Elmo's Inferno

Elmo went to hell the end

O-Oh my god.. that was... *sniffle* So... just so touching.

Let me re-introduce Sir Elmo the Gallant....

The sun was blistering on his face, fur, bleached orange, but this a joke compared to the struggle he had just overcome..

Lucifer and his armies lay in ruins at Satan's throne. Elmo, a normal every day puppet, was banished to hell after he was prosecuted by Count Chocula for the ruthless and obscene murder of Lord Cookie Monster, and the irrelevant arson and robbery charges. Down in hell, Elmo learned a lot. Upon his arrival, he was brutally raped and taken advantage of by Dante, an elder puppet of the first Sesame Street season.

Ya'll don't know how its suppose to go.

The lighter was lit, the pills were swallowed. Darkness made it so nothing exist anymore. The only amount of light was being fueled by gas, or maybe it was by something else. The darkness had took his soul so long ago, everything was going down and fast. How many times was someone supposed to hit rock bottom until they couldn't climb back up anymore? Maybe three or four, but when does the cycle end? Since the cancellation of his show Elmo had seen nothing but dark days. Lonely, needing attention from the children that once loved him so much. If they could only see him now, laying in a puddle of his own urine and tears, oh how they would think nothing of him. Just a lowly puppet, just wasted energy. Alcohol and oil filled the room with an array of smells that only a sewer rat could appreciate. With the slip of a hand a fire broke loose, only for a moment could you see the relief on his face. To another place where pain wouldn't hurt him, where hope was all around. He disappeared into the light, and all that was left was darkness.

The night was quiet now.. Nothing but the wind whipping up the ash of Elmo, his bottles lay rolling around, blackened, and soot laden. The moon shown down on another sorrowful soul that night, Big Bird...

He walked down the cold wet pavement towards Main street, the cool September wind wrapping around his neck. He wore a large, dark green trench coat, and white converse all-stars. His starched khakis didn't match the dirty and depressed soul that it armored. He looked up at the moon and winked at it, laughing to himself, he pulled out a rubber piece of tubing and walked around the corner. Unbuckling his coat, feathers bursting out, Big Bird got out his needle kit. He pulled his feathers up, and putting a turnicut on his chicken skin. This had become a common ritual. It was almost like reliving his glory days, the feeling, how exquisite it felt. As he pushed the needle into his pulsating vein a grin creeped between his teeth...