by Galen Gower 

The Smiling Many-Squid’s judgment would come in the morning and Sand Flea had been up all night painting name symbols on the ceremonial pong-pong balls. He rubbed his eyes and bit his tongue in concentration.

“Police Station Donkey is… done!” He held up the pong-pong ball, turning it under the light to make sure the iron gall ink dried before putting it in the bag with the others. He only needed to finish four more. Sand Flea swelled with pride at being so close to finishing. The High Anointed Captious trusted him, and Sand Flea felt the trust was well-earned. He’d always worked hard, believing if he learned all he could, maybe one day he could interpret the will of the Smiling Many-Squid.

“The Smiling Many-Squid is a god of mystery, and it takes a keen, erudite mind to interpret his instruction.” The High Anointed Captious always made the judgment sound majestic. It helped the initiates to face their fate with bravery. Sand Flea knew everyone’s chances of judgment were equal when it came time to load the pong-pong ball picker; such was the wisdom of the Smiling Many-Squid. All were equal and all were provided for according to need.

As he painted Obdurate Flimsy’s name symbol, he reflected on all the study required to get his position as Head Pong-Pong Boy. He’d read all the Encyclopedia Britannica at least a dozen times and could almost recite the entire entry on Finger-medieval measurement. The Smiling Many-Squid provided all knowledge necessary for happy living, mostly from the Encyclopedia Britannica. The other initiates regarded him with reverence since his promotion. Second-in-command of the mystery and the majesty, and he’d learned the sour truth of it all completely by accident.

“The Smiling Many-Squid provides hot dogs for all the girls and boys as long as they believe in The High Anointed Captious,” he whispered with as much scorn as he could muster. With Obdurate Flimsy’s pong-pong ball finished, he no longer worried he’d run out of the special, extra-glittery black ink. There was plenty left, plus a whole bottle of regular ink to paint The High Anointed Captious’s name symbol. Sand Flea smiled to himself, imagining the Smiling Many-Squid’s judgment in just a few short hours.

His stomach grumbled, so he fetched a hot dog to munch while he finished painting. Now he knew the truth of the Smiling Many-Squid’s judgment, though the hot dogs were no less delicious with their salty, rich undertones. Their whole enclave ate nothing but hot dogs and were, in their turn, made into hot dogs, one person at a time. This brought balance to the world, a closed loop. His whole life Sand Flea had believed in this cosmic balance, right up until last week when he’d been alone in the chamber of judgment. He loved the sound of the pong-pong balls rattling around in the picker and his inherent inclination toward whimsy got the best of him. He’d just finished painting Boisterous Flapping Fart’s name symbol and wanted to hear the deliciously pleasing noise.

 Just for a minute.

 He sneaked into the chamber where the Smiling Many-Squid lived and opened the picker. When he dropped the ball, though, it bounced once and then glued itself to the side of the picker. Sand Flea stared, mouth open, as the ball quivered to a halt.

“Magnetism, charged particles moving through space, or it can be the motion of an electron in an atomic orbital.” He always quoted the Encyclopedia Britannica when he was confronted with a hard truth. The drawing, the judgment, the Smiling Many-Squid—all his pillars of belief crumbled as Sand Flea plucked the ball off the side of the picker and repeated the process with the same results. “Hypothesis tested, results replicated. The picker is rigged with magnets!”

Each week a new initiate was made into hot dogs, but now Sand Flea knew. It wasn’t the will of the Smiling Many-Squid, of that much he was certain. The ink was loaded with extra iron dust; The High Anointed Captious used it to ensure none of his cronies faced judgment. Sand Flea knew how to make the ink, though, and spent the entire night mixing up enough to use on all the name symbols for the next drawing. All except one.

Sand Flea finished his work just before the Gong of Judgment sounded. He filed into the chamber with everyone else. Silence descended as The High Anointed Captious held up the bag of pong-pong balls to start the ceremony.

“Where did we turn for salvation?” he intoned.

“The Smiling Many-Squid Hot Dog Factory!” the initiates answered as one.

“Who gave you your new names in the service of the Smiling Many-Squid?”

“The High Anointed Captious!”

The call and response continued until the picker was filled. Sand Flea watched the drum spin. If he didn’t know better, the squeak and rattle of the crank’s gears would have fooled him, just as it had for every previous drawing. One of The High Anointed Captious’s inner-circle pumped the ceremonial foot-bellows and a solitary pong-pong was drawn up into the chute. It dropped into the wire track and rolled, slow and sedate, into the basket. The High Anointed Captious picked up the ball to read the name symbol. He frowned.

“Er…The Smiling Many-Squid has…ahh…” he trailed off and searched the crowd of initiates for Sand Flea, his face dark with building rage.

“Who has the Smiling Many-Squid drawn for judgment?” Sand Flea called out and the other initiates took up the question. As the clamor for judgment grew, Sand Flea looked over to the Smiling Many-Squid Manual Hot Dog Grind & Case Express-o-Matic and began to compose his interpretations of its will. He would be promoted to a new rank and station by the other initiates; he’d earned their trust with years of diligent study. And he was certain The High Anointed Captious would taste delicious when he was ground into hot dogs. 

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About the Creator

Galen Gower writes stories and talks to plants. He lives in Memphis, TN with his wife Caroline and their spoiled-perfect dog Jane. Galen’s work has been published by Broken Antler Magazine, The Other Stories, Carnage House, and others. He curates the websites GalenGower.com and also ToadShadeZine.com.

About the Artist

Zarkus Bloot lives in the Czech Republic and wants everything destroyed, by Tuesday, if possible. You can buy his remastered Calvin & Hobbes collection here: Boy Und Beast