Chapter 6: How To Escape From Hell

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        Numerous attempts-- all abject failures-- were made to escape from that damned cage. Our heroes tried, too; believe me, they tried. They attempted some psychomagik without their Psych Stones, but, alas, it seemed that the mad doctor Zecharia had placed anti-spell charms on the cage. Why... is anybody's guess. It's not like he'd been abducting Psychomagi before, had he? Locking them up in his secret underground laboratory. Performing twisted psychotic experiments on them. Shit, maybe he had. Maybe those zombies were once space-wizards? That's some heavy stuff. Let me dwell on that some more...

        Anyway, Olive and Mike tried spells, Oliver and Meche tried picking the lock with their bootlaces. They tried slamming against the cage-door with all their combined weight and might. Nothing worked. And those damned shambling reanimated corpses were getting closer, stumbling like drunken two-year-olds, arms splayed and reaching for the metaphorical cookie-jar, groaning like stoned bears with the munchies.

        So our heroes sat, without complaint, next to the ever-so-slowly decaying corpse of Screwy the landshark. It wasn't going well for our mismatched band. Even worse was the brain-dead Ronaldo, who stood in front of the cage-door, stupidly watching and waiting for whatever was in store.

        So, as I said in the previous paragraph, our heroes sat. Olive and Mike had opted to pass time by playing patty-cake, while Oliver and Meche traced each other's matching scars with their fingertips.

        "This sucks," Meche said with melancholic tones. "Wasting away with these gross things." She gave a head-bob to the zombie crapping all over his own two feet. "I would have rather been eaten by Ronaldo."

        As if there were still some small part inside that magik-muddled mind of his, Ronaldo tilted his head upon hearing his own name. He had sunglasses over his eyes-- so the others weren't able to see how droopy and tired-looking he appeared.

        "Yeah, we're talking about you, Ronaldo," Mike said, before returning to slapping Olive's hands as that classic rhyming-clapping game warranted.

        The landshark's gaze turned to Mike now.

        That was when the lightbulb went off in Olive's head. She suddenly lowered her hands and Mike's hand accidentally rocketed forward, touching one of her large breasts. She didn't seem to mind, notice or care. "I've got it!" she cried.

        "Got what?" Oliver asked glumly. "A way out? That would be helpful."

        "Possibly," Olive replied. She stood up and went to the cage-door. "Can you hear me, Ronaldo?" She saw the landshark's head tilt to the side. "You can, can't you? I know you don't like me because I'm human, but I-- we-- can help you. We can protect you from that man. He tricked you. Put a spell on you. But you can fight it. You can. You're a creature of magik. You can overcome it. But you have to find that part inside of you that still wants to be free. It's there, Ronaldo. Find it and help us. Help us help you. Open the cage for us."

        A great shudder traced its way from Ronaldo's tail fins up to his head. He twitched and squirmed, wiggled and wriggled. His pectoral fins jerked. Then clenched. Unclenched. A grin appeared on his face. Mouth wide. Teeth shining. Smiling. Lopsided. Now full. The poor once-evil-mastermind was waging a war of wills within the walls of his own mind and body.

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