Hellhole

by Gina Damico

  Burg’s eyes sparkled, as if he’d been waiting for Max to challenge him. He put his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun and fired it at the big ficus plant. “Bang.”

  Max watched, mouth agape, as the tree flopped to the floor. Within a second its leaves withered and turned brown, like one that had been dead for months.

  The tightness in Max’s stomach got worse, forming into a hard ball. “Shit,” he whispered under his breath, nausea rolling over him in waves. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Now,” said Burg, sitting back and hurling his legs up onto the coffee table, “it pained me to do that, as it was one of the lovelier ficuses I’ve seen in some time. But you wanted proof, so there you have it. Now find me a house.”

  Max pondered. He thought he’d read a book about this once. Or seen a movie. Possibly a musical.

  “Am I allowed to bargain?” he asked.

  Burg slowly tore his gaze away from the television. “Huh,” he said, his apathy replaced by a look of intrigue. “Didn’t think you had it in you, little Faust.”

  “Well? Am I?”

  “Some people would consider the whole ‘you find me a house and I refrain from slaughtering your loved ones’ thing a pretty good deal as it is, you know. I wouldn’t get too greedy, if I were you.” He balled up the empty Cheetos bag and hurled it at him.

  Max caught it, frowning. “Hey, where did you get all these snacks? We didn’t have any in the house.” He picked up one of the empty boxes on the table. “Devil Dogs?”

  Burg snickered. “Couldn’t resist. Been a while since I got my plunder on.”

  Max squeezed the box. “You stole these?”

  “Yes. Fun fact: Your local grocery store doesn’t have any security cameras.”

  “You just sauntered right in and took them?”

  “Well, I could have burst through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man, but I wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would I? Seems like word travels fast in this shithole town of yours.”

  “What is the matter with you? You can’t just go around stealing whatever you want!” Max shouted in a spectacular display of hypocrisy. “I suppose you expect my gift of a house to be stolen too?”

  “Yep,” Burg said with no trace of sarcasm. He turned back to the television. “I can only utilize things obtained through ill-gotten means. Like this cable you’re pirating, for instance.”

  Max bristled. That had been his mom’s doing, and he’d always been uncomfortable with it. But the cable company hadn’t caught on for years—how could this guy tell after an hour? “But the TV and Xbox aren’t stolen!” Max countered. “I paid good money on Craigslist for those!”

  “Well, whoever you bought them from didn’t.”

  “So? That shouldn’t count!”

  Burgundy held up his hand and tilted it back and forth. “We devils love dealing in gray areas. It’s kind of our thing.”

  Max clenched his fists to his sides and stormed out of the den into the unfinished area of the basement, the part used by his mom for storage and by him as a workshop for his dinosaur-related geekery. He needed to think.

  “There has to be a way out of this,” he quietly said to himself. “How many Law and Order reruns have you watched with Mom? You just need to get him on a technicality, find a crack in his—”

  He stopped as his eyes fell on a dusty green lump in the corner.

  “Yes,” he whispered, doing that making-a-fist-and-pulling-the-elbow-downward move that is supposed to symbolize victory but only made him look like an eight-year-old.

  When he returned to the den, Burg was talking to the television again. “You used frozen scallops?” he shouted at the hapless chef on the screen. “Are you trying to lose?”

  “Ahem,” Max said.

  Burg turned to look at him. “What do you want?”

  Max tossed the green nylon bag to the floor, where it landed with a metallic clang. “I found you a home.”

  Burg’s lip curled. “What is that?”

  “It’s a Coleman Elite Sundome, complete with hinged-door system and rainfly.”

  “A what?”

  Max smirked. “A tent.”

  The smirk might have been too much, because Burg’s face abruptly changed into that of a full-fledged, terrifying demon. He stood up, the frame of his body stretching as he did. His chest got broader. The tips of his horns punctured the ceiling tiles, sending bits of crackled plaster to the floor.

  “A tent,” Burg growled, displaying a mouth full of sharp, sharklike teeth, “is not a house.”

