I'm
aware that my absolute death is no longer possible. All of that said, the
process of being plucked apart and devoured still seems like it would sting
like all get-out.
As the towering tornado demon reaches to snatch a screaming Babette,
Leonard shouts for her to dive. Cupping both his hands to make a megaphone
around his mouth, Leonard shouts, "Dive and dig!"
So that you might learn from my ignorance, it's a tried-and-true
strategy when escaping danger in Hell to dig into the nearest available
terrain. Hell offers scant cover, no flora to speak of—except for the
inexplicable accumulations of Beemans gum, Walnettos, Sugar Daddys, and popcorn
balls—thus the only consistent, ready manner in which to conceal oneself is to
tunnel until completely buried, in this case by the vast accumulation of
castoff fingernail shards.
Distasteful as this might sound, for this piece of advice, you owe me.
Not that you're ever actually going to die. Perish the thought. Not
with your hours and hours invested in aerobic exercise.
On the other hand, if you do find yourself dead and in Hell, menaced by
Psezpolnica, do as Leonard would recommend: Dive and dig.
My hands burrow into a hillside of loose, cascading parings, and with
every inch I dig a steady landslide of the same avalanches down upon me,
prickly and itchy, abrasive but not entirely unpleasant, until I'm completely
interred, Leonard interred at my side.
About my own death, my death- death,
I remember very little. My mother was launching a feature film, and my father
had gained a controlling interest in something— Brazil, I think—so of course
they'd brought home an adopted child from... someplace awful. My brother du
jour, his name was Goran. He of the brutish, hooded eyes and beetling brow, an
orphan sourced from some war-torn, former-socialist hamlet, Goran had been
starved of the early physical contact and imprinting required for a human being
to develop any sense of empathy. With his reptilian gaze and broad pit-bull
jaw, he arrived forever and always as damaged goods, but this only added to his
appeal. Unlike any of my previous siblings, now apportioned to various boarding
schools and long forgotten, I found myself quite smitten with Goran.
For his part, Goran had merely to cast his churlish, ravenous eyes upon
my parents' wealth and lifestyle, and he was determined to curry my acceptance.
Add to those factors one overly large baggy of marijuana supplied by my dad,
plus my impulse to finally smoke the nasty herb, if only to bond with Goran,
and that's the sum total I'm able to recall about the circumstances of my fatal
overdose.
Currently, lying fully buried in a grave of fingernails, I listen to my
heartbeat. I hear my breath rushing in my nostrils. Yes, without a doubt, it's
hope that makes my heart continue to beat, my lungs to breathe. Old habits die
hard. Above me, the ground heaves and shifts with every step of the tornado
demon. The parings trickle into my ears, stifling any sound of Babette's
screams. Stifling the clicking din from the Sea of Insects. I lie buried here,
counting my heartbeats, resisting an urge to dig one hand sideways in search of
Leonard's hand.
In the next instant my arms are pinned to my sides. The fingernails
press in close, tightly around me, and I'm lifted into the stinking sulfurous
air, rising into the flaming orange sky.
The fingers of a huge hand are clasped around me as tight as a
straitjacket. This giant hand has been thrust into the loose soil and has
plucked me the way one might pull a carrot or radish from its buried slumber.
Ye gods, I might be the privileged, wealthy, insulated scion of
celebrity parents, but I still know where babies and carrots come from...
although I was never entirely certain where Goran originated.
Soaring into the air, I can survey it all: the Sea of Insects, the
Great Plains of Broken Glass, the Great Ocean of Wasted Sperm, an endless array
of cages containing the damned. Below me spreads the
aware that my absolute death is no longer possible. All of that said, the
process of being plucked apart and devoured still seems like it would sting
like all get-out.
As the towering tornado demon reaches to snatch a screaming Babette,
Leonard shouts for her to dive. Cupping both his hands to make a megaphone
around his mouth, Leonard shouts, "Dive and dig!"
So that you might learn from my ignorance, it's a tried-and-true
strategy when escaping danger in Hell to dig into the nearest available
terrain. Hell offers scant cover, no flora to speak of—except for the
inexplicable accumulations of Beemans gum, Walnettos, Sugar Daddys, and popcorn
balls—thus the only consistent, ready manner in which to conceal oneself is to
tunnel until completely buried, in this case by the vast accumulation of
castoff fingernail shards.
Distasteful as this might sound, for this piece of advice, you owe me.
Not that you're ever actually going to die. Perish the thought. Not
with your hours and hours invested in aerobic exercise.
On the other hand, if you do find yourself dead and in Hell, menaced by
Psezpolnica, do as Leonard would recommend: Dive and dig.
My hands burrow into a hillside of loose, cascading parings, and with
every inch I dig a steady landslide of the same avalanches down upon me,
prickly and itchy, abrasive but not entirely unpleasant, until I'm completely
interred, Leonard interred at my side.
About my own death, my death- death,
I remember very little. My mother was launching a feature film, and my father
had gained a controlling interest in something— Brazil, I think—so of course
they'd brought home an adopted child from... someplace awful. My brother du
jour, his name was Goran. He of the brutish, hooded eyes and beetling brow, an
orphan sourced from some war-torn, former-socialist hamlet, Goran had been
starved of the early physical contact and imprinting required for a human being
to develop any sense of empathy. With his reptilian gaze and broad pit-bull
jaw, he arrived forever and always as damaged goods, but this only added to his
appeal. Unlike any of my previous siblings, now apportioned to various boarding
schools and long forgotten, I found myself quite smitten with Goran.
For his part, Goran had merely to cast his churlish, ravenous eyes upon
my parents' wealth and lifestyle, and he was determined to curry my acceptance.
Add to those factors one overly large baggy of marijuana supplied by my dad,
plus my impulse to finally smoke the nasty herb, if only to bond with Goran,
and that's the sum total I'm able to recall about the circumstances of my fatal
overdose.
Currently, lying fully buried in a grave of fingernails, I listen to my
heartbeat. I hear my breath rushing in my nostrils. Yes, without a doubt, it's
hope that makes my heart continue to beat, my lungs to breathe. Old habits die
hard. Above me, the ground heaves and shifts with every step of the tornado
demon. The parings trickle into my ears, stifling any sound of Babette's
screams. Stifling the clicking din from the Sea of Insects. I lie buried here,
counting my heartbeats, resisting an urge to dig one hand sideways in search of
Leonard's hand.
In the next instant my arms are pinned to my sides. The fingernails
press in close, tightly around me, and I'm lifted into the stinking sulfurous
air, rising into the flaming orange sky.
The fingers of a huge hand are clasped around me as tight as a
straitjacket. This giant hand has been thrust into the loose soil and has
plucked me the way one might pull a carrot or radish from its buried slumber.
Ye gods, I might be the privileged, wealthy, insulated scion of
celebrity parents, but I still know where babies and carrots come from...
although I was never entirely certain where Goran originated.
Soaring into the air, I can survey it all: the Sea of Insects, the
Great Plains of Broken Glass, the Great Ocean of Wasted Sperm, an endless array
of cages containing the damned. Below me spreads the
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