#bemdy

Henry was utterly stupefied at the sight before him; not the door on the other side of the spectacle, no, but at the spectacle itself. He was bamboozled. Disoriented, to say the least, confounded by contrived circumstances. Perplexed and at a wit’s end, and he wasn’t sure if it was his. His mind was muddled, his name was mud, and the bacon soup tasted like dirt.

Well, actually, that was true even before this situation. Which, by the way, was innately brain-addling.

The monstrosity before him was nothing more than an eyesore. Hopefully, that was just figurative, but after facing down ink horrors before, he was still at a stand-still as to whether he could actually bet on anything making any sense quite yet.

The form was perplexing. Blots of ink floated in the air, distorted and removed from gravity, yet somehow still connected to the whole mass of the creature. The thing itself was, as a whole, some sort of abstract art assignment given by an overly ambitious kindergarten teacher who was convinced that his class was going to prove that he was the epitome of academic excellence in teaching, despite having flunked out of college while working as a professor.

The dean had personally torn up the diploma and thrown it about like confetti, as if celebrating the discovery of a stealth-moron.

But that’s not here, that’s there; that is, the only description of events that could have possibly created this, this excrescence of ink.

The abstraction, he mused, was hardly amusing nor thought provoking. It was, effectively, what most abstract paintings looked like, except it legitimately didn’t have a single layer beyond its superficial appearance.

And then, the Epic Mickey villain reject spoke.

“Huy,” came a noise vaguely resembling decipherable language, “Bemdy hur to killz yah.”

Henry blinked.

“Runz! Runz ‘fore Bemdy killz yah!”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Henry asked, unblinking, “You have no right to do anything right now aside from the cessation of existence. Just - you’re literally defying the laws of gravity, and you don’t even look coherent. Maybe if you just looked like a creature from the inky depths, this’d be fine, but - well, let me put it shortly. Y’all’n’t’ve-”

The sudden abomination of conjunctions that Henry recalled from an open-book test on what not to do when writing literature came into conflict with ‘Bemdy’. The two clashed, the word ripping through Bemdy’s gelid ink form, before both dissipated in what was most likely the dying scream of the most immediate quantum physicist.

Unfortunately, this was not Henry, because instead of taking a major in physics like his ol’ grandpapa told him to, he decided to go to art school. Sure, it worked out in the end, but maybe the physics major could have spared him from what was approaching.

Joey Drew suddenly appeared and told Henry to get back to work on those drafts, because Friday was coming a lot sooner than it probably should have been, given that most days have at least twenty four hours; as it turned out, Monday had been reduced to ten hours, Tuesday got twenty-nine, Wednesday got eight, and Thursday got a measly twelve minutes.

All told, even Tuesday’s ruthlessly greedy nature did nothing to offset the amount of time that was currently being thrown out the window.

So Henry started drawing in his final hours before the end of all existence, as the universe rebooted itself while the local operator of reality scratched his head, muttering, ‘hold up, that’s not right’.

Henry blinked as he felt the briefest sensation of falling, before turning around and high-tailing it down the hallway, hoping to evade the demon’s clutches for another few moments before he was, in all likelihood, murdered.