“Isn’t it better if we die together?”
“Only if death makes all the difference to you.” I grab my right testicle and the bicycle sparks into growth.
From the bottom of the hill, Otto hollers for us hurry.
“So what do you think?” Frannie 2 says, struggling to restrain her sister.
Full-sized, the bicycle falls out of me. “You and Frannie take the bike.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I want to know if my wings can take me down from here.”
Frannie slips her sister’s clutches. She picks up the bicycle and mounts it. “Let’s go!” she says.
Frannie 2 climbs into her mouth.
They careen down the hill the way I did when escaping from the toilet toads, but they aren’t evading any danger. They’re heading right for it, into the mouth of our killers for a final conflict.
I force myself to forget that escape might be possible if we head straight for the main gate. We’ll probably end up Shit Slaughtered for this stupid flight of bravery. I suppose childhood was never anything more than a dream piss that dampened the sheets and dried, but it lingers on as an ammoniac disgust, tainting everything. It’s the only thing worth saving. “You’re no longer a child,” I say to myself. “You have nothing more to lose.”
I jump off Dead Kid Hill, flapping my pink furies.
At first, my wings don’t hold me up. Corpses swallow everything in my periphery. I rise and flip sideways, eyes scanning the roof high above. Finally, I level out.
We fly or ride or roll to the point where the two roads become one and start down the green trail.
Otto leads since he is virtually a boulder. Swastikas made of apple-scented gelatin drip from the ceiling. I flap harder to catch up with Otto and the Frannies. I cry to the clatter of the bicycle chain as the Frannies plunge after the spider ball. “Wait!”
I fly close to the ground. The green trail is a ninety percent downgrade. Just thinking about the horror show we’re stepping into makes me sick. I can’t hold back. I vomit.
Otto crashes through something in front of us. The Frannies follow. Ten seconds after them, I flap into a cluster of giant apples that explode into confetti upon impact.
No, not confetti. Toenails and fingernails. The nails of children.
We swerve around corners and up/down turtle-humped dips. Ass goblin laughter grows louder every second. The four of us are approaching something big. I worry that Otto’s new ability will be insufficient against the ass goblins, and if we find ourselves in the midst of a brawl between the S.S. and Adolf’s ass dolls, we are totally doomed.
Otto comes to a sudden stop. Too slow to brake, the Frannies slam into him. Fortunately, his wax layer is still warm and soft enough to lessen the impact. I settle on the path, wings exhausted, and approach the crew.
The Frannies squeeze through a gap on my testicle bicycle. I follow close behind, my wings scraping Otto as I pass between him and the wall. Frannie 2 almost falls into a white, black, green, and red spiral racetrack. We are at the edge of a fifty foot drop.
Rather than leading into another cavern with a hill of bodies and floors of chocolate cake, the green path leads into a moldy labyrinth. I guess this is where they move the cake when it goes bad.
Ass goblins hoot and ride bicycles on the glowing track, zooming through the corridors of mold. Either they don’t give a damn that Auschwitz is being invaded, or else they’re preparing for war.
“Told you we’re screwed,” I say.
“I’ll kill as many goblins as I can,” Otto says. “If they take me down, get out of here. Go help the children.”
The entire cavern shakes and Otto slips forward, knocking the Frannies and I off the cliff. We scratch at the air for any object to reunite us with solid land.
I hit the floor, indenting a cake angel into the surface.
Otto leaps off the edge of his own volition as we brush mold and cake from our bodies. Frannie 2 spots my bicycle and prances to its crooked form. She raises the bike and checks for damage. She strokes the ruined brain tires and hugs the skull seat.
“You broke my testicle,” I say.
“I’ll just ride on the bones,” she says.
I gaze around the space we’re in. It’s kind of a bullpen separated from the actual maze. Otto rolls over to the wall. He is almost the same height as the labyrinth.
“What am I supposed to do?” I say.
Otto rolls over to me, but he doesn’t say anything.
While I wait for him to speak, Frannie gobbles her sister and gets on the bike. She rides toward the wall. I look over, too late to stop her. She crashes though it.
Otto tumbles end over end toward the opening left by the bicycle. He destroys a massive section of the wall.
Exhausted as I am, I flap my wings and take to the air. I sway over the labyrinth, swept up by an air current created by the cycling ass goblins. They’re all hooting, all in Shit Slaughter mode. On a platform across from the place we fell, the White Angel makes hand and face gestures. He appears to be putting on a drama of some sort. A tragedy, I venture, the way he shoves a fist up his ass.
Chapter Twenty
I fly higher and higher, out of reach, ass-tracking Otto and the Frannies. They’re crazy to think riding into this madhouse was a good idea.
I catch sight of Otto. He bulldozes ass goblins by the dozen, but the ones ahead and behind him are catching on. They swarm into sword patterns with other cyclists to pierce Otto’s shell. The Frannies are nowhere in sight.
The White Angel ceases his one-goblin play. He skip-skip-hops off the stage and spreads wings identical to mine, only his are white. He soars through the air without flapping.
I worry that Otto might be unaware of the surprise attack, then realize that the White Angel zooms toward me, not him. I go higher.
Hundreds of feet above the labyrinth, the White Angel corners me. It is very silent up here, like my outer space daydreams way back in Kidland.
The White Angel raises his fists. “Where did you learn to fly? That’s not in your DNA structure. I installed your wings for purely aesthetic purposes. That way you never forget who your father is.”
“Father?” I’m confused. “What is a father?”
“Never mind the father talk. You’re an ass goblin. A lousy ass goblin.”
“Look at my eyes. My eyes prove I’m a child.”
I consider my odds of defeating the White Angel in an aerial battle. A thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea rush through my head, but I see no alternative. I would rather die trying than hit the butcher’s block with an apology on my tongue. I guess the others have felt this way all along.
I rake both pairs of claws across the White Angel’s belly, catching him off guard. He snaps to, realizing that I’m challenging him to a fight.
The White Angel laughs. He swipes at nothing, mocking me. “Join me,” he says.
I swing my ass around and blast the tooth at him. He’s too swift for kid tricks and dishes me a playful slap upside the head.
“Join me or be destroyed!” he says, raising his fists again.
Three figures run onto the stage. I point and yell, “Who are they?”
When the White Angel turns, I flap like mad, taking full advantage of this escape opportunity. The White Angel flies in a reverse beeline, hooting and farting. He dives, no longer heading toward the stage. I catch sight of the Frannies. He’s narrowing in on them. There is nothing I can do to stop him at this point. He’s stronger and already has a huge gain, so I descend and search for Otto. If we’re to save the children, we can’t all go down at once.
There he is.
I fly low, stirring every nightmare of falling into wakeful alarm. I swoop into the maze between Otto and the goblin pack that threatens to penetrate him from behind. I barely manage to keep pace with the cyclists, but soon realize a second asset of farting. Farting make you faster. Gas provides that extra oomph to make up for clumsy wings.