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magic5ball · 5 years ago

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Nature Trail to Hell Arc II: Watt Outta Hell (2)

Chapter 2: I am Captured by Deinonychus Gangsters

I woke up on a craps table, surrounded by demons. Well, I didn’t know it was a craps table at the time, just that there were a bunch of plastic chips everywhere. I’m just glad I was undead, otherwise the combination of plaster and smoke surrounding me would probably have given me asphyxiation. Normally, I’d try to run, but my body felt like it had just fallen through a building, which judging by the combination of plaster and sawdust around me, it most likely had. If there was one silver lining, the hellions around the table were at least less horrible than a certain purple dinosaur.

Not to say they didn’t have all sorts of hideous forms, some of which probably weren’t from this plane of existence, but they all had one thing in common: Goodwill clothes. I could tell because the clothes at those stores always have this weird smell of white walls and charity that clings to them no matter where they go, like a ghost constantly reminding their owners they’re hand-me-downs. Weird combinations, too: there were trifolds over bandanas, pinstripe jackets over tye-dye shirts-all odd and mismatched as the abominations that wore them. An insect-looking one was even wearing a ‘shirt’ that was just a baseball cap with arm holes. And in the middle of all of them, at the other end of the table, was the biggest demon of all. I still remember him clear as day: all dark, no face, high as the ceiling with horns as tall as me. I reckoned he was the leader on account of him being the only one with decent clothes, though where he got suspenders and a white button down in his size I will never know. A pair of panama hats were skewered on each of his giant horns.

The demon leaned forward, his empty face mere inches from mine. His breath smelled like bologna.

“I. WIN!” He said, in a voice that surprised me with how human it sounded. I could even hear a tinge of an Australian accent in there.

Then I realized he wasn’t looking at me, but a pair of dice that were next to my head.

“Like shit you did.” Came a voice from the other side of the table. “It only landed that way ‘cause some punk landed on the forking table!”

Its’ source leaned in until his face was right over mine. If it weren’t for the fall knocking all the wind out of me, I would have squealed like a kid on Christmas Day. Towering right above me was the face of none other than one of the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, wearing a plastic green tennis visor. “By the way, you filthy piece of shiv!” he told me “You’re paying for these forking property damages!”

Some other stuff happened, though at the moment I was so caught up in my dinosaur obsession (and several broken bones) I barely noticed.

What I do remember is that apparently the big demon had gotten two sixes, which when combined with his previous two rolls, which were also sixes, which were rolled on the sixth day of the sixth hour of the sixth minute of the sixth second of the sixth Deci second of the sixth millisecond, meant that he had the Porcelain God’s favor and therefore the jackpot. The raptor (whose name turned out to be Shizzle) argued the last six was a three until some moron landed on the table, to which the demon pointed out that there were no official rules against somebody landing on the table, at least when you played by the Rules of Ifnir, which they were. Long story short, Shizzle took out a rulebook while the demon took away all the plastic chips, followed by a posse of lesser demons cheering “Leroy beat the house! Leroy built the house!” as they danced out of the casino.

Schizzle glared at me with a look that could cut glass.

“You rotten piece of shit! I have half the mind to slice you in half right here and now! Too bad for you I’m in a really bad mood, so I’m gonna pawn you off on A-Hole!”

As he dragged me off the table (surprisingly strong given how thin he was) I saw he was wearing an armband and a vest clearly not meant for a dinosaur. We headed through rows and rows of demons playing with bright lights and slot machines, all covered by a lair of smoke.

We stopped in a room that reminded me way too much of a dentist’s office, except instead of a reception desk there was a door with a plaque that read ‘A-hole’ and the television played nothing but Fox News. Shizzle sat me down in one of the chairs and tied me to it using some string from his vest.

