Three non-ticket people stepped out of the clouds surrounding Marke. Marke nodded at them and they grabbed both his upper arms. He placed the pamphlet in his bag that held all his other bags so he wouldn’t drop it. The security people turned Marke around and threw him. He fell through the cloud floor, instead of landing on it. When Marke fell out of the bottom of the clouds, he saw the tents and booths of the fair far below him. Marke no longer felt calm–he screamed in terror.


    “Kente!” He yelled. “Kente!”


    “Marke!” Kente yelled back. “We’re gonna die!”


    Marke screamed until he ran out of breath. As he fell, a few people looked up and pointed at him. Marke managed to refill his lungs from the air rushing past and he began to scream again. He screamed until he crashed through the top of a huge red tent and lost consciousness.


    <hr>


    Marke woke up somewhere very hot. He opened his eyes and saw only shades of red. The ground was hard rough stone. Marke pushed himself up to a sitting position. In front of him, Marke saw another scaly ticket person. This time, they stood with no booth or desk, just a small flat table that hung from straps around their shoulders.


    “Welcome to Hell, bucko!” They said. Like everything else, their scales were a shade of red. “Step right up!” They said.


    “Oh no.” Kente said.


    Marke stood up and brushed himself off. He still wore the white robe and sandals and his basket-bag. The person waited patiently. Marke tried to find a way around the person, but he was surrounded by sheer stone walls topped by a stone roof, like a cave. He tried to climb one of the walls but couldn’t grip anything. The person blocked the only way out and Marke wasn’t about to touch them for fear of melting. Marke sighed and stepped up to the person.


    “Welcome to Hell, bucko!” They said again. They held out their hand. “Your name tag, please.”


    Marke didn’t need any prompting from Kente this time. “Why?” He asked.


    “To enter the hell portion of this realm, your name tag needs to be converted.” The person said.


    “What does ‘converted’ mean?” Marke asked.


    The person spat on Marke’s feet. Marke yelped as the spin burned him like boiling water. He hopped on one foot and leaned against the wall. “Ow!” He said. “Why did you do that?”


    The person still held out their hand. “Your name tag, please.” They repeated.


    Marke hesitated. He looked at the stone walls again to see if something had magically changed that would let him escape. Nothing had changed. Kente, you better hide in the shadow sea just in case. Lets try removing my name tag. Marke said. Will do. Good luck. Kente replied.


    Marke stood with his feet apart, knees bent to dodge. When his name tag disappeared, Marke pointed at his chest and said, “I don’t have a name tag.”


    The ticket person withdrew their hand and blinked a few times. The sound of a metal hatch banging open drew Marke’s attention to the roof. He had only a moment to scream before a wave of lava crashed down on him.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    <hr>


    Marke opened his eyes to see the vanilla pudding starter cave. He shuddered in discomfort once again at the transition from panicked body to calm body. He sat up. He still wore the white robe and sandals and he had his bag with the bags and pamphlet inside.


    “Kente.” He said. “Guess how I died.”


    Kente didn’t respond, so Marke moved his mind to the shadow sea. Kente was there, pacing back and forth. “Hey Kente. Guess how I died.” Marke said.


    Kente stopped pacing and gave Marke a quick hug. “Oh man, was it bad? Did they melt you again?”


    Marke hugged Kente back briefly. “No, it wasn’t as bad as I would have expected. Go on, guess.” He said.


    Kente shook his head. “I don’t know. Boiled alive? Flayed into ribbons? Head bitten off?” He guessed.


    Marke grinned. “I got crushed by lava.” He said.


    “You mean burned by lava?” Kente asked.


    “Nope!” Marke said. “Apparently, molten rock is heavy enough that it just crushes you when poured out of a hatch twenty feet up.” Marke laughed at the incredulous expression on Kente’s face.


    The two spent a while discussing their visit to the “heaven” and “hell” portions of the realm. It was clear to them now the “fair” was some sort of awful purgatory slapped between the parts of the realm specifically funded by the lord of pain and the holy destroyer. When they were done talking, Kente had Marke practice his tai chi movements. It had been a couple of weeks since Marke had found space to practice, so he was pretty rusty. He went through the motions until he got hungry enough to be a distraction.


    “Better get it over with.” Marke said. He walked out of the cave, ducking the banners and rolling through the terms and conditions. He paused at the end of the tunnel, looking at the ticket person. It was the same person with scaly blue skin wearing a black leather cowboy hat that Marke had met after each death. Marke looked over the shoulder of the ticket person at the ‘suspicious’ poster.


    “Kente! My picture isn’t on the suspicious list any more!” He nearly cheered, but didn’t want to draw the attention of the person yet. “Take off my name tag–I’m gonna get a new one.”


    “Roger that!” Kente said. The name tag disappeared from Marke’s chest, and he walked confidently towards the ticket booth.


    “Step right up and get your free* name tag! That’s right, bucko!” A person with a big smile and scaly blue skin wearing a black leather cowboy hat stood inside the ticket booth. They pulled out a stack of paper tickets and began fanning themself with it. “Once you have a name tag you can trade for tickets. Step right up!”


    Marke grinned and stepped up to the ticket booth. The worker slid across a name tag and a pen. Marke wrote, “Basket Weaving” on the name line. The name tag slapped itself onto Marke’s chest, and Marke walked past the booth and into the fair. He slipped the pen (which he had not returned) into his bag. Marke wandered around, looking for a booth where he could sell a memory.


    “Marke, I can’t keep holding this name tag forever. I think we should merge it with mine.” Kente said.


    “Right, sorry.” Marke said. “I forgot you had to hold the extra tag. Yes, I think merging it with yours will be good.” He said.


    “Done.” Kente said.


    “What level are you?” Marke asked. Kente read off the contents of his name tag.


    <code>NAME: Priority One Priority Two Priority Three Priority Four


    LEVEL: 5


    EXPERIENCE: 0/500


    TICKETS: 0


    DEATHS: 3


    HP: 15


    MP: 15


    STR: 15


    DEX: 15


    INT: 15


    CHR: 15</code>


    “Being level zero must not be good enough to give a level when combining name tags.” Kente said. Marke didn’t reply because he had found a memory booth.


    Marke sold the memory of falling out of the sky for six hundred tickets. He and the worker were both stunned at the amount, and the worker congratulated him on having a memory so intense and lengthy. Marke tucked the tickets into his bag and wandered away in a daze. He tried to buy a sandwich at a concession stand and was reminded about the minimum level restriction. He walked to another stand, this time wearing Kente’s higher level name tag. The sandwich was as wonderfully stale as he remembered and the water just as plastic. They switched name tags again and browsed the games, looking for useful prizes.