Heck: Where the Bad Kids Go by Dale E. Basye Page B

carbonation.”
    He rubbed the tight, dark coils of his woolly beard in reflection.
    â€œI was obsessed with trying to outdo myself, to concoct breakthrough beverages, each more delicious than the last. Then, one morning after a prolonged illness, I emerged from my sickbed to perfect my fizzvescent masterwork, which unfortunately left me with a sunroof for a stomach.”
    The redheaded boy picked his nose and yawned loudly. “So, Dr. Gutless, did you make anything that anyone could actually drink?” The boy’s beefy twin brother sniggered behind him.
    Dr. Pemberton jabbed his finger in the air. “Another unsolicited comment like that, and I’ll give you lot a pop quiz!”
    He sat down and mopped his brow with a rag plucked from his lab coat. “Well, right out of the gate, I created my first, historic formulation, one which I cannot name due to a trademark agreement so all-encompassing that it even applies to the afterlife. But for every successful beverage in your local supermarket, there are thousands of quiet failures.”
    The teacher stared wistfully at the table of frothing beakers. “They all seemed like good ideas at the time. Nurse Pepper and Ms. Pibb were two sodas I made just for women, to capitalize on the suffragist movement. Mountain Don’t and Six Down were two others that went belly-up before they could even go down anyone’s throat.”
    Milton furrowed his brows. “If your drink was so popular, why are you here? Every kid I know loves soda. They can’t get enough…oh…I get it.”
    Dr. Pemberton scowled and examined his class list. “Hmm…Mr. Fauster, is it? Thank you
so
much for picking at the scab covering my ultimate wound.”
    The teacher rifled through his desk drawer, pulled out a Tums, and swallowed it. The tablet soon clattered to the floor.
    â€œApparently,” he continued, “four out of five dentists are on the Almighty’s board of directors.”
    With a mournful sigh, Dr. Pemberton put his handkerchief up to his nose. He inhaled deeply and shook himself out of his funk.
    â€œNow, if we can focus less on me and more on our subject…”
    The teacher rose, collected an armful of bound textbooks, and ambled down the aisle, plopping the heavy books down in front of the dumbfounded boys.
    â€œClass—and I use the term loosely—it’s time to pick a partner and make some chemistry!”
    Milton and the grossly overweight boy were the two left after everyone else picked everybody else. The boy leaned toward Milton and inhaled deeply. “You smell like a s’more.”
    The boy’s pupils expanded as he eyed Milton hungrily. Milton suddenly felt as if he were a particularly enticing item on a dessert tray.
    â€œUh, my name’s Milton.”
    The boy snapped out of his hunger-induced hallucination. “I’m Virgil. Virgil Farrow,” he said, offering his bandaged hand in greeting. Milton shook it gently, while the boy’s small, kind eyes winced in pain.
    â€œSorry,” offered Milton.
    â€œDon’t worry about it. It’s my own dumb fault. I know the only decent food in that Automat is just bait in a trap. But still, sometimes my tummy has a mind of its own.”
    Milton was at a loss for words. Virgil was the first person in Heck who was actually conversing with him, not just yelling at him—other than Marlo, that is. He thought of that freaky pamphlet he had been given,
So You’re Dead,
and the suggested conversation starters he thought he’d never need.
    Milton cleared his throat.
    â€œWho were you?” he asked cheerfully. “You look great! Did you die in your sleep?”
    Virgil smirked at Milton. “That’s funny…that stupid pamphlet…like that thing could help anyone.”
    Milton looked down at his Bunsen burner. “Yeah. Stupid pamphlet.”
    Virgil flipped through his ancient chemistry