Free Fibble: The Fourth Circle of Heck by Dale E. Basye Page A

wheezy pair of bellows. “But perhaps you could explain to the students exactly
why
.”
    Marlo looped her thumbs beneath her telephone-wire suspenders.
    “See, Colby didn’t see the first blow coming, and he was totally
fine
with that,” she explained. “But the
second time
, he thought something was going to happen and was all stressed out about it, even though nothing ultimately
did
happen. What’s more, his worrying about getting punched was sort of … irritating. Like a little dog that’s all scared of you and you end up wanting to kick it, even though you had no intention of kicking it in the first place. It’s like your soothsaying or whatever. It makes people freak that something is going to happen that
wouldn’t
to the point where they make it happen, probably because they can’t stand worrying about it anymore—”
    The room was suddenly filled with the sound of sizzling pants. In the doorway stood Vice Principal Barnum. Marlo noticed that his hair seemed to … 
sputter
. One second he had a full, sleek mane, the next it was gone, leaving Mr. Barnum’s head looking like a gleaming cue ball. The vice principal tapped his brass belt buckle, and his hair regained its thickness and luster.
    “Good day, Mr. Nostradamus,” he stated, gazing at the boys as if they were an assembly of crash-test dummies. “Class, we have a special treat for you. You are all hereby invited to partake in Focus Group.”
    The stout, chinless man waddled over to Mr. Nostradamus—how the vice principal’s fine, tailored waistcoat wasn’t even
singed
by his burning britches was beyond Marlo—and set a brass briefcase on the teacher’s desk.
    Zane raised his hand.
    “Focus Group, Mr. Covington, is where you and members of your highly sought-after demographic chime in on a host of proposed products,” Mr. Nostradamus replied.
    P. T. Barnum flipped open the briefcase. It crackled, hummed, and exuded a faint scent of smoke and ozone.
    “Enjoy, students, and I look forward to your opinions,” the vice principal said as he turned to leave. “Mr. Nostradamus, I will be in the usual place.”
    The teacher nodded, his eyes darting to a large mirror on the side of the classroom wall.
    The mirror is set
into
the wall
, Marlo thought, her mind going back to countless department store reconnaissance missions.
Like a two-way mirror
.
    “Class, please move your chairs closer,” Mr. Nostradamus said as he spun the briefcase forward, revealing a selection of strangely glimmering products tucked inside the velvet-lined attaché.
    The boys obliged, while Marlo took the scenic route. She sashayed past the mirror, grazing her fingernail against it.
    Yep, no gap between my nail and the reflection
, she observed.
There’s
definitely
a room on the other side of this thing, with somebody inside … watching
.
    Mr. Nostradamus curled his long chalk nails around a strangely glimmering, cellophane-wrapped pastry sporting a black label with neon green, Gothic letters: DOOMSDANISH ® . The pastry itself was shaped like a mushroom cloud and was iced in fiery reds and yellows.
    “Cool,” the chubby boy with the curly brown hair said as he reached for the danish. Mr. Nostradamus pulled it away.
    “This is a prototype, Mr. Stawinski,” the wizened teacher scolded. “Not for consumption, but for discussion. So you were obviously drawn to it.”
    The Stawinski boy nodded.
    “It’s actually just
Stawinski,
” the boy replied with a flip of his curly hair. “Anyway, it looks like it would be rad to eat, or even just cool to have packed in your lunch!”
    Mr. Nostradamus gave a sideways glance to the mirror.
    “
Excellent
. Just the kind of feedback we’re looking for. What if Doomsdanish were available in a variety of ‘extreme’ shapes and colors? Say, flaming skulls with prunes for eye sockets, horsemen wielding banana-cream swords, sweeping scenes of civil unrest studded with Red Hots, and angry angels armored with almond slivers?