08-22-2017, 12:30 PM
Well, there we go, another indefinite incarceration. Not that it was necessarily the worst thing that could happen. You see there was a certain sense of security that imprisonment brought. The Underverse is filled with forces much stronger than you could hope to contend with, and sometimes you have no choice but to bend to their will or be torn apart. In my case Deblin offered me freedom and a sort of job security. Fight and I would be fed. Fight and my thirst would be quenched. Fight and I would be rewarded. Fight and I would be freed. Fight for the amusement of others so that I may be saved. That was the idea anyway.
There wasn’t much to do besides wait. A few hours into my penal institutionalization an impish creature came down the rows of cells. It vaguely resembled a dwarfed human, aside from the pallid blue skin that was stretched across its angular frame. It pushed a cart that had several trays of stuff that looked like steak after it had been sent through a blender. As I would come to find out, this stuff was affectionately referred to as “mash” by the prisoners. What was mashed to make it was anybody’s guess, but if a gun was put to my head I would have to say it was probably roadkill. The gremlin stopped at every cell and slid a tray of mash through the bars. Soon enough a din of mastication spread through the prison block, filling it with sopping guttural sounds that ran counter to harboring a good appetite. He stopped at my cell, snorted, and smacked his lips.
“You’re, ehh, that new one, Cicada yeah?” He asked in a baritone voice that belied his diminutive stature.
I nodded.
“Ehhh,” he hesitated, waiting for the gears to spin in his thinkpan, “Deblin says you don’t get to, ehhh, eat tonight, says you’ll be more rav-ee-nuss in your upcoming, ehhh, bout.”
Hard to say if that was a blessing or a curse. The pinkish gelatin undulating on his food trays looked about as appetizing as you could imagine.
For a moment the blue imp scratched his bare chest. His mouth hung open and an absent sounding groan emanated from it. After a few seconds he crawl out of his stupor and caught his train of thought. He grabbed two trays of mash and slipped them through Yellow-eye’s bars.
“Ehhh, Deblin says you get a second portion tonight big guy,” he paused, rubbed his eye with the ball of his palm, and continued, “says you did a good job last fight, keep up the, ehhh, good work.”
Yellow-eye grunted and set to work on the slop. Blueboy continued down the hallway, leaving behind an errant trail of absent-minded sounds.
With a sigh I had resigned myself to a groaning stomach. It is my opinion that every should spend a few days without food, especially you suburbanite yuppie types. Fasting, as it was, gives you a better appreciation of the world we live in -- well, the world most of you live in. Supermarkets filled to the brim with all manner of food and beverage only serve as another way for us to disconnect ourselves from our ancestors.
As I sat, trying to devise a way to eat my own thoughts, Yellow-eye shifted about in his cell. Without a word he stretched a massive arm through his bars and towards mine. In his hand he held an untouched tray of mash. I raised a eyebrow and did not move.
“Eat, human,” he commanded.
“Why are you giving me this?” I asked.
He scoffed and answered, “Makkagrande is a god of action, and to be so hungry as to be unable to act, well, that is a grave sin.”
Mash tasted about as well as you’d expect. Meat-flavored peanut butter was the best analogy I could come up with. Burnt meat-flavored peanut butter made from three-day old roadkill. If there is anything you learn from this, dear reader, please realise that you should pack your own lunch when you come to the Underverse.
At any rate it was at least filling.
Later that night, long after my foray into Underversian cuisine, Deblin appeared before my cell. He appeared alone. Feigned disinterest played across his face as he examined his fingertips.
“So, Cicada, how do you enjoy my hospitality?” he asked.
“It’s a little stuffy, and your brochure says that you offer three square meals a day, but I have yet to get one,” I answered.
His eyes drifted over to the empty tray in the corner, “that so?”
“Well, maybe I exaggerated a bit.”
He nodded and hummed in response. The devil shot a sideways glare over his shoulder at Yellow-eye. Without a word to my co-conspirator Deblin returned his gaze to me.
“Enough formalities,” he said, “with no one of consequence around I can speak to you as I would an equal.”
I did not reply.
“You see, ever since Dedan’s betrayal and my family’s subsequent fall I’ve been need of a windfall,” he said, “you, I hope, are to be that windfall my dear Cicada.”
“By being your gladiatorial punching bag?” I responded.
He chuckled, “why you make it sound as if it isn’t the highest honor one can achieve down here.”
“I fail to see the honor in being someone’s cockfight rooster,” I answered.
“Oh au contraire, my boy,” he smiled and tapped the bars of my cage, “you are being offered something that very few people can achieve, freedom, to survive the pits and curry succor from Diablo, well that takes a very tenacious person, and I believe you have what it takes, so to speak.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, “don’t you consider my kind inferior?”
He thought for a moment, flicking his tail to and fro.
“While it is true that you lack the natural strength of my kin, strength is, in my opinion an overrated attribute, you’re quite clever and you have that oh so intangible spark of fire in your eyes,” he said, chuckled, and continued, “all that I’m asking is that you treat our relationship as a symbiotic one rather than one of master and slave, of course appearances will need to be maintained, but if you scratch my back, I will be sure to scratch yours.”
