Hell's Cereal: Very Short Stories Fortified With Essential Syllables

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© 2020 Carnival of Glee Creations

William Allen Pepper

Hell’s Cereal: Very Short Stories Fortified With

Essential Syllables

All rights reserved. The stories contained herein originally appeared in whole or in part on the Atari Bytes podcast, copyright 2016-2020. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmited in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permision of the publisher or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Angency.. In a promotional capacity, brief quotations may be used so long as the author and original source are properly credited.

This book is published in the United States of America by Carnival of Glee Creations. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, dialogue, and plots are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual persons or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No infringement of existing copyright is intended.

Published by: Carnival of Glee Creations

Text and Cover Design by: Wiliam Allen Pepper

A CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9818647-5-4

E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9818647-6-1

Distributed by: Carnival of Glee Creations

William Allen Pepper

HELL’S CEREAL

VERY SHORT STORIES FORTIFIED WITH

ESSENTIAL SYLLABLES

Carnival of Glee Creations

Dedicated to Henry, my frequent ATARI BYTES cohost, and Sophie, who rolls her eyes a lot.

Also by WILLIAM ALLEN PEPPER:

Misery Banana: Very Short Stories Inspired by Old Games and Odd Thoughts

In the St. Nick of TIme (as William Pepper)

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HELL’S CEREAL

VERY SHORT STORIES FORTIFIED WITH

ESSENTIAL SYLLABLES

WILLIAM ALLEN PEPPER

BY WAY OF AN INTRODUCTION. SORT OF.

The author chews a spoonful of sugary delight, lost in anticipation of the secret toy surprise at the bottom of the cereal box. Suddenly, he realizes he’s not alone. Dabbing a dribble of milk off his chin, he gestures with the spoon. Oh, hi, he says. Welcome.

In the very first episode of the ATARI BYTES podcast, I talked about the iconic game Yar’s Revenge. In many ways, the game is emblematic of what video games were. Are. Probably always will be.

Wait! Don’t close this book! Never heard of Yar’s Revenge? Or Atari? Or the podcast? Don’t worry. All this is prelude; a look inside my head to see what spawned the stories in this book. Once completed, the stories are their own abomination; minimally, at best, tied to the games featured in the episodes of the show. Just follow me for a few more paragraphs.

Yar’s Revenge takes place in the cold darkness of space. Your Yar is on the left of the neutral zone and an alien-autopsy-looking spaceman is on the right. Honestly, he looks like the triangle-headed, huge-eyed alien you see on every alien autopsy show.

You’re the aggressor, really, not the avenger. You might as well be the Godfather - space Corleone, if you will – what with the kiss of death you lay on the alien and all

There’s a spaceman head in the game that doesn’t really do anything. And a floating Pez candy bugging you, but that’s about it.

You blast down the space face’s force field, kiss the alien, then blast his butt with a photon torpedo or something. Sometimes the autopsy alien turns into a blood red spiral of death and tries to annihilate you...but who hasn’t done that?

The photon torpedo homes in on your position. If you don’t move, you get blasted. Just you, moving around the screen, trying to stay alive. Describes pretty much any Atari game ever. And life too.

This is actually kind of a creepy, lonely game. Like one of those stories where the hero and the enemy are trapped together and have to decide whether to kill each other or find peace. Like Picard and the Tamarian captain in the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode Darmok or that Lou Gossett/Dennis Quaid movie Enemy Mine.

In those stories, the enemies become allies. In this game from decades ago, at least one of you dies. Both of you, really, because once you turn the game console off, it’s all over. Everyone in that game world, so recently brought to vibrant life, ceases to be once again.

Countless worlds spread out before you in video games. Beneath every Yar, every Mario, every Burger Time chef and gorilla with a paint roller (looking at you, Amidar), there’s inspiration for a wide range of stories; settings, names, plots off of which a story can spiral like that autopsy alien spiral of death. Sometimes for me - okay most of the time - the story spiral lands somewhere completely different. Could be another planet, could be this planet. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Alone or in a huge crowd. Fantasy, sci-fi, family or workplace drama, spy adventure, flat out comedy, even occasionally bad poetry. Often as not, I build a whole story off just the title of a game without knowing anything about the game itself.

Every week, I pick a new game and write a new short story from scratch. The games are writing prompts for me, not required playing for you; though I would totally recommend you play. These games are excellent.

Thus, ATARI BYTES was born. And, by extension, this book. You’re welcome! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go grab that toy out of the cereal box before my kids get it.

SPEAKEASY, BUT GET THIS DAMN MONKEY OFF MY BACK

Niles’s toothache wouldn’t have bothered him near as much if the flapper riding in the passenger seat of his roaring Bugatti 35 racer would shut up.

His passenger’s bracelets clacked together as her hands waved. This auto is the bee’s knees, she shouted.

Leave me alone, Niles shouted.

Rhatz, with a prominent h and a z, she pouted playfully, still smiling.

But then, she was gone.

The Bugatti barreled down the road. Niles had to get there. He didn’t know where there was exactly - wherever it was, he would be the first to arrive.

Sweat - and tears maybe - blurred his vision. He wiped an already moist sleeve across his face just in time to swerve the Bugatti away from smearing the flapper who now stood in the middle of the road. Her gams woulda been no better than kindling if Niles wasn’t such a good driver.

I’m good, I’m good, he told himself.

The flapper was gone again. Only the road remained. Just Niles and his road. Like always. The road to somewhere. And nowhere.

The road bubbled and curved. Rippling like a pond. Niles wasn’t just driving a car. He was commanding a mighty vessel.

