voice taunted from behind. Milton’s insides turned to marmalade. “Damian!” he gasped. The principal architect of Milton’s panic disorder—the sadistic, pathological thug who had brought Milton to Heck in the first place (granted, Milton had accidentally returned the favor, but that was beside the point).

“I’ll even give you a head start, just to make things interesting,” Damian purred like a preteen panther. “Of course, it will end the same way—terrible for you and terribly fun for me….”

This is impossible
, Milton thought as he trotted to the DREADmill’s nefarious rhythm.
Damian’s not here … I’m not there. But, somehow, the machine is drawing the fear out of me … which means—

Milton gulped.

The machine can read my thoughts. Or at least my feelings. Which means—if I let it—it can see who I really am! Which means I have to pretend to be afraid of things I’m not really afraid of, like …

Milton’s mind skipped back in time to his eighth birthday when Marlo had given him
The Big Pop-up Book of Totally Scary Phobias that You Never Knew You Had but Really Do
. One page in particular came to mind: a big pop-up peanut-butter sandwich that sprang to life,
accompanying a brief description of arachibutyrophobia, otherwise known as the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.

“C’mon, this is as challenging as slow-motion Pong,” Damian said as he tenderized his meaty palm with his fist. “The
least
you could do is to r-r-…”

Suddenly, Damian began smacking his lips.

“Rumphghgrllmyack!”

Thick gooey strands held Damian’s mouth tight. As he gaped, goggled, and gasped, Milton could see a lattice of sticky, pale brown muck in his mouth, as if a spider had woven a web of peanut butter (which would undoubtedly breed, Milton thought, a case of arachno-arachibutyrophobia). Now all that was left was for Milton to react as if terrified.

Milton ran as fast as a boy encased in a suffocating clown suit of living meat could. The wheel hummed like the blades of a helicopter. Soon, the school hallway dissolved into the cavernous mouth of a giant, with Damian morphing into the creature’s uvula—that little punching bag in the back of your, and everyone’s, throat. Globs of peanut butter clung to the roof of the creature’s mouth, with ropes of ooze hanging down like stalactites.

A stitch in Milton’s side formed a seam of pain up and down his body. Major Bummer’s disappointed face appeared.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he grumbled. “And
you have a
lot
in you, by the looks of it. But you are running faster than your body mass index would dictate, so I guess I have to—
sigh
—give you a little flavor furlough.”

With that, the computer-generated tyrant disappeared and was replaced by what looked like a TV show.

“We now join
Lost on a Dessert Island
, already in progress….”

A teenage boy with a mass of curly blond hair and a pretty, slender girl with wide, dark eyes climbed a massive hot-fudge sundae.

“We’re almost at the summit,” the boy called to the girl as he, after scooping up a handful of mint-chocolate-chip-brownie-dough ice cream to make his next toehold, held his sticky hand out to her. “Can you make it?”

She gave the boy a mischievous smile.

“The question is,” she replied, popping a double-fudge-dipped peanut-butter cup in her mouth after using it as an ice-cream pick, “can
you
make it?”

The two teenagers briskly ascended the frosty, delectable peak. Meanwhile, Milton’s Pang skin began to quake with hunger. It rippled in painful waves of want, becoming slick with full-body saliva. Its chubby legs sprinted toward the enticing yet unobtainable treats before it. Milton felt as if he were trapped inside a haunted tracksuit. He fought to keep up with the creature’s frenetic pace.

It’s … not … fair
, Milton chewed over in his mind, so exhausted that even his thoughts panted with exertion.
I’m either running … away from something … out of fear … or running toward it … out of desire
.

The teenagers on the screen reached the summit. Giggling, they parted clumps of cotton candy to enter a luscious grotto of swaying taffydills. Milton could even smell the sweet breeze wafting from the scene, savoring it with the taste buds all over his borrowed body.

A chocolate-milk waterfall cascaded into a foaming lake full of bobbing Oreo lily pads. Chocolate frogs croaked, trying to catch skittering Skittles with their long licorice tongues.

Milton’s Pang suit convulsed with craving. Just as Milton felt as if his heart were a beat away from bursting, the screen surrounding him went dark, the wheel slowed, and the sides of the DREADmill opened in pneumatic wheezes until they rested on the Gymnauseum floor.

Two decomposing lizard demons hoisted Milton out of the machine. His body was frothy with a thick mixture of sweat and drool. One of the demons threw Milton a large, stiff white towel and prodded him toward the other boys, who were gasping by an industrial-sized black iron scale.

“Hmm … simply terrible, Hugo,” Dr. Kellogg pronounced, eyeing the two hands of the clocklike scale as they settled on 227 pounds, 3 ounces. “I don’t
understand it—none of you have lost any weight in the last three days.”

Hugo stepped off the scale, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Dr. Kellogg,” the boy said, scratching his crew cut. “I just haven’t felt like myself lately.”

In a flash, Hugo’s chubby face …
changed
. More than just a sudden shift in expression, it was as if his face had turned into a puzzle, shifting and rearranging to become a quick succession of other people—an old African American man, a Chinese warrior, a young Swedish woman—until his features finally settled back to their original configuration. No one else had seemed to notice, and it had all happened so quickly that Milton was unsure if he had actually seen the split-second metamorphosis or if it had been the lingering effects of extreme physical exhaustion.

“You,” the doctor said, gesturing toward Milton.
“Jonah
. Step on up.”

Milton complied. The scale whirled around like a roulette wheel spun by an angry croupier. Dr. Kellogg caressed the scale with his gloved hand.

