Hellhole by Gina Damico Page B

its way into his head, that of his mother’s bedroom smeared with blood, her lifeless eyes staring at him—
    â€œOkay! 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!”
    â€œThere’s your contract,” Burg said, pointing at Max’s burned hand. “You’ll want to put a little ice on it before bed.”
    Â 
    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.
    â€œMmmmm,” 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.
    â€œMorning!” 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?”
    â€œWhat is the matter with
you?
Don’t tell me you don’t like bacon.”
    â€œNot when it’s a million degrees and flying directly at my head!”
    â€œPuny 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