I couldn’t hear their whispers and, since I can’t read lips, I waited. I wanted to see what was on the other side of the poster.
The bug-eyed guy looked over a couple times. I figured he’d seen me. I continued my charade of lounging next to the bookcases and munching chips. He seemed to buy the act and walked off, continuing his conversation with Mr. Gold-Chains.
I waited until they were out of sight before I made my move. After depositing the empty chip bag in a nearby trashcan and a quick check to make sure no one was watching, I slipped behind the large hanging poster. Fluorescent light filtered through the unnerving advertisement, illuminating a beige door with an aluminum knob.
I jimmied the door open. The showroom lights illuminated the downward steps. I pulled out my flip phone and turned on the LED flashlight before clicking the door shut behind me.
As I descended lower and lower, the stairs began to curve to the left tighter and tighter. The materials transitioned from steel and drywall to carved and set stones. I was deeper than any basement had any right to be, even for Seattle and its notorious buried streets.
A red glow and murmurs of conversation crept up from below. I slowed and softened my steps so as not to alert anyone. The murmurs became two distinct voices. One was nasally and suited for radio and sounded like someone from the local news. The other was a familiar New York accent.
I turned off my light and stopped descending once I could discern what they were saying.
“You said this would all go unnoticed. Why the fuck did you go and poke Hank the Hole?” said the radio voice. “I should torch your sorry excuse for an altar, you little pipsqueak!”
“Just wait a minute, Mr. Mayor.” It was Mayor Wayworth! And the other voice definitely sounded like Squeak. “I’ve got this under control. Here’s how it is. Now that Hank is all in a frenzy, all eyes are on him, and I’m sure he devoured the no-name fucker I sent to poke him. No way to track this back to you.”
It was Squeak!
I wanted to run down there and stomp the life out of that fucking pigeon. He sent me on a goddamned suicide mission!
“I don’t like it,” said Mayor Wayworth. “If this turns south for me, I’m dragging your lousy name down with me. You hear me?”
I resumed inching my way down the steps. If I wasn’t able to kill him, I wanted to at least see Squeak get scolded. Even if it wouldn’t be as enjoyable as spreading his bird brains across the stone floor.
“Are you threatening me? The guys will love this. Some mortal threatening me. That’s golden!” said Squeak.
“Some mortal? I fucking control Seattle and its votes in the next infernal election. I alone decide who remains on the throne in Pandemonium. Try and fuck with me and see how fast your impish ass is thrown in the bile-ducts of the fifth circle.”
This was getting good. I figured while they continued their dick-measuring contest, maybe I could slip in and grab the altar piece. I finally reached the bottom of the stairwell. It stopped at a small stone archway, an entrance into an infernal chapel, with a skull carved into the keystone.
If you’ve never seen one of these chapels, imagine some churchy room like you’d find in the unused halls of a hospital or on the Vegas strip, but with less Jesus and more bloody depictions of demons and sacrifice. Between the pulpit and me were thirteen rows of wooden pews. A fresco of a pigeon wreathed in flame towered above the pulpit. I could only see the mayor, his back to me and wearing his priceless Baal-house fez. The bone was painted a deep blood red, and the tassel hot glued to the top was glorious!
I couldn’t see Squeak.
I slipped into the chapel and ducked behind the back pews. Slowly, I snuck toward them, row by row.
“I don’t want to hear another pip of this. If one more thing turns sour—if I fucking wake up with as much as a canker sore—the deal is off! I don’t want to squander another million dollars to counter some curse. I’ll turn you in to Lord Baal myself if it comes to that!”
I was halfway to the altar when the mayor stepped to one side, exposing the altarpiece. In this case it was a badly taxidermied squirrel standing upright and wearing a tiny Seahawks helmet, probably scavenged from a dashboard bobblehead. Hopefully the squirrel-demon cult upgraded when that piece of shit was stolen.
“Chill, Mr. Mayor.” Squeak spoke from the dead squirrel, a red glow pulsing in the squirrel’s eye sockets to the rhythm of his enunciations.
I guess the little shit had lost contact with the bird he’d possessed and now inhabited the altarpiece.