“Alright punk. I know what you’re thinking: that because it’s your first day in the underworld, everything is gonna go easy for you. But guess what, shivhead! Life ain’t that simple. Down here, if you scratch somebody, you best be prepared to get scratched hard. And A-hole? He scratches harder than anybody! See this?”

Shizzle turned around, revealing a tattoo of a piece of poop on his tushie, complete with flies and stink marks. I know it doesn’t sound that great the way I’m saying it, but it was like, Da Vinci level artistry. Below it, in cursive almost too fancy to read, was written ‘I am a doo-doo head’.

“That’s from when I forgot to flush. Doesn’t matter if you’re new, doesn’t matter if using a toilet is hard when you have a long-asp tail, A-hole doesn’t give. A. Crap. And not just ‘cause he’s constipated!”

I tried best I could to shake out of my chair, but it was no good. For someone without opposable thumbs, Shizzle had locked me up tight.

Without another word, he went out back into the casino, leaving me along with the roaring voices on Fox News. I struggled against my ropes, eager to escape, until the noise of the television hypnotized me. The weird thing is, I didn’t understand half the things they were saying, though I will say this: I understood it more than my Dad did, and if I squinted my eyes at the right angle the guys onscreen turned into monkeys. Also like with my Dad, someone came to take me away just as the exciting part was happening. (They were about to discuss red paint’s communist agenda). That someone was another raptor, a bit more feathery than Schizzle, but with a floral dress from a 60’s fashion magazine paired with an equally gaudy pair of high heels that I’m still not entirely sure how she got into. A chill went down my spine as I saw the blood flowing down her mouth, at least until I realized it was just poorly applied lipstick.

“Good afternoon, dearie. Welcome to A-hole’s. My name is Hoe, and I’ll be taking you to our main office, where you’ll receive the ultimate punishment shortly.”

Back in school, there was this one kid named Don Beasly who’d sometimes imitate girls’ voices for fun. This lady (at least, I thought she was a lady) sounded just like him. Lifting my chair, she took me into the office, which smelled of dead, even by afterlife standards. It looked dead, too, with the grey walls so shot through with bullet holes it’d look like it would come crumbling down any minute. Not exactly the kind of room I’d want to spend more than a minute in if I’d had the choice. Which of course I didn’t. There was a back window, but it was gated over and blurred by something that looked like mucous. And in front of this window, under his own personal yellow spotlight, was the most mature raptor I’d ever seen. I could tell he was mature because he held a cigar in one hand and a jar of prunes in the other. A tiny handlebar mustache was glued to his face.

“So you’re the asp who lost my money, huh? Landed on the craps table?”

Before I could talk, he added

“Of course I’m right, dumbasp. That was a rhetorical question. But now, onto the real questions: Do you know who I am?”

“A… a velociraptor?”

A-Hole’s cigarette dropped to the table, where it caught a bunch of papers on fire. He looked at me with what can only be described as a death glare, the light from the fire casting shadows under his scaly face.

“What did you just say?”

“V-velociraptor?”

He slammed his claws on the desk, breathing so heavy I could feel it from ten feet away. He just stood there, staring and breathing for several minutes, then he was calm. Too calm, actually.

“You know pal, I was thinking off letting ya off the hook, see? Sure, you cost us over a million Hellbucks in property damage alone, but I’m a nice guy, see? But please-“

He walked right up to me, putting a claw under my chin just enough to draw a trickle of blood.

“Nobody ever, ever compares me and my crew me to one of those dirty, lecherous Velossis, see?”

He returned to his desk; clapped his claws.

“F-Bomb!” he called to nowhere in particular “Give our guest a taste of the usual.” The way he said the last part nearly made my toenails fall off.

Another ra- I mean, Deinonychus, burst in from the door behind us. At first I didn’t think much of him, since he looked more like a fuzzy chicken than the others, and was about the size of one, too. But if I’ve learned one thing about dinosaurs in my journeys through the Underworld, it’s that if the dino is wearing an eyepatch and a fedora, he usually means business. Or tastes good served with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy. If it weren’t for his small size, he would have been intimidating, though the folding table and covered serving platter he carried made him give off more of a waiter vibe.

