The arcade always had a basement,
I’d just never been down there. See, I’m kind of afraid of dark and enclosed
spaces, not to mention bugs. I will lose my shit if I see a roach. Anyway, a
few of my friends had gone down before. I don’t know if they saw the demon that
lived down there or what, but they never said anything. Or maybe they got
brainwashed. Maybe they’re going to get activated and come back to kill me, who
knows. What’s important is that a lot of very stupid things happened, and I’m
going to tell you about them.
It was a cold, airy evening when I
came to visit my parents’ house. It could have been a warm, un-airy morning. I
don’t remember, you pick. We made small talk, the kind where they still talk to
you as if you were the same kid who used to live with them. They make references
to things you used to do. They tell you what old friends whom you haven’t seen
in years are doing. And I played along, pretending like I still cared, until
the old arcade came up. My dad said he’d driven by and seen a light on, so I
decided to go check it out. I don’t know why, though. I guess just to see how
my old stuff was holding up. And maybe to kick out whatever old hobo was
squatting there.
So I pulled up to the dirt parking
lot, turned off the car, and got out. I should probably mention that the arcade
isn’t actually an arcade. It’s an old diner my family inherited that went out
of business since it’s sort of out of the way on the edge of town. Also, the
food wasn’t very good. I remembered the beef tasting strange, and also my great
uncle who owned it ended up in the insane asylum, so that probably had
something to do with it, too.
After it went out of business my
parents didn’t have any luck trying to sell it, so they just let me and my
friends use it as a clubhouse. We mostly played D&D in there on weekends,
and then by a Coleman lantern when it got dark because my parents didn’t pay to
keep the power on. That’s why it was odd that all the lights inside were on.
Even the sign reading the imaginative name of the place, Burgers!, was lit up, though I seemed to remember all the bulbs
having been broken or missing.
I walked inside and the place wasn’t
immaculate by any means, but it didn’t look like a place that had lain in
disuse for years either. In fact, it looked like it would have looked right
after one of the old groups’ meetings. The booth we used to use was strewn with
snack wrappers and scratch paper and pencils. One of our rulebooks was even on
the table, but I knew we’d agreed to put all of those away in the basement the last
time we met up, though
I never went
down there myself. To make things weirder, all of the lights were on, even the
ones in the kitchen. It looked like someone broke into this place and restored
it, not to use it as a meth lab or sex dungeon, but actually found our old
sourcebooks and said: “Forget whatever we were going to do, let’s play
D&D!”
I could feel that this was going to
get weird. All three of the friends I used to play with moved away and I hadn’t
heard from them since high school. This would be an awfully painful surprise if
that’s what this was, some ill-advised high school-nerd-reunion set up by my
parents. It was, in fact, my parents’ suggestion to come down here. It was all
starting to come together, and as the doorknob to the front door was turning on
cue, I was already putting on my fake smile.
That was when the angel walked in.
And I don’t mean that the love of my life walked into the room and I’m choosing
to describe her as an angel. Totino’s pizza rolls are the love of my life right
now, and they are less than angelic. No, an actual angel, from heaven, walked
into Burgers!, except he didn’t look
like one. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt under a black leather jacket with a
pompadour. You’d think the last movie they got in heaven was Grease.
“Hello Steve,” said the angel, “I’m
an angel.” That’s one of the funny things I came to find out about celestial beings:
They don’t really understand tact.
“And I’m Dick Tracy,” I said,
realizing that I don’t actually know who Dick Tracy is.
“No,” the greaser-angel said, “You
are Steve Johnson, and I am here to assist you.” Now it was really starting to
get weird, so I reached for my gun, except I don’t have a gun, nor have I ever
touched one, so it was more like stupidly brushing my hand against my hip.
“Are you a friend of my parents or
something? Whatever this joke is, I’m already tired of it,” I said, backing
away.
“I do know your parents, but that’s
not why I’m here. I’m here because there’s a demon in the basement, and you
have to kill it,” he said calmly, walking towards me.
“Ok, what?” I was starting to say, when
the thing that looked kind of like one of the sandworms from Dune only with two scaly legs and more
than a few tentacles emerged from the basement trapdoor screaming something
that sounded like, “SKLEEEEEUUUUUHHHHHHH.” No
sooner had I looked over my shoulder and seen it than I was bolting for the
door. I ran into John Travolta blocking the way as he said: “Use this,” and
handed me a TEC-9. I turned around squeamishly and aimed the automatic pistol
with both shaking hands at the monster. Its legs were situated at the very back
of its long, phallus-esque body and it was having a difficult time standing up and
keeping balance before falling back over and shrieking, which made it an easy
target. I took aim and squeezed the trigger, and my eyes shut as the gun
flailed in my hands. I heard wood splinter and glass shatter.
When I had emptied the clip and the
wailing had stopped I opened my eyes to see the monster slumped on the floor. Only
a handful of bullets had pierced the monster—the rest had found other targets
all over the room—and it was bleeding something that resembled blue Powerade.
Amazingly, the first thing I thought to do, rather than passing out or weeping,
was to turn to my new friend and ask: “Ok, can I go home now?”
“That was not the demon, merely one
of the monstrosities being spawned by it. The evil we seek is less…corporeal,”
mused the greaser as he lit a cigarette.
“So it’s a ghost or spirit or
something?” I asked, sitting down on the floor, turning away from the carcass
across the room.
“Something like that.”
“So how am I supposed to kill it?
And besides, why couldn’t you have shot that thing yourself just now?”
“There are other ways, and us
celestial beings cannot directly interfere with the fates of mortals,” he said,
and took a long drag from his cigarette.
“Handing me a gun seems pretty
direct to me.”
“Not so. Assistance is allowed. But
we must press on,” the angel said as he stomped out his cigarette and
approached the trap door.
“Well, I’m sure you can find another
mortal to help you,” I said as I dropped the gun, stood up, and dusted off my
pants. “I have microwavable rolls of the pizza variety waiting for me at my
apartment.” I figured I’d come back the next night and burn the place down, that
ought to take care of it. But it was when I was unlocking my car door that I
realized I knew that penis-shaped monster lying dead on the floor of the
arcade. I’d known exactly where to shoot it even with my eyes closed. I had
designed it for one of my old campaigns.
“You know why it has to be you,
Steve. You created them, and now that this demon has brought them to life, only
you know how to destroy them,” the angel said behind me. And even though I knew
I’d probably die, hey, I had an angel on my side. And it would be fun to see
all these horrible things I’d dreamed up come to life. But mostly I wanted
those old edition rulebooks back. They’d be worth a lot on eBay. So I turned
around, put they keys back in my pocket, and walked back into the arcade, all
while the greaser-angel popped up the collar on his jacket and said, “Eyyyyyy,”
pointing both fingers at me.
This was the first of the stupid
decisions I made.
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