I slowly worked my way to the right, staying in the shadows.
“You keep your end of the bargain and I’ll keep hounds off your tail,” Squeak continued. “Plus, you can’t back out, not unless you want to lose a few fingers. You’ve got good lawyers—surely they filled you in on the escape clause noted on page 283.”
“Fine. I’ll lay low in my office until this blows over,” said the mayor, turning his back to squirrel-Squeak. “When this is all finished, I’ll be ready for some real rest. I’m so tired of all of this. Once you wrest control of Pandemonium, none of you assholes will ever see me again.”
For a brief moment I thought he’d spotted me. It must’ve been too dark on that side of the congregational seating. He gazed straight through me, looking like a glorious idiot in that bloody fez. The tacky tassel flopped like a flaccid penis.
“That’s what you think . . .” Squeak whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh! Surely you know,” said Squeak as I continued to slip closer and closer to the front, ducking beside the pews. “Your soul is already accounted for. It went to auction a few years back. There is a pissed-off demon who paid a shit ton of souls for you. And, from what I hear, he’s building a whole carnival of pain dedicated to your eternal torture.”
I wanted the fez. Not for me, no. But Hank would surely reward me for such a prize. Nearby was an alcove with an icon painting. A brass candelabra illuminated an image of Charles Manson holding a hand in the anti-benediction, known in the common vernacular as the middle finger. Quietly, I snuffed the flames and removed the candles.
“That so?” The mayor nested his chin in the crook of his thumb, mocking the little demon. “I’ve got my ways.”
This guy really thought he had a way to avoid Hell? I was rooting for him and almost felt bad about walloping him in the back of the head. The impact sent the fez flying.
“Rob-Robb!? Hank should’ve fucking swallowed you whole!” squirrel-Squeak said in a panic, unable to move his taxidermied body as I stood over the mayor, still holding the candelabra.
“Well,” I said, “he didn’t.”
I picked up the squirrel-Squeak altarpiece and promptly tripped over the mayor’s limp hand. I fumbled the dead squirrel twice before it fell from my grasp and fell into the fires of a sacrificial brazier.
It felt wonderful watching the dry fur burst into flame as the old bones exploded within, until I realized that I’d just burned Hank’s prize. My joy quickly soured in the pit of my stomach.
“What have you done?” screamed Squeak as his current corporeal form burned away.
I was supposed to bring the altarpiece back to Hank, and surely the mayor’s henchmen would find Mayor Wayworth lying here at some point. Soon after, they would be hot on my trail.
So, I snatched the fez and hauled ass up the stairs. I grabbed one of the bowling ball bags just outside the mattress department and threw in the fez. I paid for the bag then started to ponder how I would find Hank before Wayworth’s hired help found me with the most prized possession of the Hell-adjacent criminal underground; not the intended target, but I hoped it would appease Hank and keep him from eviscerating me on sight.
I knew Hank would find me by midnight. The real question was where to go in the meantime to dodge all of Wayworth’s goons? I avoided major streets and slunk along alleyways, working my way northwest back toward the industrial district, varying my path as I went. I even backtracked a few times,
hoping that it would confuse any Hellhounds under Mayor Wayworth’s employ.
After swiping some loser’s Mariners cap, I headed for the large crowds of Westgate Mall. I knew I stood out among the twentysomethings crowding the area, but there was a small chance the sheer onslaught of people would hide me.
Inside, I slipped into some tacky novelty store and grabbed a pair of plastic glasses, as well as a fake beard and mustache. Not convincing, but it was better than nothing.
Back in the mall corridor I spotted a couple of over-pumped men in too-tight suits prowling the food court. Definitely Wayworth’s goons. A slight red glow escaped around the edges of their Ray-Bans. Hellhounds, not normal goons. The reek of dog breath wafted across the food court. I did my best to avoid catching their attention and merged with the crowds, passing lingerie and chocolate shops.
I made my way out of the temple of economy and into the connected parking garage. It was well lit with bright sodium lights like beacons, leaving no corner shadowed, and seemed empty of all but concrete pillars and a handful of cars. I thought I was in the clear and started looking for a nondescript vehicle to hot-wire. But then I smelled brimstone again.
