Free Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck by Dale E. Basye Page B

twisted the coat hanger into a hook.
    Jack clapped his hands together.
    “Looks like our little Popsicle is going fishing!”
    * * *
    Milton scooted to the edge of the chasm on his belly, holding a rope of knotted bungee cords, one end tied to Cody’s shopping cart, the other hooked to the bewilderbeast hide. Milton slowly cast the balled pelt into the chasm, twitching the bait to make it seem alive. Within seconds, several of the round pink creatures were clamoring over one another to get closer, staring at the bewildering ball stupidly. Suddenly, one stretched its mouth wide and galumphed toward the bait, swallowing it in one great gulp.
    “Now!” Milton yelled.
    Cody yanked his cart backward, hoisting the hungry beast up and over the lip of the chasm.
    The bungee cord snaked out of the creature’s great mouth. Milton gazed into its eyes.
It’s like peering into a hollow jack-o’-lantern with the candle snuffed out
, he thought.
    Jack stepped toward it and drew a bowie knife tucked beneath his belt.
    “I’m guessing you won’t have the stomach for this,” he said to Milton.
    “You guess right,” Milton replied, turning away.
    Jack knelt down beside the creature and went at it with a series of precise sweeps of his blade.
    “I was on the road a lot … up there,” Jack explained in between grunts. “You pick up a lot of odd skills livingoff the land. It wasn’t always pretty … but it sure was beautiful.”
    Seconds later, there was a great gush of gas.
    “Whoa,” said Cody, pinching his nose, “that fart has more personality than most people I know!”
    Jack scowled at Cody while Milton tread hesitantly toward the deflated-yet-still-quivering creature. He gawked at the shuddering suit of skin.
    “Is it dead?” Milton asked.
    Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not even sure if this thing was ever, like,
alive.”
    He poked it with the hilt of his knife. It recoiled, vaguely, like a worm. Jack leveled his deep dark eyes at Milton.
    “You sure you want to do this, kiddo?”
    Milton shivered and frowned.
    “‘Want’ isn’t exactly the right word,” he replied. “But I know I should at least try. I have to.”
    Moondog sidled up to Milton to gawk at the meaty rug wriggling on the ground.
    “A
great philosopher named Plato once said,
‘Do or do not. There is no try.’”
    “I’m pretty sure that was Yoda,” Milton replied.
    “Who’s Yoda?” Jack asked.
    “A
little green puppet wizard,” Milton replied. “He made sense by
not
making sense. You guys would love him.”
    With more than a trace of disgust, Milton kneltdown beside the skin. He slipped it on slowly like a bologna jumpsuit.
    “Eww!” he exclaimed as he pulled it up over his pants and, finally, over his head. “It’s even worse than trying on suits with my mom.”
    The creature’s flesh slurped around Milton until he was snugly inside.
    Madge stepped up to Milton with a box chock-full of Duck and Cover Girl cosmetics. She scrutinized him.
    “Well, I like a challenge,” she said in a husky smoker’s voice as she opened the box. “You’ll be my Sistine Chapel. C’mon.”
    She led Milton, who staggered like Frankenstein’s monster, to her shopping cart. It was a thrift store on wheels, overflowing with mismatched clothes and accessories.
    Madge sifted through the clothing with deft authority. A thousand possible clothing combinations flashed in her head until she finally settled on a baggy navy-blue terry jogging suit, black socks, sandals, and a red World Wrestling Entertainment cap.
    “So this is your artistic statement?” Milton said as he ogled the ugly collection of clothes.
    Madge folded her overly tanned arms and scowled.
    “I wasn’t given much to work with,” she grumbled. “Actually, I was given
too
much to work with, which is why I went for coverage.”
    Madge rifled through her makeup case and handedMilton a large tube of Maximum Factor Industrial-Strength beige cover-up.
    “Put this all over your …