Five-Oh-Six-Three (Part Two)

©2012 David Jasmin-Green

Blain struggled down the rocky slope. Scruffy mats of algae and sickly looking clumps of lichen scratched a meagre living here and there along with an assortment of bloated, colourless fungi that, he soon discovered, were as slippery as ice when he stepped on them. “Christ, cop a whiff of that!” he grunted, retching at the sickly sweet odour that the unforgivable indignity of being squashed encouraged the fungi to release. “It's like a mixture of cat shit, rotting flesh and honey.” He followed Fathom across the winding bottom of the valley beside a black, swiftly flowing river, and after a short journey they reached the entrance of the cave, a dark, ragged maw that led down into the bowels of the hillside at a steep angle.

“I don't like the look of this place. And I'm not going in, precipitation or no precipitation,” Blain grumbled, grinding to a halt and doing his best to keep the rain out of his eyes. “How do I know that this isn't your lair? How do I know you're not an unspeakable carnivorous demon? You certainly look the part. No doubt you're hoping to lure me into a secure little alcove where it's too dark and cramped for me to do anything unfair like run away, somewhere where you can wrap your stinking coils around me, leisurely squeeze out my breath and swallow me whole in relative privacy so that you won't be forced to share the pickings with whatever other sickening abominations populate this shit-hole. How do I know I'll be safe? Hmmm?”

“You're not completely safe with or without me, you utter nincompoop!” Fathom replied. “You're in Hell, remember? No one and no thing is safe here. Look, if it helps to soothe the troubled waters of your mind, even if I were to forget myself and gobble you up I'd eventually shit you back out again relatively unscathed once my stomach finished leaching some semblance of nourishment from your pathetic carcass. There's no death here, my good man, only relentless suffering. But I've recently eaten, remember? Or perhaps you think that's just another one of my confounded lies.

Look at it this way, Blain - there are lots of unimaginably cruel, violent, utterly despicable beings wandering around this godforsaken place, many of them a whole lot more dangerous to you than I am, so think yourself lucky that I stumbled across you before something more vicious and merciless did. I think it's best if you stay with me for a while, at least until you've undergone your metamorphosis. Maybe then you'll be granted some protection against the nastier denizens of this nefarious zone, or maybe not. That depends on what you're destined to turn into.....

You might become a Cuddrath, a Quasigargoyle, a Faddlestraddler or even a Bo-dragon, the undisputed king of this infernal zone, but you could just as easily become a Chuffteddy, a Bumrush or a Whitechat, damn their beady eyes. You could turn into a Suckhag, a Cockbucket or a Cuntfairy if the Big Boss really despises you – I sincerely hope not, but no one can say for sure. Not yet, anyway. There are other possibilities besides, me old China, lots of them. Perhaps it's your fate to become one of the nameless, unclassifiable horrors that haunt this miserable landscape and festoon every cave, swamp, valley and mountain beyond this sheltered valley which, believe it or not, is a relatively safe area..... Come now, we're wasting time.”

“You're him, aren't you?” Blain said, trying not to look into the snake's eyes in case there was any truth in the old story that the eyes of serpents possess inexplicable hypnotic qualities.

“What you talking 'bout, Willis?” Fathom said. “I'm who?”

“Him!” Blain continued, his voice faltering and his bottom lip trembling as if he was about to burst into tears. “You know exactly who I mean, you deceitful, diseased bell-end. You're the Evil One, the Father of Lies, you're El Diablo, you're the fucking devil. You're Beelzebub, Satan, Lucifer, His Satanic Majesty, Mephi-sodding-stopheles - you're Old Nick, Old Horny, the Old Serpent, the Head Honcho of this stinking dung heap.”

“You're the most infuriatingly stupid twat I've ever met, Blain,” Fathom said after a moment of reflection. “Apart, of course, from John Prescott, and it comforts me somewhat to believe that you already know that. It's a good thing that we never crossed paths back on Earth, you exasperating pillock, because I'd almost certainly have punched you on the nose shortly after we became acquainted. The only reason – no, the only two reasons I'm not closing my hands around your throat and gleefully squeezing the life out of you right now is because I haven't got any hands and my scales are a trifle sore. We all have our crosses to bear, you know. The heaviest of my personal burdens is doubtlessly the dreaded lurgy - I'm sure you've noticed the tender bacterial eruptions festooning my poor old skin. And you're already a gonner, so I'd be wasting my time. Besides, the Gaffer probably has a much more satisfying fate in store for you than anything an amateur in the art of torment like myself could come up with..... Now stop fannying around, man, and hurry up!”