“Little Rob-Robb!” A gravelly voice reverberated the air in a way which irritated every one of my hair follicles. “You’ve got something of ours.”
I jerked my head around in a panic, trying to find the source of the demonic voice. I was still alone near a couple cars: a shiny yellow Yugo to the left and a rusty green Gremlin directly ahead. The demon materialized next to the Gremlin.
“Hand the fez over, and I’ll kill you quick.”
Bucky—yeah, this fucker’s name was Bucky—was a nasty piece of work. Instead of arms he had bundles of coat hangers and barbed wire jammed into festering wounds where his shoulders should have been. His head, what was left of it, was human, as was the rest of his body. His brain—exposed and only held in place by gravity—looked like unset jello ready to fall from tipping Tupperware.
“Nah. I think I’ll hang onto it. Thanks,” I said, turning from the demon.
I started walking, ready for a cloud of pestilence or a barrage of hooked barbed wire to come at me at any moment.
Instead, I stopped in my tracks when I heard crumpling metal and shattering glass. I turned and saw the demon pushing and pulling at invisible ropes and clay with his wired appendages. What had been the rusty green Gremlin now crunched and shifted. It grew into something new, something gargantuan. Slowly, the amorphous, metal mass formed into a humanoid shape. A flame sparked within the head, bringing a fiery glow to what would be a face, like a snarling possum with black smoke rolling from its eyes, nostrils, and ears. A mouth glistened with shards of windshield-glass teeth.
“I did warn you,” the demon said, “but I’m glad I get to play before you die. It’s been so long since I’ve set one of my pets to work on the mortal plane. ‘Such sights to see’ and all that shit.”
Bucky moved toward me and tripped. His jello-brain then fell out and slapped onto the concrete.
The Gremlin-beast froze. This was my chance to start a get-away.
The Hellfire-fueled Gremlin-beast started sprinting after me. I did have a trick up my sleeve, but it was only a one-time deal. A last resort. But it was all I had.
Bucky retrieved his brain and shoved it back into place as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the Troll doll. I picked up speed running down the ramp to the next level, bowling ball bag in one hand, the cursed Troll in the other. I lifted the Troll’s hair to my mouth, gripped the crunchy bubble gum-matted hair in my teeth and pulled down, scalping the doll. I turned and heaved the naked, and now hairless, thing at my oncoming doom.
My heart stopped. In what felt like slow motion, the Troll doll arced through the air between the Gremlin-beast and me. At half arc I could see a glint of confusion in the Gremlin-beast’s eyes, a strangely human emotion for a face so inhuman. I squeezed the handle of the bowling ball case and clenched my butt cheeks, preparing for whatever fucked-up surprise was about to unfold.
The plastic toy bounced off of a scrap of sheet metal jutting from the side of the Gremlin-beast’s head with a slight plink. Both the beast and I let out a sigh.
Then it happened.
Like from a starfish’s stomach, a large sack unfurled from the tiny toy. A maniacal grin spread across the Troll doll’s face. The meaty stomach continued to unfold, larger and larger, until it was big enough to envelop the Gremlin-beast. I smiled as the Gremlin-beast’s confusion transitioned to terror. Behind the beast, Bucky stood frozen in fear, barbed-wire arms and hands held at the sides of his face in shock, nicking the soft tissue of his exposed brain.
The Gremlin-beast wailed metal-on-metal screams as the top of its head crunched into the stomach. The Treasure Troll then sucked in the esophagus tube like a limp spaghetti noodle before every bit of meaty matter folded and disappeared into its mouth. It then fell to the ground, landing on its two tiny feet. It twisted its tiny plastic neck and looked at both me and Bucky before preparing for its next attack. Bucky must’ve had a moment of clarity, because he turned tail and hauled ass out of the garage and back into the mall.
The toy didn’t give chase but turned back to me, smiling. As a final farewell, it tipped a pretend hat before it opened a flaming chasm and jumped in, never to save my ass again.
