They locked us in a dungeon room of the palace, surrounded by antiquated torture devices. We could hear the screams of disobedient devils in other chambers, echoing off the walls. Mictlancihuatl, Death God, said we had three hours to figure out how to make music from the conch shell, which had no holes or apertures. After that, he was going to make us wish we had never been divinely created.
The cell reeked of Napalm, rat poop, and mold. The conch shell sat, smooth, in my hand, as silent as a double-crosser who just got ratted out. Xolotl, my canine companion, sprawled across the cold stone floor, eyeing me with a droopy gaze.
"This joint’s closed tighter than a drum. We’re stuck trying to play a tune on a quiescent conch," I muttered, feeling like a dead man's last joke.
Xolotl let out a low growl. "Last time we were in a bind like this, you pulled a rabbit out of your hat. Or was it a snake from your ass?”
“I don’t even remember how we gave him the slip last time.” I tipped my fedora back, reviewing scenes from the distant past on my mind’s drive-in movie screen. “I think you slipped him a Mickey.”
Xolotly barked at the memory. “What about that time when you showed the first human beings where to find food? Didn’t you turn yourself into an ant and find corn, bringing it back to those lost hungry people? Something like that.”
“That’s true!”
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