  Max felt that he would very soon need to change his pants, but for the moment he stayed strong and maintained eye contact. “Well,” he said, his voice quivering, “you didn’t say ‘house.’ Not at first. You said, and I quote, ‘Until you find me some shelter of my own, you’re responsible for sharing yours.’ Shelter. Which, according to Webster’s crossword dictionary, can mean habitat, abode, digs, or, um, tent.”

  Burg exhaled smoke.

  “And it’s stolen,” Max rushed to add.

  “Is it now.”

  “Sort of. Gray area.” Max omitted the rest of the story, of that fateful Boy Scouts camping trip when he’d fallen naked into a bush of poison ivy and was confined to the good ole Coleman Elite for the rest of the weekend, wallowing in a severe rash that managed to worm its way into some very unpleasant places. Martin Schultz had not, for some reason, wanted his tent back after that. “You can set it up wherever you want. Maybe go back to Ugly Hill and live near your hole. But you wanted shelter, and here it is. So, you know. Boo-yah.”

  Max braced for the plume of fire that was surely about to envelop him in a shrieking mass of flame, but Burg shrank in size as he rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Interesting. You’re not as dumb as you look, sound, and act.” He glanced with disdain at the tent, then sneered back at Max, tapping his fingers together. “Very well. A bargain it is.”

  Max stood firm. “Except, um, we no longer need to bargain. I got you shelter, so you have to leave.”

  “Or,” Burg said slyly, “you can take what’s behind door number two.”

  “Huh?”

  “Technically, yes, you have given me shelter. But if you’d be so kind as to give me an upgrade, I might be so kind as to grant you a favor in return. Which, by the way, I never do. You’re getting a real steal here, Shove, so I’d take it if I were you.”

  Max couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being manipulated, but he was also starting to realize that he didn’t have much choice in the matter. “I’m listening.”

  “If you find me a house—a real house, with a roof and plumbing and a hot tub, that’s nonnegotiable—then I’ll do something”—he winced, as if the word itself caused him pain—“nice. For you.”

  “Like what?”

  Burg groaned. “Oh, come on, kid, just think of something. Want a new laptop? A car? A nice piece of tail to aid you in losing your virginity?”

  “How do you know I’m a—”

  Burg made a skeptical face.

  “Hmph,” said Max.

  “So, what’ll it be?” Burg said. “Gift card to the Outback Steakhouse? Money? Fame?”

  Max perked up. “Money?” I could pay off those overdue bills. Get Mom a visiting nurse and better meds. Maybe even save up for college.

  “Sure,” said Burg. “Name your price. Uh, within reason. Whatever I can nab from the local bank.”

  The ideas kept churning. How much did a pacemaker cost? They’d never been able to afford one before, but—

  Wait a minute.

  Max licked his lips. “Can you . . . heal?”

  “Pardon?” Burg said, eyes narrowing.

  “Can you make people better? People who are sick?”

  “Kid, I don’t know if you fully understand the concept of ‘evil incarnate,’ but—”

  “Yes or no?”

  Burg held his gaze. “Yeah,” he said, gesturing offhand to the ficus. “I can heal.”

  Max whipped around. The pla
nt was back to normal. Even greener than before, it seemed.

  “Okay,” Max said, feeling as if he were going to burst. “Okay. So. My mom has a bad heart. You fix her, and I’ll find you a house. I promise. You can even stay here in the basement until I do.”

  “You find me a house first,” Burg said slowly, “and then I’ll fix your mom.”

  “Come on, I’m not going to fall for that,” said Max. “Those are my terms. You want a hot tub or not?”

  The room took on a reddish hue as Burg ballooned back to his full size, snarling.

  “House first, then heart,” he said in a quiet, sinister voice that scared Max more than if he’d yelled it. “Or I’ll run upstairs and gnaw the diseased thing right out of her chest.”

  A vision not of Max’s own creation screamed its way into his head, that of his mother’s bedroom smeared with blood, her lifeless eyes staring at him—

  “Okay! Okay,” Max whispered meekly. “Deal.”

  Burg shrank back to his frumpy form. “Great!” He held out his hand. “Hold that thought in your head while we shake on it.”

  Max did as instructed and shook Burg’s hand, then recoiled as if he’d touched a hot stove. “Ow!”