Without waiting for a reply he turned and began to leave.
He paused and said over his shoulder, “do try and get some rest, you’ve got a big day ahead of you my little pugilist.”
There wasn’t much to do besides wait. A few hours into my penal institutionalization an impish creature came down the rows of cells. It vaguely resembled a dwarfed human, aside from the pallid blue skin that was stretched across its angular frame. It pushed a cart that had several trays of stuff that looked like steak after it had been sent through a blender. As I would come to find out, this stuff was affectionately referred to as “mash” by the prisoners. What was mashed to make it was anybody’s guess, but if a gun was put to my head I would have to say it was probably roadkill. The gremlin stopped at every cell and slid a tray of mash through the bars. Soon enough a din of mastication spread through the prison block, filling it with sopping guttural sounds that ran counter to harboring a good appetite. He stopped at my cell, snorted, and smacked his lips.
“You’re, ehh, that new one, Cicada yeah?” He asked in a baritone voice that belied his diminutive stature.
I nodded.
“Ehhh,” he hesitated, waiting for the gears to spin in his thinkpan, “Deblin says you don’t get to, ehhh, eat tonight, says you’ll be more rav-ee-nuss in your upcoming, ehhh, bout.”
Hard to say if that was a blessing or a curse. The pinkish gelatin undulating on his food trays looked about as appetizing as you could imagine.
For a moment the blue imp scratched his bare chest. His mouth hung open and an absent sounding groan emanated from it. After a few seconds he crawl out of his stupor and caught his train of thought. He grabbed two trays of mash and slipped them through Yellow-eye’s bars.
“Ehhh, Deblin says you get a second portion tonight big guy,” he paused, rubbed his eye with the ball of his palm, and continued, “says you did a good job last fight, keep up the, ehhh, good work.”
Yellow-eye grunted and set to work on the slop. Blueboy continued down the hallway, leaving behind an errant trail of absent-minded sounds.
With a sigh I had resigned myself to a groaning stomach. It is my opinion that every should spend a few days without food, especially you suburbanite yuppie types. Fasting, as it was, gives you a better appreciation of the world we live in -- well, the world most of you live in. Supermarkets filled to the brim with all manner of food and beverage only serve as another way for us to disconnect ourselves from our ancestors.
As I sat, trying to devise a way to eat my own thoughts, Yellow-eye shifted about in his cell. Without a word he stretched a massive arm through his bars and towards mine. In his hand he held an untouched tray of mash. I raised a eyebrow and did not move.
“Eat, human,” he commanded.
“Why are you giving me this?” I asked.
He scoffed and answered, “Makkagrande is a god of action, and to be so hungry as to be unable to act, well, that is a grave sin.”
Mash tasted about as well as you’d expect. Meat-flavored peanut butter was the best analogy I could come up with. Burnt meat-flavored peanut butter made from three-day old roadkill. If there is anything you learn from this, dear reader, please realise that you should pack your own lunch when you come to the Underverse.
At any rate it was at least filling.
Later that night, long after my foray into Underversian cuisine, Deblin appeared before my cell. He appeared alone. Feigned disinterest played across his face as he examined his fingertips.
“So, Cicada, how do you enjoy my hospitality?” he asked.
“It’s a little stuffy, and your brochure says that you offer three square meals a day, but I have yet to get one,” I answered.
His eyes drifted over to the empty tray in the corner, “that so?”
“Well, maybe I exaggerated a bit.”
He nodded and hummed in response. The devil shot a sideways glare over his shoulder at Yellow-eye. Without a word to my co-conspirator Deblin returned his gaze to me.
“Enough formalities,” he said, “with no one of consequence around I can speak to you as I would an equal.”
I did not reply.
“You see, ever since Dedan’s betrayal and my family’s subsequent fall I’ve been need of a windfall,” he said, “you, I hope, are to be that windfall my dear Cicada.”
“By being your gladiatorial punching bag?” I responded.
He chuckled, “why you make it sound as if it isn’t the highest honor one can achieve down here.”
“I fail to see the honor in being someone’s cockfight rooster,” I answered.
“Oh au contraire, my boy,” he smiled and tapped the bars of my cage, “you are being offered something that very few people can achieve, freedom, to survive the pits and curry succor from Diablo, well that takes a very tenacious person, and I believe you have what it takes, so to speak.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, “don’t you consider my kind inferior?”
He thought for a moment, flicking his tail to and fro.
“While it is true that you lack the natural strength of my kin, strength is, in my opinion an overrated attribute, you’re quite clever and you have that oh so intangible spark of fire in your eyes,” he said, chuckled, and continued, “all that I’m asking is that you treat our relationship as a symbiotic one rather than one of master and slave, of course appearances will need to be maintained, but if you scratch my back, I will be sure to scratch yours.”
Without waiting for a reply he turned and began to leave.
He paused and said over his shoulder, “do try and get some rest, you’ve got a big day ahead of you my little pugilist.”