Hell…… when there is no more room, “THE DEAD WILL WALK THE EARTH”.
Exurbs, countryside…… intergalactic elevators unto hellish, degraded, LOWER forms of non-existence.
Bleaker landscapes, stormy alien worlds……. uncanny, sure. Gray crud, a mountain of cancerous, ossified skulls like mineralized intestines, BURN BLACK.
Uncanny, sure…… as “a symptom of the sick, sick universe”.
Elaborate systems, wheels of time—if not five-pointed pentagrams and general unpleasantries as described by ancient occult orders. Returning, “by hearsay” with a crude road map of scribbles and strange-signage, like an old crumpled bus schedule.
Or even a community bulletin—“the trash pick-up service” as provided by the local netherworld municipality and other bureaucratic lore.
“Bring out your dead!”
No luck for “working stiffs”…… or even the husks of those whom “died” in the after-life.
For surely, they will be recycled into the flittering, antenna mind of a stag-beetle in this burrowing earth of mud, death, “and overall shittiness”.
Molten gold, leering goblin-faces, crystal skeleton keys….. so it is written.
Hierarchies of demons are described in dusty grimoires, a kind of neo-Roman army of legionnaires, trumpeters, prefects, captains of the guard along the walls of “DEATH CAPITOL”, the mountains of Hades rising in the distance…… but one has the sneaking suspicion that despite all the pageantry and ritual, your cremated bones will be pounded to ashes “and that’s the end of you”.
A cold shiver running down your greasy spine, like the root-evolution of a knotty horseshoe crab and nerve endings like the roots of a sub-world tree….. the BIG, LONG NOW like an endless droning silence as “the punch-line” is a ghoul pulling off their face to reveal a screaming skull.
The dimensions of reality “curl back in on themselves” like a riddle, a spiraling demise, a sacred geometry. An ironic punishment, but “with no answer”.
A form reveals itself…… Beetlejuice hanging off the trash-truck, out for “a joy ride”. Along the Helldarado of bones, BORN TO RAISE HELL and TOO YOUNG TO DIE. Though he’s over 700 years old, his infectious laugh plagues the pilgrim, the tourist, the lost.
Don’t hitchhike, Lydia. I’d turn around and shuffle away “fast as you can” in those funereal black rags and mourning garb. Draw a door in the air with your finger, grab the knob-sketch, and walk back through from whence you came—like Dorothy clicking her ruby slippers together and figuring “THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME”.
Spoken “3 times”…… NO, DON’T SAY IT!!! Not the “B-word”.
But there’s another word, “B” for “Box-Office BUSINESS”.
That’s 2 “B’s”. There…… at a sequel near you.
There’s more where that came from…… Keep watching, kids!