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Oliver Benjamin                            
They crept slowly along the walls and made their way silently
back, past the kitchen and the bathroom, to the garden. Dawn was
approaching and the garden had become bathed in a faint
preternatural light, reflected high off the upper atmosphere. The
garden itself appeared to have been blackened, but that was only
because it was full of filthy young people in black apparel prostrate
on the grass. They were all asleep or unconscious, snoring violently,
thrashing about here and there. It looked like a butcher shop in
which the carnage was still semi-sentient.
“We’ve been invaded,” Izzy complained.
“By such pathetic conquistadores,” Bennie said.
Before they could stop him, Colin grabbed Roy’s garden hose and
like a man possessed commenced to mercilessly awaken the sleeping
He screamed: “Get the (thwack) fuck (thwack) out of my
(thwack) home you (thwack) motherfucking abortions of (thwack)
incestuous mongoloid dog parasites!” (thwack thwack thwack)
The thugs jumped to their booted feet and stumbled away from
Colin’s frantic assault, shrieking and puking and gesticulating in his
“I’m giving you ten seconds to get out of here,” Colin screamed,
“Or you’ll find yourselves back in Hell where you belong.”
One of them stood up slowly from where he had been laying in an
embrace with two semi-nude girls. He cut a monstrous figure in black
leather pants, boots, and no shirt. It would have been hard to find a
shirt to contain him. Moving out to the front of the confused bunch,
the enormous thug reached down and picked up a full bottle of Jack
Daniel’s, drained half of it in his mouth, then threw it at Colin’s head.
But Colin caught it and guzzled the other half, wiping the back of
his mouth with his forearm. “I would have drank it faster,” he said,
“but for the stink. You really should floss.”
The leader, having broken every bone in his body at least once,
appeared to have permanently damaged his funny one. He could only
bark out the cold and sinister facts.
“We’re already in Hell, idiot. Didn’t you see the new marquee?
This place is now called “Hell Dorado.”
The anarchists surrounding him chanted, “Hell Dorado! Hell
“The Hellish Paradise,” the leader elucidated, “And we’re the
legal owners of it. The bank repossessed it and we bought it off them.
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