As Ms Rice disembarked the boat, jumping into three feet of grimy water by the dock, suckling around her legs like acid eating metal were insects, then making her way through the thick green roots and foliage, the undergrowth of the slimy river, she pushing her body forward comparable to a car being pushed in snow by another car, even getting ahead of the subdued Neanderthal’s, she reached out to the banks the stairway to the pier, as she set foot on the first step, pulled her body upward, dark soil, mud mixed with slim, possibly residue from previous passengers, thus, she grabbed onto the wooden beams leading up to the upper dock, some several steps up.

There at the top, there standing in the dismal of the new experience, the event that was to take place, her new home of homes, her everlasting abode, was no music playing, no one to great them, no relatives like at the airport, or at Christmas time, knocking at your door. The two folks that was in her boat with her were standing stone-still, still in the boat, shaking from their knees to the top of their heads, as Ms Rice walked dignified, and diligently to the gates, she turned about, stubbornly looking at the two women in the vessel, whom now the Neanderthal-creature had to push to get out of the boat, whom would not budge before: now tears were coming down from their eyes, screams, biting of the gums, their teeth chattering, they were now trying to get back into the boat seated, the Neanderthal simply looked at them jump back into the boat—, tirelessly they sat in the boat as if they were going to go someplace other then here, as if there was another destination. They even tried to pick up the giant ore, but it was too heavy, way too heavy for them. Now with the two giant guards at the gates [Buer and Gusoyn] the Neanderthal [Botis] all started laughing as if the show had just started, but the three couldn’t figure out Ms Rice’s plight; somehow they expected something else, yet they were quite interested in where it all would lead.

Attack of the River Rat

To the side of the dock area was a small mound, cliff, a woman had just been raped, and a guard was standing over her as if others would come and have their fun sooner or later, she was no more dead then dead could be, in hell, but the scorn of dying while already dead was taking place, she was the sleeping dead, possibly trying to disassociated from the happening. No one was bashful, and if anything, it was—or could have been the place for other rapes, to show the new comers you were helpless like her, as her, kind of a slap in the face before you actually reached shore, took your first step on the premises land, the land of hell, for there are two lands promised, is that not true.

Not far away, a new person who had just come ashore was attacked by a fifty-pound river rat, being eaten alive, and then the body regained its shape to begin all over again.

Rape in Hell

The gates were towering as was the two towers next to the gates, possibly a hundred feet high were the walls where the two demonic beings looking overhead, looking down from the wall, by the side tower downward to the incoming—the new residents, passengers, tenants if you will, smiling, not, nothing else just smiling and laughing. Yet the one Neanderthal continued to laugh hardier, and mock the two women who would not leave the boat. The plight of Ms Rice was more on the interest of the two looking down from about, Buer and Gusoyn. No one had coats or shoes on, nothing was on their bodies—that is the passengers, the guards hand only belts on, clubs and knifes and swords on their belts, whips and other instruments of torture, and they were all naked other than that. The two women were covering their private parts—as if they could be covered for eternity, but the Neanderthal knew it was just a matter of time before their hands would drop—they always did, and modesty would melt like a burned out candle; they would uncover themselves—helplessly uncover themselves, and join the nakedness of this awful world they were entering—it was the norm, it was as common as the ugly faces they were seeing, and soon the ugliness would be common too—just like those who proclaimed Picassos painting to be ugly, so commonality would prevail, and ugly would be the norm; thought Ms Rice, thus, everything would be nothing more than shared aims, how despicable.

The two demonic beings looking down now were spitting black gook onto the new-comers—snot and slim droppings from their mouths and noses, Ms Rice got some in her face, but she simply wiped it away, and gave a smirk back—she got another wad of spit that covered her eye, evidently they didn’t like the smirk, but it didn’t faze her that time either. That in itself was cause for disharmony; the two looked at one another in wonderment, as if to say: what now.

Gusoyn, Agaliarept’s Assistant

As she entered the gateway, and walking through it, she now could hear the chattering of a busy city, a most strange metropolis people going in, but no one going out, that is, no one was around her though, but nonetheless, she heard it—somewhere in the distance, the voices were coming, drifting out to her more than around her she took note of, as if they were a mass of echoes pushing their way to her, fighting to get to her, possibly around the corners of the passageways around the building in front of her, the old stone temples at Uruk and Babylon, and the structures along side of her were the walls, to her left back side was the huge gate, lofty gates with its even higher towers attached to the gates—Opiel was the one to open the gates she noticed, so a man called him that as if it was his name, again saying,

“Hurry up gatekeeper, Opiel—, get them doors open…” and he did heave those gates with his massive arms.

—She did not hurriedly surrender her will, as expected by the custodians of the gate, the wall guards, the eyes of the night that seemed to follower her every move. It had been something like two hours since her death, or at least that is how she calculated it: there was no time per se in this dreadful environment, no clocks. She noticed a few of the demonic creatures scratching their necks; —thought her: chaos survives; miserably it does, looking up to the muscular sky, thickest now since she had entered this underground world of sorts.

Actually now, she was standing inside the border area of the Gateway City—as it would become known to her, some fifty-feet inside the gates that is to say, where people were coming and going, for the most part, the passengers were not returning though the gates, but still there were a number of people walking around this Gateway City, now looking, gawking at her, inquisitive strangers for the most part, demonic beings, even a few rats stopped to peer at her newness to this acropolis, or so it seemed as they came from around the corners to see who was coming through the gates, but no one meeting anyone—no one even talking to anyone. If only she had known. Not many walked back to the gates of hell, the gates she walked through, although they’d stop by, stand at a distance, and walk through this long stretched out walled city of sorts; it was only a reminder of when they walked through them gates thought Ms Rice.

Then strangely enough, she thought out loud,

“Where are the fires? You know the legendary fires of hell…?” The fires of hell she so much heard about when she was a child in church. She didn’t know hell had its degrees of intimidation, as heaven had its rewards for meritorious service on earth. But, as someone once said: all in time, accordingly, she would be educated in the fineries of the establishment. And so chatter or not, she looked to and fro, for a direction to go, ‘Ye,’ she commented, to a walker by,

“…do you know of a…” and before she could finish her sentence, the man, longed legged, heavy looking mustache, with handle-bars, looked to be from another time period almost, simply said,

“…mind your own business,” and continued to walk aimlessly, as if he had no direction, just walked, or if he had a direction he was doing some kind of checking, inspecting, but nonetheless he spoke to her, she was hopeful now; —but time she had, and so she didn’t feel slighted, surely she’d find someone who knew her father, and perhaps this stranger would make his rounds again and she’d get to ask her question.

Interlude

The Dungeons

See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com see Dennis' books at http://www.bn.com or http://www.abe.com

• Visual Arts-As Old as Civilization


• A Prayer, for Hell [Chapter 1 & 2 of 18]


• A Prayer for Hell [Chatper #3: At Hells Gates]


• Bartending Secrets Revealed Special Report - Two Strategies to Instantly Increase Your Tips


• Choosing the Right Ballet Slippers


• The Legend of: The Vast Viper of Cajatambo


• The Wild Dove (a Sonnet to Elvis)


• The World of the Macabre


• Chess - Sounds of Silence


• Blood


• Why Like that Artwork? Recognizing True Soul


• Highway of the Dead [Two poems: Clark A. Smith]