Read Online Blimpo: The Third Circle of Heck by Dale E. Basye - Free Book Online
Authors: Dale E. Basye
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the chasm and peered with horror at the gruesome scene.
The flicks’ harpoon mouths stuck into the sides of the ravenous, roly-poly creatures in the moat. They swelled as they fed, stretching to capacity until their skin became translucent. The flicks tried to flee, but the slimy creatures in the pit held on to them—trying to eat what was eating
them
—until the flicks popped like balloons.
A wave of stink gushed out of the chasm, like someone had put moldy cauliflower and skunk blood in a big blender and set it to
pew-ree
.
“Whoa!” Moondog exclaimed as he helped Milton to his feet. “If that’s the smell of victory, I’d hate to get a whiff of defeat!”
8 • TAKEN TO THE CLEANERS
MARLO ANXIOUSLY SCANNED the rows of dinner jackets hanging in Kloven Kleen Do-or-Dry Cleaners. Hundreds of jackets hung on the coiling mechanical rack, all of them—to Marlo’s eyes—exactly the same: snazzy and modern, yet with a squared-off, vintage 1950s silhouette.
The demon “helping” her—a jaundiced woman with cobweb hair pulled tightly in a bun—tapped her long, French-manicured talons impatiently on the glass counter.
“Do you have a ticket?” the squat demon asked in a huffy tone, as if Marlo were a particularly stubborn stain that would simply
not
come out. “As you can clearly see, I have more dinner jackets than you’ve hadhot dinners. And the dinners are
always
hot down here. Even if it’s cold cuts and vichyssoise.”
“Ticket?” Marlo repeated.
“Yes, a
ticket,”
the demon grumbled. “A small card with a number printed upon it that matches with a corresponding tag affixed to a particular piece of clothing, giving the holder the legal right to pick up said article of—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Marlo spat back. “I’m taller than you, lady, so don’t try talking down to me—you might hurt yourself. I’m just new to this whole dry-cleaning thing, okay? It’s always seemed like a big scam to me.”
“Maybe that’s why there are more dry cleaners per capita down here than anywhere else in the universe,” the dry-cleaning demon replied dryly. “Be that as it may, I still need a ticket.”
“That’s not all you need,” muttered Marlo as she opened the modified bowling bag she used as a purse.
Marlo had been sent on her first errand for the Big Guy Downstairs so quickly that she had barely enough time to fill her bag with the junk Farzana handed her and her head with Farzana’s stuttered orders. Marlo
did
seem to remember something about a tick-tick-ticket.
“Here,” she said, handing the irritating demon garment worker the stub she had found from the bottom of her—in Madame Pompadour’s words—
gauche bag
.
The demon scrutinized it.
“It’s torn,” she replied, holding the ticket in front of Marlo’s face. “Every ticket is supposed to have three numbers. This only has two. Number six-six …”
Marlo sighed. “Can’t you just check everything between six-six-zero and six-six-nine?” she replied. “Wouldn’t that be something covered by, oh, I don’t know …
your job
?”
The demon growled—not a grumble from someone being grouchy, but a deep guttural rumble.
“And did I mention that this was for …
the Big Guy Downstairs
?”
The demon gasped, then tried to hide her shock with a halfhearted chuckle, which was all the woman could manage, having only half a heart. Marlo could slowly feel her confidence coming back, now that she was away from Madame Pompadour’s icy
haute
clutches.
“If I had a penny for every time someone tried that one on me,” the demon replied, shaking her puffy head like a wasp’s nest in a storm. “I’d have … a lot of cents.”
“Well, if you have any
sense
left, then I suggest you bring me ten coats …
now,”
Marlo said defiantly. She wasn’t going to let anything, especially not some dried-up dry cleaner, blow her very first errand as the devil’s Infern-in-training.
The demon stalked back to the racks and jabbed a
The flicks’ harpoon mouths stuck into the sides of the ravenous, roly-poly creatures in the moat. They swelled as they fed, stretching to capacity until their skin became translucent. The flicks tried to flee, but the slimy creatures in the pit held on to them—trying to eat what was eating
them
—until the flicks popped like balloons.
A wave of stink gushed out of the chasm, like someone had put moldy cauliflower and skunk blood in a big blender and set it to
pew-ree
.
“Whoa!” Moondog exclaimed as he helped Milton to his feet. “If that’s the smell of victory, I’d hate to get a whiff of defeat!”
8 • TAKEN TO THE CLEANERS
MARLO ANXIOUSLY SCANNED the rows of dinner jackets hanging in Kloven Kleen Do-or-Dry Cleaners. Hundreds of jackets hung on the coiling mechanical rack, all of them—to Marlo’s eyes—exactly the same: snazzy and modern, yet with a squared-off, vintage 1950s silhouette.
The demon “helping” her—a jaundiced woman with cobweb hair pulled tightly in a bun—tapped her long, French-manicured talons impatiently on the glass counter.
“Do you have a ticket?” the squat demon asked in a huffy tone, as if Marlo were a particularly stubborn stain that would simply
not
come out. “As you can clearly see, I have more dinner jackets than you’ve hadhot dinners. And the dinners are
always
hot down here. Even if it’s cold cuts and vichyssoise.”
“Ticket?” Marlo repeated.
“Yes, a
ticket,”
the demon grumbled. “A small card with a number printed upon it that matches with a corresponding tag affixed to a particular piece of clothing, giving the holder the legal right to pick up said article of—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Marlo spat back. “I’m taller than you, lady, so don’t try talking down to me—you might hurt yourself. I’m just new to this whole dry-cleaning thing, okay? It’s always seemed like a big scam to me.”
“Maybe that’s why there are more dry cleaners per capita down here than anywhere else in the universe,” the dry-cleaning demon replied dryly. “Be that as it may, I still need a ticket.”
“That’s not all you need,” muttered Marlo as she opened the modified bowling bag she used as a purse.
Marlo had been sent on her first errand for the Big Guy Downstairs so quickly that she had barely enough time to fill her bag with the junk Farzana handed her and her head with Farzana’s stuttered orders. Marlo
did
seem to remember something about a tick-tick-ticket.
“Here,” she said, handing the irritating demon garment worker the stub she had found from the bottom of her—in Madame Pompadour’s words—
gauche bag
.
The demon scrutinized it.
“It’s torn,” she replied, holding the ticket in front of Marlo’s face. “Every ticket is supposed to have three numbers. This only has two. Number six-six …”
Marlo sighed. “Can’t you just check everything between six-six-zero and six-six-nine?” she replied. “Wouldn’t that be something covered by, oh, I don’t know …
your job
?”
The demon growled—not a grumble from someone being grouchy, but a deep guttural rumble.
“And did I mention that this was for …
the Big Guy Downstairs
?”
The demon gasped, then tried to hide her shock with a halfhearted chuckle, which was all the woman could manage, having only half a heart. Marlo could slowly feel her confidence coming back, now that she was away from Madame Pompadour’s icy
haute
clutches.
“If I had a penny for every time someone tried that one on me,” the demon replied, shaking her puffy head like a wasp’s nest in a storm. “I’d have … a lot of cents.”
“Well, if you have any
sense
left, then I suggest you bring me ten coats …
now,”
Marlo said defiantly. She wasn’t going to let anything, especially not some dried-up dry cleaner, blow her very first errand as the devil’s Infern-in-training.
The demon stalked back to the racks and jabbed a
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