Prisoner of the Molepeople

Chapter 35 - Alive

Before everything went black, I remember hearing the echoing voice of Father Jackothan shouting, “Okay, you win.”

The next thing I knew, clawed hands were grabbing my soaking body, laying me on hard ground.

“We killed them!” someone shouted.

To verify this claim, someone else took it upon himself to slap me in the face an excessive number of times. Yet someone else decided to pour a can root beer down my throat. Upon this, I broke into a coughing spell, and the molemen cheered.

The administrator of root beer proceeded to pour the stuff down Lenny's throat, effectively raising another coughing soul from oblivion. While a few on the ninjas gathered around the novelty of Lenny and I, most wanted to get a better look at the can of life-reviving root beer.

Having dangled over the jaws of hell instills one with an odd sense of optimism. I mean, for one who'd gone so low, how could things possibly get worse?

Though I hadn't exactly recovered yet. In my clouded consciousness, I heard the crackly voice of Father Jackothan say to an assistant, “That was close enough to a purging. Bring them the paperwork.”

A pen was forced into my hand, and my hand was shoved onto a stack of papers.

“Write your name,” Father Jackothan commanded.

Even if I had the strength, after all I’d been through, I wasn't about to comply. So someone took my limp hand and guided me in drawing an X. They did the same for Lenny.

“Good enough,” said Father Jackothan. “They're Gahboos.”

My world was still rocking, the voices around me still echoing from afar. I could still feel the scorching steam. Suddenly Lenny was being dragged away from me, disappearing into the fog.

“Lenny,” I moaned, reaching for him.

“Ann.” He reached back but could only graze my fingertips.

I must have passed out after that, because once again I found myself being slapped in the face with the familiar cry of, “She's dead!”

Ahead of me were red, blurry balls, the tail lights of cars driving away. Around me was a sea of shouting voices.

“The Burger Lion has terrible ice cream,” someone declared.

“How about T.G.I. Friday's?” proposed someone else.

“Too expensive.”

Every last ninja had pulled off his mask. Some had even pulled off their shirts. I was surrounded by hairy, sweaty molemen.

“Guys, guys,” said someone else, raising his wristwatch, “it's three AM. The only place that's even open is McDonalds.”

A wave of approval swept over the crowd.

A moleman with a serious face said, “I hate to be the party pooper, but Father Jackothan said our primary responsibility is to get the girl home before anyone at the palace notices her absence.”

A moleman with a pointy goatee said, “How about we take her home, then go for ice cream?”

The important implications of this conversation were forcing me to regain my bearings. “Wait a minute,” I interjected, “I want ice cream too.” I wasn't about to miss out for the second time in one night.

There was silence as everyone contemplated the impossible conundrum. Then Bobbert stepped forward. “How about one group takes her back while the other group saves seats at McDonalds?”

The crowd cheered their approval, slapping Bobbert – the hero of the night – on the back.

The guy with the goatee said, “Dave can take the girl home.” To this the crowd also cheered their approval.

As the sweaty molemen boarded their various cars, a frowning Dave and several of his unhappy inferiors escorted me back to the limousine. I was so weak, resistance wasn't an option.

Meanwhile Bobbert was walking with the aged moleman who had officiated in our pre-“purging” ceremony, Billiam McFredward. Bobbert helped the feeble guy into the passenger seat of the yellow Lamborghini.

“Easy, dad,” said Bobbert.

Dad?

Suddenly I not only understood how Bobbert had gotten his greedy claws on such an expensive car (it must have been his dad's), but I knew why Bobbert (who was supposedly a Bahboo) had really come to this Gahboo ceremony. His father was a high priest of the Gahboo church, and Bobbert (probably with no intention of letting his father know he'd converted to a more liberal religion) had to keep up appearances … especially when there was so much at stake in the way of inheritance. Helping me must have been an afterthought.

Figures.

Though this realization gave me a brilliant idea. The black crystal, hanging from the old moleman's neck, sparkled in the light of the fiery chasm. Perhaps it wasn't too late to escape into the under-underworld.

“Bobbert!” I hollered, just as my escorts were about to stuff me into the back seat of the limousine. “A word, please?”

Bobbert, after slamming the passenger door of the Lamborghini, just stared at me, apparently weighing the benefits of acknowledging my existence. Finally he approached me, and my escorts, either in respect for the son of a high priest or to honor the hero of the night, allowed Bobbert to take me aside for a private word.

“What,” he whispered impatiently, “are you reconsidering my offer?”

“It's not too late, is it?” I whispered back.

“Of course it's too late. When are we going to find another opportunity to get you beneath the radar? Everything was in place, and you threw it away.”

“Is there any other entrance to the under-underworld?”

“I gave you the map. See for yourself. Now if you don't mind –”

“Wait. You know how you kind of ruined my life and everything?”

“Don't even start. I tried to set things right.”

“All I'm asking is one little favor, and then we'll consider your debt paid.”

“How little?”

“Ask your dad if I can borrow his crystal.”

Bobbert considered this and shrugged. “Be right back.” He jogged over to his car, opened the passenger seat, and had a brief conversation with his father. Moments later, he was back at my side, presenting the crystal. “He says to give it back when you're done.”