Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck (29 page)

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.

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.

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.

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
un
familiar 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!

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.

Milton’s thoughts drifted to the last time he’d seen
his sister, back in Rapacia. He had told her that he’d come back for her. He had promised.

His Pang skin contracted. The tightness came in spasms that were now arriving with greater frequency, each one pushing him slightly farther down into the creature. He had no idea how long it would be before he was either compressed into oblivion by his trash compactor of a disguise or digested whole.

Both Milton and Marlo were in way over their heads. But at least Milton
knew
he was in way over his head, while Marlo’s head seemed to have no idea how over it she was in. Her head, that is. He had also made a promise. And in a dark, despairing place like Heck, a promise—even one made between a brother and sister who never truly got along—was all you really had. Milton had made good on his vow to at least
try
and rescue Virgil. Now he would make good on another. Maybe making good on promises was the first step in unmaking all the bad.

“Can I have my arm back?” the hefty brunette girl asked Milton, causing him to jump with a start.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, releasing the girl’s arm. “Sorry.”

A banner fluttered on the other side of the Gymnauseum.

JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE UNIQUE DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU ARE SPECIAL

Milton didn’t know if he was right or wrong, good or bad, sane or completely, utterly mental, but he
did
know that he was unique … special …
different
. And being different can make a difference. He would start by going
down there
—to the fiery pit of h-e-double-hockey-sticks itself—to save his sister.
To make a difference
.

28 • HOLLOW, GOODBYE

PRINCIPAL BUBB PEERED
into the creature’s stable. Her left eyebrow crept upward, like a fat, fuzzy caterpillar emerging from its cocoon just to be gobbled down by a crow.

“What is it?” she asked.

The bull demon scratched the itchy rim of its growing horn nub.

“Heckifino,” he replied.

The principal scowled.

“I find it most distressing that you don’t even know the names of the creatures you supposedly care for—
”

“It’s a
Heckifino,”
the demon clarified.
“That’s what it’s called
. It also goes by ‘Alfonse,’ or ‘Hey’ if you shout loudly enough.”

Bea “Elsa” Bubb stiffened. She drew in a deep breath
that was, unfortunately, sharp with the tang of exotic waste matter.

“Just another test,” she replied as she tugged smooth her leather vest. “Want to keep you on the tip of your hooves.”

The bulky creature in the stall stared back at the demons with its mismatched eyes—one round and violet, the other an orange, almond-shaped sliver—located on either side of its coiling, corkscrew tusk. The Heckifino’s disjointed features made it seem as if it had been hastily assembled from a variety of unrelated animal kits by a team of color-blind builders, puzzling over Sanskrit instructions by strobe light.

“So, if memory serves me correctly,” the principal said cautiously, “then the Heckifino is a … a … a …”

The principal dangled the letter “a” in the air between her and the stable keeper, hoping that he would bite.

“A mystery, mostly,” the bull demon replied after a longer-than-comfortable silence. “It’s probably the product of genetic mutation, selective breeding, or a particularly wild holiday party at a very liberal zoo. It’s a true riddle of animal husbandry, and animal wifery as well. It sure is …
big
. Beautiful plumage.”

Bea “Elsa” Bubb considered the row of multicolored, yard-long feathers sprouting around the creature’s knotted rope of a tail.

“Yes,” she said dryly. “Does it have any unique and exploitable traits?”

“Not especially,” the bull demon snorted, scratching himself beneath his filthy overalls.

The Heckifino chose that moment to produce a freakish gobble, like a frightened tofurkey suddenly endowed with life.

“But, as I said before,” the bull demon continued, “it’s big, garishly unsettling, and—perhaps most importantly of all—
available
. The perfect match for you … and hopefully more trustworthy than a cluster of nervous flicks!”

The bull demon smiled just as the principal frowned. In fact, her sagging look of disapproval formed the exact
opposite
of a smile.

“For your sake, I hope so,” Bea “Elsa” Bubb growled. “Or the next beast I’ll be saddling up will be
you
. And I’ve got spurs that jingle, jangle, mangle in ways you wouldn’t
believe.”

The bull demon gulped as a variety of unpleasant scenarios played out in his head. Bea “Elsa” Bubb clacked down the concrete floors to the swinging double doors of the Unstables. She stopped, turned, and tugged on the drawstring of her cowgirl hat (and never had a hat been so confused as to whether it was perched atop the head of a
cow
or a
girl)
.