“Listen the fork up, forkface!” he screeched, setting up the table “The forkin’ name’s motherforkin’ F-Bomb, and I was having a forkin’ good time until you done forked it up with your forkin’ little scene on the forkin’ craps table!”

Now, I had no idea what the hey was on that serving platter, but if the smell coming from it was any indignation, I did not want to find out. Fortunately, even with my limbs tied up, yours truly still has one trick left up his sleeves. It was a gamble, since there was no gurantee it would work on dinosaurs, but at that moment there was nothing else to lose (well, except my dignity).

At first, F-bomb stared at me, clearly baffled by what I was doing. Then he got angry. “What the fork are you doin’ with your forkin’ eyes, you forkin’ punk?! Sweet Porcelain Forkin’ God, they look like forkin’ watermelons! Is this some kinda forkin’ trap?!! Are those forkin bombs? BOSS!! I think this guy has forkin’ bombs in his eyes!!!!!!!!!”

A-Hole was reclining in his chair, clawed feet on the desk, head blocked by a catalogue of L.L. Bean’s winter clothing catalogue (which I later learned was the official catalogue of Hell).

“F-Bomb, ya retarded turd! That’s what the overlanders call a ‘puppy dog face’. Dumb as shiv kids use it ta make their parents inta personal slaves or somethin’. Now would you kindly leave me the fork alone?! I just got to this real engrossing part about the importance of fashionable snow boots, see!”

Though I couldn’t see myself, I know by F-Bomb’s widening grin that it had melted into the look of despair. Especially after F-Bomb scratched me in the face.

“So that’s it, ya forkin’ punk?! You thing you can forkin’ screw with me?! What the actual forkity fork!” He hopped on the table, walking up to me until my nose touched his. “Now get ready to be forkin’ served.” His breath smelled just like I imagined raw meat would.

Stepping back, he lifted the lid of the platter, releasing a foul smelling mist that practically made me gag. When it cleared, I saw the platter had a tiny silver fork, and next to that fork was what I like to call ‘the tree of death’: a vile creation, one that since I was a kid had always stood between me and glorious, glorious dessert, whose tyranny I had sought to escape again and again, but could never escape. It was only fitting that here, in the depths of Hell, it would find me again.

“Now before ya ask, yes, I forkin’ know this is forkin’ broccoli, ya forkin’ genius. But this ain’t your forkin’ retarded fork of a Grandma’s forkin’ broccoli.” He pointed to a little halo that mysteriously hung over the little floret. As he did, I swore I could hear an angelic chorus in the distance. “This is forkin’ holy broccoli, watered with only the purest forkin’ holy water and the son’s forkin’ pee, fertilized in the soil of forkin’ Eden, and grown in the light of the forkin’ Lord himself. The level of vitamin forkin’ K in this forkin’ thing is too good for this sinful world. And when it gets in your forkin’ belly, the rapid influx of vitamins will slowly poison you before making your forkin’ head explode!”

I shook me chair, but it was no good. I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Nice forkin’ try, buster!” he taunted, bringing the flower of death closer to my mouth “But there’s no forkin’ way the forkin’ Lord is gonna come for you now!”

Now it was my turn to smile. Back at home, I’d watched a lot of movies, and if there was one thing those movies taught me, it’s that whenever a bad guy says something like that when the good guy is in a bad spot they can’t possibly get out of, the direct- I mean, God- swoops in to give them a free pass. And considering I’m telling you this story right now, I’m pretty sure you can put two and two together.

While I was fidgeting, a small piece of paper had fallen out of my pocket. F-Bomb noticed, too.

“What the f-“

Just like that, A-Hole dropped his magazine and sniffed the air.

“Hold it, F-Bomb, I smell somethin’, somethin’ like… money.”