  “There’s your contract,” Burg said, pointing at Max’s burned hand. “You’ll want to put a little ice on it before bed.”

  Petrified, Max grabbed a package of frozen peas out of the freezer and eased it through his blistering fingers.

  He tried to relax. He tried to stop freaking out over the fact that there was a DEVIL. In his BASEMENT.

  He tried instead to focus on the tangible, positive aspects of this development.

  This COMPLETELY BATSHIT DEVELOPMENT.

  No, no, he argued with himself. Constructive progress has been made. A deal has been brokered.

  Yeah, with a devil. Quit skipping over the devil part.

  But I could save my mom’s life! he countered. Maybe this is a good thing!

  This is literally the WORST thing! Remember what the road to hell is paved with? You can barely keep your own home together—how are you supposed to procure an entire house, complete with hot tub? And through nefarious means, at that?

  The how doesn’t matter, he told himself with finality. He just had to figure out a way; it was that simple. For Mom.

  He checked in on his snoring mother, then went back to his room and endured yet another sleepless night. This time, though, he sat straight up on the edge of his bed and stared wide-eyed at the door, the frozen peas in one hand and a makeshift T. rex femur weapon in the other.

  Start Over

  MAX WOKE UP TO THE MOUTHWATERING SMELL OF BACON.

  “Mmmmm,” he moaned, still half asleep. He loved bacon. His mom used to make it every Sunday morning as part of their prehistoric brunch—bacon-strip dinosaurs, sausage-toothed tigers, pancakes in the shapes of woolly mammoths, and sunny-side-up eggs guest starring as meteors plummeting toward earth to destroy them all in a fiery, yolky wave of destruction—

  Wait a minute, Max thought with a start, poking himself in the eye with the femur he’d fallen asleep clutching. They hadn’t had a prehistoric brunch in years. His mom hadn’t made bacon in years. They didn’t even have any in the house.

  Oh no.

  He leaped out of bed. Halfway down the hall, he spun around and checked on his mom, who was gamely drooling on her pillow, still asleep. He shut her door tight, then stuffed a towel in the crack underneath, lest the almighty scented power of bacon awaken her, too.

  Max’s fears were realized as he rounded the corner into the kitchen, though admittedly not in the way he’d imagined.

  “Morning!” Burg chirped. Standing in front of the stove, he was wearing the same teal tracksuit top, an apron that said KISS THE COOK, and a gigantic smile. And no pants. “Want some bacon?”

  With his bare hand, he plucked a sizzling slice of bacon from the pan and tossed it at Max, who managed to bat it to the floor before it could sear third-degree burns into his eyeballs. “Ow! What is the matter with you?”

  “What is the matter with you? Don’t tell me you don’t like bacon.”

  “Not when it’s a million degrees and flying directly at my head!”

  “Puny little humans. So weak. So soft.” Burg picked up another slice and popped it into his mouth, the fat dripping down his chin and into his beard. “Mmm,” he said with a satisfied quiver. “If there’s anything on earth more delicious than a hot, dead pig, I don’t want to know about it.”

  Cautiously, Max took a seat at the kitchen table and held his hands up in a way that made it clear he did not want to be pelted with any more searing grease. “Listen—”

  “You got any stolen lard?” Burg crossed to the cupboard and began to noisily open and slam shut its many wooden doors.

  “No, we don’t. Stop that!” Max jumped up and held the doors shut. “Keep it down!”

  Burg put his hands on his hips. “How can you not have lard?”

  “I don’t know, because it’s not 1965?”

  “Fine. FINE.” Burg approached the refrigerator. “Butter will have to do.”

  Max watched, dumbfounded, as he removed several more items from the fridge. “What did you do, embezzle the whole breakfast section?”

  “Pretty much,” Burg said, dropping a couple of eggs onto the floor. Yolk splattered up onto Max’s bare shins. “Good thing I did, too. This kitchen was tragically understocked. What do you people eat, dirt?”

  Max cupped his hands around his eyes to form blinders, as Burg’s tighty whities had startled to jostle in a way that Max did not care to behold. “No. Peanut butter sandwiches and granola bars, mostly.”

