Lucifer's Lottery (19 page)

Howard explains further, in his piping accent, “You see, Lucifer wants them
filled
. And what they’re filled with—the urine of Hell—must remain
contained
; hence, the Flesh Welders. A gasified pontica dust provides the occult mist, which seals them shut. This way, the urine can never be voided.”

Gagging, you watch more. The captives, now swollen as if pregnant, are roughed off the gurneys and shooed out of the camp, their mouths and crotches “welded” shut forever.

Then your eyes steal back to the hideous pumps where the next deposition of unfortunates are being filled. Each gallon dings a bell, abdomen’s quickly distend; then they’re sealed with the welder and moved on. A stolid efficiency.

“Why?” you rail. “This makes no sense! Why are they FILLING PEOPLE WITH PISS!”

Howard shrugs off your alarm. “Because the very notion pleases Lucifer. He quite simply thrills at the idea—he likes for his detractors to be
filled
. Wombs, bellies, bowels. By your abhorrence, I take it that you’d prefer
not
to witness the Excrement Pumps at the next compound?”

“Get me out of here!” you shriek.

“Fill ’em up!” the Constab yells again, and as Howard hastens you out, that steady
ding-ding-ding
of the pumps follows . . .

A mental fog veils your vision as Howard lopes away. You pass several Agonicity Transformers, which each contain a Human dangling from a trestle by his or her wrists. Wires threaded through tiny holes drilled in their skulls coil upward to sizzling capacitors. Constabs heave pitchers of boiling water on each “power element,” and the resultant rush of agony fires the pain center of the brain, which is then converted to occult energy and dumped into the local power grid. “Power without surcease,” you think you hear Howard comment, “made possible by the immortality of the Human Damned. It’s curious to ponder, eh? When God made the Human soul immortal, did he ever even conceive that some of those he condemned to Damnation would be utilized by his Nemesis as inexhaustible generators? Likely not!” More small compounds pass by and you can’t help but notice the signs:
BONE MELTERS, FACE RIVETERS, BROODREN KILN, PENECTOMIST
. The compounds are interestingly arranged throughout the Reservation, each intersected by quaint walkways, and it’s along these walkways that you notice chatty groups of well-dressed Demons and Hierarchals traipsing along. They stop by each compound and peer in with dark smiles, some fanning themselves, others looking more closely with objects like opera glasses. Finally your curiosity pushes past your loathing, and you propose: “All these Demons on the walkways . . . They don’t work here, do they? They look more like—”

“Spectators?” Howard says. “Indeed. Because they are. Punishment Reservations such as the State Punitaries prioritize not only punishment but also commerce. The societal upper crust is urged to patronize these areas. They pay admittance. In Hell, punishment exists as sport, and such places as this serve equally as amusement parks.”

“Oooo’s” and “Ahhhh’s” resound around the next bend where the sign reads:
ROASTERY—BETS TAKEN
. Several Coves stretch out in a line, while revolting spectators clamor to buy tickets printed with various numbers from small huts before each exhibit.
Roastery?
you wonder but can already smell something. “Step right up, folks,” a ghoulish barker announces before the first Cove. “Let’s watch and see which one of these despicable anti-Satanic insurgents can last the longest with a head-cooking.” Then you notice three grim-faced Imps lashed to iron chairs facing the audience. Horned attendants busy themselves at a large circular oven in which a considerable pile of small stones are heated till they are red-hot. Chain mail sacks are then filled with the stones and carried over with tongs. Atop the head of each Imp a sack is lain, sitting much like a hot water bottle. Spectators watch in hushed fascination as each Imp’s face billows and then they begin to let rip with soul-searing howls. Eventually, of course, their heads cook, but the one who screams the longest is the winner. Bets are taken more excitedly at the next Cove where demonic
mouths
are filled with the scorching stones and held shut by unfeeling Golems. Worse was the last Cove, where three stunningly attractive Succubi have been hung upside down by their ankles, legs widely spread, and vaginas opened with retractors. It was into their vaginal barrels that more of the red-hot stones are deposited. For efficiency’s sake, a Golem with something akin to a bore cleaner for a cannon stands by and packs down each allotment of rocks. The first Succubi’s eyes immediately pop out from the jolt of pain, and the second heaves so hard her bones are heard snapping. The third merely shudders and screams, smoke jetting from her mouth. When the screams treble in intensity, nearby glass shatters.

“The winner!” revels the attendant.

“This is what rich people in Hell do for fun?” you object. “They bet to see which one lives the longest? Good Lord!”

Howard winces at the name. “I will add, Mr. Hudson, that the art of wagering was invented by
Humans
. . .”

“Then why aren’t
Human
beings tortured here, too?”