“Boss, it’s probably just a piece of forkin’ paper now could I please get on with-“

But A-Hole wasn’t having any of it. He put his nose to the ground and sniffed like a bloodhound until he found the piece of paper. He held it up in his claw with a delicacy I didn’t expect from a deinonychus, as though he were holding the most valuable diamond in the world. The moment I saw its’ yellowed paper, I recognized it instantly: a $500 dollar bill from Monopoly bill.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked

I took a breath, relieved my death by nutritious flower had been delayed.

“He, ya turd, I’m talkin’ to you!” he cried, slapping me on the side of the face “Where’d. You. Get. This?”

For a second my brain was in a trance. Back at home, I’d always been the dumb one, the one who everyone except Mom thought was either gonna grow up to be either a dirty hobo or a shameless reality T.V. star. Possibly both. My mind reeled at having someone around who was actually dumber than me. And as I mentioned before, I’m also a Tostig, and if there’s one thing we Tostigs are good at, it’s seizing opportunities by the freakin’ horns!

“Real estate.” There it was, the ultimate blend of truth and lie, or as I like to call it, a tie.

“Sweet Porcelain God, kid! No wonder you- wait a minute! How do I know you ain’t fibbin’?”

F-Bomb, during this whole scene, was sharpening his claws with a nail file. “Maybe forkin’ ask what kind of bill it is, then!”

“Yeah, turdy! What bill is this?”

It was that moment I realized I should have had a backup plan. Not sure what I would have come up with, but it still would have been better than

“It’s a commemorative $500 dollar bill from the failed Philadelphia sesquicentennial exposition of 1926! Very rare! Almost none exist!”

I smiled, hoping they’d buy it like I would have bought Park Place.

Ten tense seconds passed as A-Hole sniffed the bill in places no piece of American currency should ever be sniffed.

“Alright, turd.” He said, holding up the bill. “Lucky for you, I happen to be a collector of all sorts a rare currencies, see? And I don’t know a single person in the Underworld who knows about this bill. So let’s make a deal, see?” He leaned in close, so close I worried he might chomp off my ear. His breath smelled like he hadn’t brushed since the late cretaceous, but in a deliberate way, like he was using some kind of prehistoric perfume.

“I’ll let you off the hook, see? All you gotta do is be a member of my gang for the rest of eternity. I’ll even give ya room and board free of charge, see? So whaddya say? We solid?”

I thought about my parents, still in the land of the living, waiting for me to come home from camp. Then I realized that, knowing Dad, he was probably using my action figures to open his beer bottles. And if my little brother had anything to say about it, they wouldn’t even notice I was gone. As much as I wanted to get home, I’d done goofed and crossed Shel Silverstein. It would take a while, but seeing as I was in hell, there was no harm in joining a gang for a little while, right?

“Sure, why not?”

A-Hole grinned, which was pretty creepy when you realized he didn’t have any lips. “Glad we could do business, kid.” He glared at F-Bomb and me. “But if either of you so much as say the letters of any of the words relating to this piece of moolah, there’ll be Hell to pay!”

“But Boss!” protested F-Bomb “We already live in forkin’-“

“I know what I said, dipschizzle! Sweet Porcelain God, do you realize how forkin’ hard it is to come up with good threats in this dump?! Everyone’s seen it all!”

A-Hole returned to his desk, taking in several breathfuls of smoke clogged air. Once he was calm again, he snapped his claws.

“Anyway, now let’s forkin’ do this. F-Bomb, get the knockout gas! We’re doing some reconstructive surgery!”

“Wait, wha-“

I didn’t even have time to finish before F-Bomb put what I can only describe as a satanic lobster dripping with some sort of liquid over my mouth. As I got woozy, I wondered if there was any type of insurance for falling unconscious, and if so, where I could get it.

#My writing #Nature Trail To Hell #hell #dinosaur #deinonychus

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