  “Unacceptable.” Burg opened the box of butter and removed a fresh stick, which he unwrapped by peeling down the sides of one end like a banana. He wiggled his eyebrows at Max.

  “Ew,” said Max, catching on. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m gonna.”

  He chomped away half the stick of butter, leaving a perfectly formed bite mark. “Glaaaaaghmmmuuugh!” was approximately the noise he made, slurping it around his mouth. “Want a bite?”

  “No!”

  Burg narrowed his eyes, the centers of which started to glow red. “Eat the butter, Shovel.”

  Max thought carefully before he spoke, something that he realized he would have to start doing much more often from now on. “But if you give some to me,” he said slowly, “there will be less for you.”

  Burg continued to glare at him, then abruptly laughed and slapped a greasy hand on Max’s back. “Smooth move, kid. There may be hope for you yet.” He placed the bacon plate on the table.

  Max took a slice and shoved it into his mouth, chewing and thinking. Ruckus slunk into the room and rubbed up against Max’s legs, then began licking the egg that had splattered there.

  “Listen,” Max said finally, turning back to Burg. “We need to—”

  But instead of looking into Burg’s face, Max found himself staring at empty air.

  He looked down.

  Burg had dropped to the floor. He was kneeling with his body folded, head down and arms straight out in front of him, as if bowing to a supreme being.

  Max blinked. “What . . . are you doing?”

  “I didn’t realize you had a cat!” Burg said into the linoleum.

  Max looked at Ruckus. Ruckus licked his chops. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  Burg glanced up but quickly bowed his head several more times, his hands clasped in supplication. Ruckus scratched behind his ears and left, unimpressed.

  “It’s a thing I should have been made aware of,” Burg said testily, getting back to his feet once Ruckus had left the room. “Cats are to be feared. And loved, of course, and respected!” he shouted, for Ruckus’s benefit. He lowered his voice and eyebrows. “But also feared.”

  “I don’t get it. You’re scared of cats?”

  “I’m not scared of anything. But cat
s . . .” He blew out a puff of air and shook his head. “Those soulless eyes. That depraved indifference. Cats are evil, dude.”

  Max thought of the claw scars decorating his own skin. He couldn’t disagree. “Well, I’ll keep him out of your way. He seems to be avoiding you anyhow.”

  “Not that he wouldn’t be welcome!” Burg shouted after Ruckus with a defensive, nervous chuckle.

  “Shh!” Max scolded. “Listen, we need to establish some ground rules. You can’t make so much noise up here. In fact, you can’t even be up here, okay? That’s rule number one. You have to stay in the basement.”

  “But there’s no embezzled bacon in the basement.”

  “I will bring embezzled bacon to the basement,” Max said through clenched teeth. “And butter, and whatever other artery cloggers you want. Okay?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Burg said, whisking a bowl of pancake batter into a mug and taking a large swig. “As long as it’s all stolen.”

  “Stolen. Right.” Max’s breath skipped away as he remembered that little detail. “Why can’t you steal your own snacks? And your own house?”

  “I’m on vacation, remember? We devils have a terrible benefits package, only get time off once a century or so. I ain’t lifting a finger while I’m up here.”

  Max wrung his hands. If only the Max of two days ago could see him now, so worried about stealing a plastic cat. Now he had to steal three square meals a day for this dickhead?

  Burg was squeezing a long string of syrup into his mug and talking to his concoction. “Oh, Mrs. Butterworth, you saucy little minx, you—”

  “Hey, I’m not done,” Max said.

  But Burg wasn’t listening. He was now holding a second bottle of syrup, making it walk like a puppet. “Aunt Jemima, I didn’t hear you come in! Why no, I’d never be opposed to a ménage-à-trois, especially not when syrup is involved—”

  “Stop talking to the condiments and listen to me!”

  Burg dropped the syrups and leaned back against the counter, folding his hands in front of him in a laudable impression of Mrs. Butterworth. “Proceed.”

  “Rule number two,” Max said, “is that you can’t make any noise. My mom is just down the hall. If she hears you, she’ll freak out and have a heart attack and die.”