“There, there, dear,” he murmured to his machine. “It will be over soon.”

The hands finally settled on an astounding 416 pounds.

“Incredible,” the doctor said, stroking his white goatee. “Well, I’m always up for a challenge.”

He clapped his hands together. “Now, boys, let us
retire to the promenade deck for the remainder of our class. I hope to feed your heads so that, before the lunch bell rings, you will feel sated and sanctified.”

Dr. Kellogg walked energetically toward a pair of glass doors at the side of the Gymnauseum. He flung them open and motioned for the class to make themselves comfortable on the piles of foam mats within. The teacher kneeled upon a backless posture chair at the front of the small room.

“Firstly,” the doctor said,
“hygiene.”

“Hi, Doctor!” Gene replied cheerfully.

The teacher groaned.

“The art of taking care of yourselves,” Dr. Kellogg clarified. “Specifically, for today’s purposes, how to clean your navel.”

The boys looked at one another in confusion.

“Some say navel buildup is the result of clothing fibers gathering at the scar site of your severed umbilical cord, while others—myself included—think it has more to do with the impurity of our thoughts,” the doctor continued as two skinny nurses—as cold, stiff, and unyielding as a pair of rectal thermometers—wheeled in dollies piled high with boxes of Q-tips and rubbing alcohol.

The doctor rose and performed—for some reason known only to him—a series of deep knee bends.

“Regardless,” he went on, “a sullied belly button can have a devastating effect on one’s self-image, so
thorough cleansing is crucial. While regular swabbing is critical, I have been formulating a by far more effective method….”

The nurses traded looks of concern. Dr. Kellogg went over to a small chalkboard that hung on the rosewood wall. He scrawled a “1” across the board with a quick slash.

“The first step is to invent a shrinking machine.”

Milton scooched over to Virgil. “This guy is one enchilada short of a combo platter,” Milton whispered.

Virgil’s stomach rumbled.

“Please,” he said, “go easy on the food metaphors. Seriously. They don’t go down well here.”

The doctor scratched a “2” on the board.

“Next, hire a Navel-Ops team,” he relayed with a pixie grin. “A crack team of professional hygienists proficient in cutting-edge swabbing techniques and state-of-the-art disinfection procedures. Arm them with ten-foot-long swabs so that when they endure the shrinking process, the swabs are roughly as large as your traditional cotton swab—”

Thaddeus raised his hand. “Why don’t they just use regular swabs?” he asked.

The doctor scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous, son. They would be entirely too small after the shrinking process.”

“No, but after—”

“Three,”
declared the doctor after scratching the number on the board. “Each team member should also have an alcohol-propulsion device strapped to their—”

“Doctor,” interrupted one of the nurses.

Dr. Kellogg dismissed the nurse with an irritated wave. “Not now, Nurse Rutlidge.”

“But I think it’s time for your … treatment.”

The lunch bell rang. The boys got to their feet with amazing alacrity.

“Boys!” the agitated doctor shouted while a nurse, pressing her hand on his shoulder, prepared a shot. “Remember to swab!”

Nurse Rutlidge stood by the door with a large silver tray of cotton swabs. Her skin crinkled like a withered cornhusk as she sneered at the boys. Each boy took a swab, rolled up their tube tops, and fished out globs of iridescent, rainbow-hued gunk from their belly buttons—Hugo alone fished out several tablespoons—and deposited the soiled Q-tips into a large metal drum.

The boys went back into the locker room to change. Milton sat down with a tremendous creak and peeled off his sweaty burlap leggings. His already-mottled Pang skin was as red and raw as Martian sushi.

“Hey, and
thanks
for telling me about the DREADmills,” Milton grunted sarcastically as Virgil sat beside him.

Virgil shrugged.

“Yeah, they’re a
major bummer,”
he said. “Get it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Milton grumbled as he put on his tight corduroy pants.

“But you learn to get through the fear levels real fast so you can spend more time stranded on Dessert Island.”

Milton rubbed his aching Pang thighs.

“Same difference, really. Exertion-wise.”

A few lockers over, Thaddeus pulled on his striped Lycra bodysuit. Milton saw the pudgy boy transform into an elderly Eskimo, an angry Samoan, a cowboy, and back again.

“Did you see that?” Milton whispered.

“See what?” Virgil replied, looking over at Thaddeus a second too late.

“I don’t know,” Milton mumbled, rubbing his Pang eyes. “I must be seeing—”

The freckles on Virgil’s face multiplied until he was, briefly, a German girl, a bucktoothed Spanish boy, a bald muscleman, and then finally his usual self.

“—things,” Milton said weakly. “Are you … okay?”

“Me?” Virgil said, slipping on his slippers. “Sure … just starving. C’mon, let’s go before he’s all out.”

Milton and Virgil followed the other boys as they dashed out of the locker room into the hallway.

“All out of those awful lentil biscuits?” Milton grimaced.

Virgil wiped a trickle of drool off his chin.

“What? No …
yuck
. That junk puts the ‘die’ in ‘diet.’ I’m talking
real
food. Hambone Hank’s Heart Attack Shack.”

Virgil’s small dark eyes twinkled with joy.

“He showed up three days ago, after an assembly. And we’ve been going there ever since. You won’t believe your mouth.”

Milton trotted after his friend, who, in the space of several steps, had been a circus clown, a caveman, and a Brazilian supermodel. As they ambled down the hallway, following a plume of unbearably delicious barbecue smoke, Milton wasn’t concerned about believing his mouth. It was his eyes that were worrying him.

15 • S
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