Teenage Wildlife

The Story Chapter Eleven

Chapter: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21


The following is an ongoing work of composite fiction by contributors from the Message Board. Due to the erratic nature of its construction the editors apologize for any omissions or lack of attribution to the proper authors. This story is on-going and will be archived here periodically. For current chapters, comments, or to add you own chapter, please visit the Message Board. This story is a work of fiction. Names have been changed to protect the guilty and any similarity to actual events is purely coincidental.

**Lady Artist Minotaur

Indeed, he has vanished among our happy crowd of ranting testosterone enthralled virtual rapists, sombre rock journalists, spooky old occultists, murderous larrikins, catholic schoolgirls and moshers - fans of all creeds and colours.

"Why don't I fix us all a nice pot of tea?" says Barbara, flashing her pearly whites. "By the way, has anyone checked Evan Torrie's news page today?"

: "Not today," says Lady Artist Minotaur, "Why don't I go get some cheese and crackers? Wensleydale anyone?"

With that, Lady Artist Minotaur heads off towards the pantry. (Yes hiding places in the Blue Mountains have well stocked pantries.) She finds the pantry located near the back door. She opens the pantry door, "Hmmm... I wonder where the light is?" "Right here." Click! "Thanks. Let's see, where are the Stoned Wheat Thins" LAM jumps and turns around.

"David!" David walks forward and places his finger to his lips, "Shhhhh! Keep it down! I don't want all 17,000 of you in here!" "Fine, but everyone's looking for you, and..." LAM notices the sparkle in David's eyes, and shuts up.

"You know, all of this running around, being tied up, transposed into another person's body, and whatnot is rather tiring. I was hoping to get away from all of this for a while... take a hot bath, lounge around, get a nice big soft bed, and have something to eat. Do you think you could help me out?" David gives her a friendly not-so-enigmatic smile. "Yes, of course, whatever you wish." ("Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave" pops into her mind. Here was her king before her, how could she refuse?) "My car is just outside the door, wait here while I take the crackers out to the others, I'll be back in a minute!" Clutching the crackers to her chest she sped out of the pantry and away. David watches her retreat with interest and thinks to himself, "She seems like such a nice girl, I wonder if I can trust her?"

In just minutes LAM is back, and they're on their way! David peers into a box in her back seat and sees two feathers, a riding crop, several lengths of black satin cord, many sizes of soft sable brushes, and a few jars of jalapeno chocolate sauce. "What is all of this for?" he asks. "Oh, just an art project." LAM smiles at him. David thinks to himself, "I wonder what sort of art project she has in mind?"...


"Do you mind if I open up one of these jars of jalapeno chocolate sauce?" David asks. "I'm really quite hungry, since I've not had a proper meal in so long." LAM is inclined at first to say no since she's measured out exactly how much of the sauce she will need for her little *project*, but the yearning look in David's eyes makes her relent. "OK, just one. After all, you're a lot skinnier in person than I thought you'd be, so I'll probably not need all the sauce anyway". "Thanks ever so much" David says and he reaches for the nearest jar. He pops it open, dips one long pinkie in it, and scoops out a delicate dab of the sauce. "Boy, I can't eat another bite! That jalapeno chocolate sauce is so filling. By the way, the Village Smithy did a fantastic job on your Saturn. I really thought it was a total loss when I saw the damage that Jacko's body did to it. Do you get good mileage?" "Oh you wouldn't believe how much fun it is to drive this thing, " LAM begins, and just then the engine dies. LAM snorts in impatience, and turns the key in the ignition.

Nothing. She snorts again (a little more loudly) and once again turns the ignition key. Still nothing. LAM bellows in rage and reaches back for her lance with the intent to run it thru the ignition system when David offers to go and take a peek under the hood.

David unfastens his seat belt, gets out, and moves around to the front of LAM's Saturn. She pops the hood for him, and he bends over. David begins the male automobile ritual of making it look like you know what you're doing when in fact you have no clue whatsoever what you're even looking at but you don't want to admit it to the ladies that you don't know what you're doing. It's really just a marking time device to make the menfolk look good. LAM, growing somewhat impatient, pokes her horned head out of the driver's side window and asks "Did you find anything wrong yet? I have my AAA number if...." "Oh no," David replies, "I know what I'm doing. Won't be more than a sec."

Just then, smoke starts billowing out from the Saturn's engine. It is thick smoke. Very thick smoke. Very very thick smoke. Soon, David can't even see his hand before his face. The smoke has a faint odor, kind of a mix between sulphur and brimstone. "LAM?" David asks, but gets no reply. He reaches down to lean on the Saturn and almost falls to his knees because it is no longer there. The smoke clears slightly, and David finds that he's all alone in an unfamiliar place. "Oh dear god, PLEASE don't tell me it's starting all over again!" David moans out.

"You said the 'g' word" a wheezy little voice says and David is poked in the ass with something very sharp. "OOOUUUCCCHHH!!!" David yelps. He looks behind him to the holder of the sharp point thing and sees a wizened old demon holding a tiny pitchfork. The demon is wearing a nametag that says "Hello, I'm FRTHLMTBDLAAAHRG, Spawn of the Pit and Keeper of the Dread Portal. How may I help you?"

The demon eyes David, and pokes him again with his pitchfork. "STOP THAT!" David says. "Sorry, sorry" replies the demon, "but it's been a pretty slow day and I'm a little bored. But that'll teach you to use the 'g' work here in hell"

"HELL, but I'm not dead!" David says. "I may be 50 and I may have lived a life of decadence, going so far as to wear green and red at one time, but I'm not at death's door!"