“These particular Coves function to judicially torture only the Hellborn, Mr. Hudson. All of the victims here have been convicted of terrorist activity or traitorous thoughts via a Psychical Sciences Center. But soon enough it’ll be my pleasure to introduce you to a facility for very
select
Humans only.”

You finally put the Roastery behind you, the revel of bettors fading in the background. “I don’t want to see anymore,” you say, drained. “None of it makes sense. Head-cooking? Filling monsters’ vaginas with hot rocks? Pumping
piss
into people? It’s hideous.”

“Well, certainly you understand that this is the intention in the Mephistopolis, Mr. Hudson. Notions expressly
not
hideous are conspicuously bereft.” Howard carries you through a gate exit manned by Ushers. Beyond this gatehouse steam-trucks empty hoppers of dead Hellborn onto conveyor belts that carry the piles into a warehouse marked,
MUNICIPAL PULPING STATION #95,605
.

Your vaporous mind feels like dead meat as the Turnstile’s black magic sizzles before your eyes, and next—

“Perhaps you’ll be pleased by the present change of scenery,” Howard remarks. “Welcome to Shylock Square, a government-accredited Shopping District for Hell’s most privileged and monetarily endowed. And the thoroughfare we’re traversing now is the most recent addition.”

When the black static dissipates you espy a street not unlike those in the Living World—save for the scarlet sky and black moon above—which is lined by fancy shops, cafés, and the like. Well-dressed She-Demons and creatures in
business suits window-shop along the crowded lane. The street sign at the corner reads
HELMSLEY BLVD
.

“It can be likened to the Fifth Avenue of Hell,” Howard adds. “Here you will see the city’s most posh, most elite, and most upper crust—indeed, demimondes extraordinaire . . .”

Window signs pass by:
DEMONSWEAR BY MARQUETTE, FINE HUMAN LEATHER, THE HARRY TRUMAN HAT SHOP—ONLY THE FINEST MERCURY USED, CUSTOM PORTRAITS BY GUSTAV DORE
. It takes a moment for your vertigo to drift off; then you peer into a window stenciled
HAND-COUCH MASSAGE
and see a shapely, greenish-skinned She-Demon stretched nude on a couch made of severed hands. The hands meticulously knead every muscle in her body while a servant Imp stands by with a tray of refreshments.
ELITE APPAREL FOR DEMONIC WOMEN
reads the next window, and hanging on Human mannequins made of salt are an array of Tongue-Skirts, Lip-Sweaters, and Hand-Bras, and next—
MATTRESS RETAILERS—PROCRUSTEAN BEDS
—where an unfortunate female Troll, knob-faced and high-breasted, is forced to demonstrate before a group of more chatty She-Demons. Blades slam down to sever the creature’s feet the instant she lay down; and next—
COSMETIC AND DENTAL TERATOLOGY
—where an attractive Human Concubine sits tensed in a chair while a Warlock extracts her teeth and replaces them with baby toes.

“And this is how rich people in Hell live it up?” you ask, revolted.

Howard seems surprised by the tenor of your remark. “Mr. Hudson, the clients on this selfsame street are among the most favored and most advantaged in the city. Barons and Blood Princes, Dukes and Archdukes, Viceroys and Chevaliers, and their superlative concubines—She-Demons and Fellatitrines, Erototesses and Succubi, Sex-Imps and Vulvatagoyles. The men possessed with the most
power
are
always followed by women with the most desirability. What they merely
wear
, Mr. Hudson, bespeaks their sheer social status.” And that’s when you take closer note of just what some of these ritzy monsters are wearing—

Good God!

One curvaceous She-Demon taps down the sidewalk in Bone-Sandals, wearing a bra whose cups are Gryphon faces, while the monstrous woman’s hot pants seem to be composed of stitched-together eyeballs. The eyeballs look at you when she prances by. Hand-Bras and Tongue-Skirts are prevalent as well but then a vivacious bluish-skinned Succubus turns the corner dressed in an entire bodysuit of tongues. You groan when you see that each and every tongue is alive. Through another window you steal a glance at a sleek and perfect-bosomed Imp as she tries on a teddy made of shellacked bat wings, while yet another Succubus tries on a negligee made from various scalps. In a Surgical Salon next door, a fussy She-Imp appraises her own round rump in a mirror and complains to an attendant, “My ass is too big. I want hers!” and then points to one of several Human women standing on display. A man in a white smock says, “A fine choice, miss,” and promptly slices both buttocks off the Human who is held down on a cutting board by a Golem. The smocked man—presumably the cosmetic surgeon—hefts each buttock in his hands and says, “Come along to the surgery suite, miss. I’ll have these transplanted in a jiffy.” And if that’s not enough, your senses stall when a bell rings and then a crystalline door opens—fancily labeled
COSMETIC GRAFTING
—and out steps a petitely horned and very lusty She-Demon. Onto every square inch of her skin a nipple has been grafted. She seems delighted with the service and enthuses to Howard, “Oh, my husband, the Grand Duke Desalvo, has such a fetish for nipples, I just
know
he’ll love this!”