The normality of uncomfortable silence returned to the parking garage, leaving me standing alone with the prized fez, still tucked away in the bowling ball bag. My heart was still slowing when I heard a car driving up from a lower level. Relief washed over me when the nondescript sedan drove by, filled with a nuclear family who paid me little mind. It was time to leave before Bucky regained his balls or some other Wayworth goon tracked me down.
I was careful working my way out of the mall. The bank clock across the street displayed the time in bold diodes: 8:38 PM. The sun dipped behind the urban forest to the west, and the parking lot lamps were beginning to flicker. I needed to find Hank or get somewhere he could find me, and fast. I decided to hightail it to the Chinese buffet where we first met and lay low. Plus, I was starving. All I’d eaten that day was a bag of chips.
Keeping my eyes peeled, I made my way unnoticed along the sidewalks from Westgate Mall to the strip of restaurants in the industrial district.
I entered the buffet and found a booth, tucking the bowling ball bag between me and the wall, wary of the handful of patrons picking at plates of greasy buffet food. Any of them could’ve been possessed by some demon under the employ of Squeak or Mayor Wayworth, but I didn’t care. If those folks were after me, they would’ve already made their move. I was more worried about the ones passing by the large window overlooking my table.
The mousy manager came over, “What can I get you to—”
I pulled the beard down so he could see my face. His voice lodged in his throat, eyes widening in terror.
“—um, drink?”
“Hi,” I said. The strands of plasticized hair caught in my teeth as I spoke. “Water is fine, thanks.”
The manager walked away and busied himself at the front desk, seemingly avoiding eye contact.
I tore the facial hair away and left it on the table before going to load up on noodles and fried pork at the buffet—bowling ball bag in hand.
Back at my table, I returned the bag to its spot between me and the wall. A glass of ice water sat on the table in a puddle of its own condensation. Around the restaurant, a couple of truckers and a family kept tabs on me while they pretended to carry on with their meals.
Each time the little bell at the front announced a new customer my sphincter clenched—that is, until Hank the Hole entered in all of his corpulent glory, fit as a double bass, no open wound across his throat. Just another morbidly obese statistic.
He looked like a fat-cat businessman with his tailored coal-black suit and the stump of a cigar clenched in a corner of his mouth. I stood without thinking, grabbed the bowling ball bag, and hugged it to my chest.<
br />
Hank, a devious smile crossing his face, waggled a hand at the manager in greeting as he passed the host station.
“Fuck this!” the manager screeched before he abandoned his post and left his establishment to whatever was about to go down.
Hank turned to the patrons and subjected them all to the same smarmy smile, and said primly, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid this establishment is now closed for the evening. Kindly get the fuck out.”
Hank then stared straight at me, unwavering with his discomforting smile.
No one budged.
“I said get out!”
Hank’s throat then split open, revealing a ragged maw, over-crowded with rows upon rows of shark teeth. Blood dribbled down his neck, and he spoke in his much wetter voice, which rumbled and reverberated the air, vibrating everyone down to their bones. Most of the adults in the room, other than myself, screamed and ran for the exit. Strangely, the little boy and girl from the family table remained seated, quietly eating their stacks of pancakes.
Once the restaurant was mostly clear—only Hank, the two children, and I remained—Hank reverted back to his prim British self. Blood had ruined his well-fitted suit, but at least his nightmare-maw of a throat was closed.
“Little Rob-Robb. We have unfinished business. First, please join me in welcoming the Twinkle Twins, Lord Baal’s most esteemed emissaries, to this fine eatery. Lord Baal has interest in these proceedings.”
I nearly shit my pants then and there. These two looked like a couple of kids eating pancakes. A slight outline of glittering aura clung to their forms as they continued their meal while ignoring everything else.
“You’ve managed to cause a real kerfuffle,” continued Hank before grabbing one of those sugar-coated fried dough balls from a patron’s abandoned plate. “Yes, a very real kerfuffle, indeed. I’d say that you are most probably completely fucked,” he said between petite bites. “Oh well, it seems things are well out of my hands now that the Twins are here. Please tell me the altar piece is in that bag. Give me this one thing before I leave you to your fate.”
Howls From Hell Page 3