PART II - Weary Schmutzplunk and the Half-Blood Plasma

Chapter 9 - The Dice are Cast... Iron

Back at The Iron, Puffy, Pillow and Pander had reconvened to consider the relative merits of vampire slayage, witchcraft, drywall application, intramural volleyball... and getting stinking drunk. An early consensus was coalescing around the latter alternative, though harnessing Pillow's powers of thaumaturgy, Puffy's preternatural strength, and Pander's unnatural preoccupation with shoddy construction techniques (and linoleum) to erect a 50-foot drywall barrier around all of Meshuggadale to contain the Hellmouth -- and then get stinking drunk -- would have seemed like a good idea except for the parts that didn't involve getting sozzled. Those parts would have involved effort. Volleyball, too, and the last time Puffy had tried that, she'd somehow got overenthusiastic and staked the ball, which, surprisingly enough, had not proven a crowd-pleasing tactic, and had also got the three of them banned from participation in... well, most organized activities involving other humans. Five pitchers of beer later, though (and one trip to the restroom), Puffy started vaguely to wonder what had become of Schmutzplunk (whom she didn't think of as "Schmutzplunk," of course, but just "that klutzy, overweight vampire with the defective command of Ancient Sumerian").

Meanwhile, in an icky corner of the Hellmouth (well, a particularly icky corner, taking it as read that no corner of Hell is really comfy and well-furnished, unless it's an elite club for politicians and CEO's and located on one of Hell's extension campuses, of which the two most preeminent, NYC and DC, need no further characterization here)... in a particularly icky corner (perhaps the one described in les Jeux Sont Faits), Schmutzplunk sat mournfully, contemplating his existential woes, his navel, and clumps of green stuff that appeared to be growing between his toes, and wondering if he couldn't just catch a bateau lord-of-les-mouches and lift his spirits (well, his mood, anyway), by taking in the sights on the banks of the Acheron. Souls in eternal agony, for example, and a whole lot of art deco architecture. And then, of course, there was the nightly card game, televised on Hell BO on a plasma TV on the observation deck, in which Ken Lay and Abraham Madoff were currently holding a slight edge against Satan by the expedient of wearing designer shirts with suspiciously long sleeves.

On the other hand (one not covered by suspiciously long sleeves), there was still the niggling, unresolved matter of the Slayer and her cohorts (who really needed to get a life -- or to get dead: to Schmutzplunk and most of the hemophagic community, either would be an acceptable option). "Who," Schmutzplunk could not help ruminating, and within earshot of any number of unsavory characters, some of whom were not vampires or even MBA's, "who will rid me of this meddlesome pri...er, Slayer?" "I will! I will! I will!" arose a resounding chorus of enthusiastic cries from vamps, incubi, succubi, inferi, and other infernal beings, finding themselves somewhat at loose ends on a Saturday night, and always on the lookout for a good, juicy victim. Hmm," thought Schmutzplunk, I think I read something Conrad once said about the fate of the instigators of a revolution, which might give me pause were I but possessed of more neurons than teeth, but screw Conrad. Who writes a book called Heart of Darkness, and makes not a single reference to Hell, Meshuggadale, or even Dick Cheney? No, I think I hear the sound of bloodthirsty volunteers. Best to strike while The Iron is hot. (Not nearly so hot, of course, as Schmutzplunk's current venue, but with much more annoying bands.) Schmutzplunk betook himself to gather prospective raiders for (yet another) demonic incursion into Meshuggadale.

End of Chapter 9