“Charming,” Howard compliments, then back to you,
he continues, “Indeed, Mr. Hudson. Hell’s most exclusive are what you are beholding now. No indulgence, no luxury is deprived of this select group. In fact, there is only one class of inhabitant
more
favored, and that would be the members of the Privilato Class.”

You offer Howard a funky look. “The Privilat—”

“And, look! There’s one now!” Howard says and excitedly points upward.

An odd groaning sound ensues and fifty feet above the street, you notice something that can only be described as a wavering hole in the sky, approximately ten feet in diameter. A bizarre, fluidlike green light rims the hole and within stands a long-haired Human man wearing clothes fashioned entirely from sparkling jewels. His face appears ordinary, yet it is set in the widest grin, and then you see that even his teeth are exorbitant jewels. On his forehead is a fancy Gothic mark: the letter
P. Hmm
, you think.
What’s with that guy?
But what you notice even more profoundly are the man’s companions, six of the most beautiful naked women you’ve ever seen.

“No wonder the guy’s smiling,” you mention, your own lust sparked. “Check out the drop-dead gorgeous women he’s with.”

“And they’ll be with him
in aeternum
, Mr. Hudson, or until he wearies of them in which case they’ll be replaced by more. The women are known as Soubrettes—the very pinnacle of sexual servitor. Inhuman Growth Hormones are occultized and injected, to augment their most desirable body parts, and they’re trained quite exhaustively in the Sexual Arts. The technology they’re flying about town in is called a Nectoport.”

You stare incredulous at the spectacle—literally a hole in the sky, or a portal that’s
moving
. The oozing green light about the rim throbs. “What the . . .
hell
is it?”

“Hell’s answer to flying carpets, you could say,” Howard
chuckles. “Did you know that I read
The Thousand and One Nights
when I was but a lad of eight years? Oh . . . of course you wouldn’t know that. Nevertheless, a Nectoport is quite obviously a mode of transportation . . . as well as a very exclusive one. With only very rare exceptions, they’re only to be operated by either the Constabulary, the Satanic Military, or the highest members of the Governmental Demonocracy.”

“Oh, so that guy with all the hot Demon girls is in the government or army?”

“I said, Mr. Hudson, only
very rare
exceptions. Nectoports are able to constrict great distances by reprocessing psychic energy from the Torturian Complexes. Sorcerers trained at the De Rais Labs devised the unique method. It’s possible for a Nectoport to travel a thousand miles of Hell’s terrain without the occupants ever really leaving their debarkation point. Do you comprehend me?”

“No,” you emphatically state.

“It’s neither here nor there. But to elucidate, the Privilatos are entitled to unlimited Nectoport usage, due to their staggering rank.”

You shake your gourd-head in more confusion. “Okay, so the guy’s not in the government, he’s not a cop, and he’s not in the military but he’s superprivileged?”

“Precisely.”

“Okay.
Why?
”

Howard beams through his pallored face. “Mr. Hudson, I’m absolutely delighted that you’ve made the inquiry . . .”

As Howard talks, your eyes flick to the Nectoport. The crush of sexy Soubrettes are cooing in the Privilato’s ear, feeling him up with deft hands.

“—the gentleman’s name is Dowski Swikaj, formerly a friar from Guzow, Poland—”

But as Howard goes on to answer your question, you
continue to stare upward. The Nectoport hovers closer now, and the razor-sharp vision afforded you by your Ocularus eyes scrutinize each of the jeweled man’s nude consorts. Several are Human, and their sexual enhancements are obvious, as though every aspect of what men find desirable in women has been accelerated tenfold, while the others, however demonic, are just as outrageously desirous in spite of genes that make them technically monsters. One, an auburn-haired Fellatitrine, has four full breasts on each side of her supple physique, yet each nipple is a puckered mouth, while the mouth on her orb-eyed face is a hairless and perfectly cloven vagina. Next to her stands a sultry Vulvatagoyle, with skin the hue of chalk but shining to a gleam as if lacquered. Wide hips and a flawless flat belly entice further staring, and then you notice the veritable
cluster
of vaginas packed between her coltish legs. Each vagina seems to be that of another life form, and they all
throb
in excitement. Her navel, too, is a vulva—more petite—while another vagina exists in each armpit, and yet another where her anus should be. Lastly, a lissome Lycanymph—even more stunning than the barkeep at the Taproom—coddles the Privilato. She’s covered with the finest red hair beneath which a perfect Human physique can be seen. Gorged teats the size of baby pacifiers stick out from marvelously sloped breasts, and she grins fang-mouthed as her furred hands slip beneath her master’s sparkling trousers.