"No duh, you're at hell's door" the demon replies. He pulls out a clipboard, flips to today's date, taps at it with a talon, and calls David over. "Lookee here, JONES, DAVID ROBERT HAYWARD. Born Brixton, London, UK, 8 January, 1947. Goes under the professional name *David Bowie*. Singer/musician/actor/painter/ philanthropist/generic renaissance man/lecherous old coot. That's you, innit?" David nods his head in agreement. "Well, you're not technically dead, but you have been scheduled an appointment with Satan himself. You're actually a little bit early. How about a little tour first before going in to see the Adversary himself?"

"Well," David says, "I really don't think I have much of a choice in the matter. At any rate, I've been inside Ramona and I seriously doubt that ANYTHING in hell could be THAT bad." "Fair enough," replies the demon, "but first, you'll have to lose the goatee. Bit too much of a resemblance between you and Old Scratch with it, and we can't have the damned mistaking you for our overlord." David rubs at his chin. "But you've no idea how long it's taken for me to prop this poor thing up! It's really starting to grow in now, and in a couple of months it shouldn't look too bad." "Hey, I don't make the rules around here" the demon says. And if you don't like it, I'll poke you again." David sighs and agrees to lose the goatee. "Do you have a razor?" he asks. "Razor! HA! Do you think you're getting off THAT easily? This is HELL my dear boy. No, I'm afraid we'll have to wax it off."

*The Painful Process of ripping out living follicles from their roots is performed*

: "You know," David slowly says, "you really didn't have to throw in the bikini wax."

"What, and deprive you of that pleasure?" the demon replies. "I wouldn't dream of it. Besides, since I had the old hot wax kit out, I figured why the hell not. Ready for your tour?"

David nods his head, and the demon pulls out his cellphone from some secret hiding place in his hairy haunches. He speaks in some Mystic Tongue into the phone, and then puts it away. "Of course you appreciate the fact that *I* can't take you on your tour. Somebody has to stay behind to guard the Dread Portal. Those damn Marilyn Manson people keep popping by, trying to find their way onto what they insist will be the set for the next video. So another demon will be showing you around. Don't worry; she's very good at what she does since she was a former tour guide for Disneyland." "Oh dear god," says David "not Disney..." "I TOLD you about using the 'g' word!" the demon shrieks and he is just about to poke Dave with the pitchfork again when in walks the former Disneyland Tour Guide (hey, that's *Tour Hostess* to you!). David's newly waxed chin almost hits the floor when he sees the vision of beauty that stands before him. Perfect complexion. Perfect body. She is so very near a goddess that David can't imagine a more beautiful sight. And then he hears her speak. She has the thinnest, reediest, most nasally annoying voice--kind of a cross between Melanie Griffith, Fran Drescher, and Minnie Mouse--that he has ever heard. David has to clap his hands to his ears to muffle its vocal abrasiveness. The Disneyland Tour Guide, whose name is Annette (no, not that Annette), smiles down on David and leads him thru the Dread Portal.

It's nothing like what he expected. David had readied himself for visions of perversity and horror that Bosch would never have dreamed of. Instead, all he sees are endless queues, and giant TV screens which seem to be showing nothing but blurry slides of overweight, sunburned old people in exotic locales, and a giant disco dance floor. He interrupts Annette's spiel, during which she has been pointing out amusing trivial facts about certain structures in hell and other little tidbits that can only be known if you take the deluxe tour, and asks, "Where are the boiling pits of blood? The rivers of excrement? The burning plains of the sodomites? It's been ages since I read the Inferno, and I'm really quite disappointed in what I've seen so far." "Oh dear me!" Annette titters. "All that went out years ago when Satan had to downsize hell to keep its competitive edge. We're down to just 3 circles now, but we'll be back up to all the old familiar favorites once the market picks up again. But for now there's the {*pointing to the queue*} Waiting In Line Endlessly For The Bathroom Circle. This one is actually quite fun, since it never ever moves and, true to the reputation of hell, it is without relief. Now, this circle {*pointing to the TV screens*} is devoted to forced viewings of holiday slides from relatives that you can't stand in real life having fun in places you could care less about. But it's not all bad times here. Every day at 4 all the damned meet up here {*pointing at the dance floor*}, the real gem. You see, this circle is the Really Bad Music Circle. No moshing is allowed, either. EVERYBODY has to do the Hustle, shake their groove thing, or get down and make it funky."

{*a Bell of Doom tolls somberly here*} "Ooh," Annette coos, "it's time for everybody to hit the dance floor!" The damned shuffle wearily towards the Really Bad Music Circle, being casually prodded by very bored looking demons. Annette checks her calendar and says "Oh goody, tonight's music consists of the 12 minute version of Angela Bowie's The World Is Changing!! Of course, it'll go on for much longer than twelve minutes." The rollicking dance beat of Ms. Barnett's latest single blasts out of nowhere and the damned slowly begin to shake their collective booty.

"Well, I'm terribly sorry, but it's time for your appointment with the Devil" Annette chirps. "It's been a real pleasure showing you around hell. Satan's throne room is right over here. Please follow me...."

**Margot (I myself am Hell)

The door to Satan's throne room stands in dramatic contrast to everything David has seen so far. Ornately carved and solid, swimming with archetypal fiends and elaborate scenes of complicated and imaginative torture. It could almost have been carved by Ramona,, thinks David. Before the door, a plush burgundy mat proclaims "WELCOME".

Annette slowly pushes the door open, ushers David into the room, and closes it behind him. The room is very dark - not pitch dark - but dark enough so that David has to wait for a minute or two before he can discern the contours of the room around him. He strains to make out a human figure, standing some four or five metres away from him. Something compels him to walk towards it. As he does, the figure steps forward. Finally they stand, face to face and silent. Stricken, David falls to his knees and buries his face in his hands. The figure that has waited to meet him in this darkness is his own dim reflection.

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This document last updated Saturday, 15-Apr-2000 15:37:50 EDT
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