But then his tooth pain roared forth. Niles whimpered.

Hey, spiffy, the flapper said, again in the seat next to him. Let’s you and me find a gin mill. A little hooch’ll fix up that kisser of yours.

Scram, would ya? Niles said. I know what I need.

Yeah, a fine ol’ whoopee if you ask me, the flapper said.

I said ‘scram’, Niles yelled, reaching across the woman to open the passenger side door.

Laughing as she rolled out, the flapper called, Don’t be such a bluenose, bub. She disappeared before she hit the ground.

Niles gripped the wheel as both lifeline and enemy. His tooth throbbed. He needed a dentist. A special dentist. One who had just the right touch.

Lights appeared up ahead. A car was approaching. The Bugatti’s tires crunched through the gravel on the shoulder of the road. Niles wanted to turn and flee. He knew what that car was. Crashin’ Clyde - that’s what Niles called it - had pursued Niles for years. Niles couldn’t shake him.

Clyde approached, head on. Never slowing. In the game of chicken, Niles blinked first and swerved. Niles always blinked. He hated himself for it, but always got back out on the road.

Even with Clyde behind him, the road had gotten longer somehow. Niles’s tooth seemed to be barking orders now.

A large, rabid canine. Snarling. Drooling. Running alongside the Bugatti. Crashin’ Clyde held the leash, gave a salute with his other hand. Niles tried to swerve away, but Clyde was persistent.

Niles gunned it. Clyde kept apace.

The Bugatti rolled to a stop in front of the office of Dr. Wilson Winston, DDS. Niles leapt frantically from the car, stumbled inside in a spray of sweat and desperation.

Dr. Winston sat with his feet up on the desk, reading a newspaper.

Doc, you gotta hook me up, Niles said. My tooth is killing me.

Winston barely looked up from the box scores. You were just here yesterday.

Yeah, weird huh? Niles said.

Is it your left molar?

That’s the one.

I pulled that last week, Winston said.

Oh, Niles said. I thought you meant MY left, your right.

I did, Dr. Winston said, still not looking up.

Uh...

You’re wasting your time, Niles, Dr. Winston said, neatly folding the paper and placing it on the desk before him. Scientists have figured out the addictive properties of cocaine outweigh its usefulness as an anesthetic. It’s pretty heavily regulated now. Winston shrugged.

Niles’s pounding heart sent the blood rushing through his ears, so he wasn’t sure he heard right. So...no coke then?

Winston shook his head. Well, my brother’s a bootlegger so I’ve got a bottle of bathtub gin and some rusty pliers... He laughed. Niles did not.

Niles beat it out of the dentist’s office.

Hold on, Niles, Dr. Winston called after him. I was kidding. Let me help.

The Bugatti left rubber as Niles sped off to he knew not where. But he could still hear Crashin’ Clyde laughing over his shoulder...

This story was inspired by ATARI BYTES episode 157: DODGE ‘EM, though I can’t remember anything other than cars in that game that would explain this. See what you’re in for?

THE FUTURE, MADE TO ORDER

December 26 is a day for reflection at the North Pole. As the elves scramble to winterize the sleigh, ice down the reindeers’ joints and store all the empty toy bags, Nick gives Mrs. Claus his candy cane, then takes a long winter nap. But time works differently at the pole, so he’s up in time for a sugary brunch.

With his appetites sated, Nick then convenes a meeting of his senior elf staff to do a postmortem on the Christmas gift distribution. This administrative stuff is boring and makes Nick crabby. That does not bode well for head elf Sam.

Sam had been an elf at the pole for centuries. He became Head of Wrapping and Distribution around the time America became a country. Under his tenure, present wrapping became more efficient- not every package needs a bow, save scraps left from wrapping large boxes to wrap small ones, don’t go nuts with the tape. Stuff like that. Plus, distribution of outgoing gifts to Santa’s bags was quicker so he got the presents down the chimneys faster.

Sam had been considering asking for a raise. Another gingerbread per hour. It didn’t seem unreasonable.

And so, Sam was perplexed when Santa asked to meet with him alone. Santa was a people person. He liked a group dynamic. One-on-one wasn’t a good arrangement for Santa. Past Santas had secretly infiltrated the mall Santa world. Not Nick. He couldn’t handle it. It got creepy and weird. There are a couple malls in the Detroit area he can’t go to anymore. So for him to ask to meet alone with Sam… well, that couldn’t be good.

Sam thought this year was pretty flawless. Yeah, a couple kids in Holland were confused when they got the surfboards meant for kids in the Florida Keys who instead got wooden shoes. That sort of thing is bound to happen in a network as huge as the pole. And there was that family at the parsonage in Alberta whose gifts were wrapped in pornographic gift wrap, but that was a system hack by the bitter, outgoing Tooth Fairy and not Sam’s fault.

Have a seat, Sam, Nick said, voice and eye-twinkle both muted. His coat was off. One fire-engine red suspender strap was over his beefy shoulder, the other hung limp at his waste. Was that a cocoa stain on his shirt? This early in the day?

Sam flopped down in a marshmallow-shaped chair. He was nervous, wanted to fill the space with his own voice as he feared what Santa’s booming voice might bring. I’ve got some ideas for after the post-Christmas break, Sam said in a rush. If we start now, I think we can overhaul the whole world distribution system by next Christmas. Tough, but doable. I’m thinking an alphabetical system.

Sounds good, Santa said, but his words didn’t match his tone. He clearly wasn’t listening. But...well, you see..

And we have new data on the most pleasing wrapping paper colors.. Sam started to say, in rapid-fire. Santa raised his hand.

"Sam, wait. I have to tell you