Lucifer's Lottery

It was wuh-wuh-won by a Cycladean coppersmith named Ahkazm.”

Crazy. Pure-ass crazy, Hudson knew now. Yet, he didn’t throw her out. Instead he just stood . . . and watched.

Watched her completely unbutton the surplice, skim it off along with the Roman collar and cross. She jittered a bit when she faced Hudson more resolutely, as if to display her total nakedness to him.

I don’t BELIEVE this . . .

“Listen,” he finally forced himself to say. “You’re going to have to—”

The image of her body stunned him. Her torso was a perfect hourglass of flesh; high, full breasts; flat stomach and wide hips. Her skin shone in perfect, proverbial alabaster white.

Hudson’s eyes inched lower, to her pubis, where his speechless gaze was hijacked by a plenteous triangle of bronze fur.

This deaconess had one full-tilt body . . .

“I-I-I,” she faltered. The dull blue of her eyes seemed to implore him. “I’ve been instructed . . . to tell you that you kuh-kuh-can sodomize me if you ssssssso . . . desire, or-or-or I will give you . . . oral . . . ssssssex. It’sssss part of winning the Senary.” She seemed to gag. “It’ssss what they said to say.” Then she turned, quite robotically—showing an awesome rump—and foraged through some old cupboards.

“They said?” Hudson questioned. “Who’s they?”

“A Class III Machinator and his Spotter,” she told him, still rummaging. “They’re Bio-Wizards. They work in a Channeling Fortress in the Emetic District. They’re mmmmmm-achinating me. That’s why . . . I’m acting errrrrrr- atically. They’re manipulating my . . . will.” Then she bent over, to search a lower cabinet.

Holy moly! As wrong as all this was—especially for a future seminarist—Hudson couldn’t take his eyes off her physique. When she’d bent, the action only amplified the magnificence of her rump. “What are you looking for?” he finally asked.

“Ah. Here.” She straightened, holding a bottle of Vigo olive oil. She stood awkwardly then, and began smoothing palmfuls of the oil over her body. Hudson stared, stupefied.

What am I going to do? he thought. I’ve got a buck-naked deaconess with a body like Raquel Welch in Fantastic Voyage lubing herself up with my Vigo. This is insane. SHE’S insane.

She sat up on the dowdy kitchen table and lay back, continuing to spread the oil. Her skin glimmered almost too intensely to focus on for long. “They t-t-told me you’d like thissssss.”

“Uh, well . . .”

“I-I-I’m chaste, by the way—I have . . . to tell you that, too.” Now her hands were reoiling her breasts and belly. “It’s a prerequisite. Any Senarial Messenger mmmmm-ust be virginal, as well as a guh-guh-guh-godly person.” She pulled her knees back, then splashed some oil between her spread legs. “You kuh-kuh-can put it right . . . here,” she said, and touched her anus. “Would you like to?”

Hudson stared at the question as much as the gleaming spectacle. Simply thinking about doing it seemed more luxurious than anything he’d ever fathomed. But—

I am NOT going to have anal sex with a crazy deaconess!

“Or-or-or . . . here,” she said, now pressing the perfect breasts together, to highlight the slippery valley. “Just nuh-nuh-not my vuh-vuh-vuh-vagina . . . I mmmmmust remain chaste.”

The action of her hands, in tandem with the shining, perfect skin, nearly hypnotized Hudson. It seemed as though she were wearing a magnifying glass out in the sun; that’s how brightly she gleamed. His arousal became uncomfortable in his pants. This woman’s off the deep end. I need to get her out of here. Yet every time he resolved to tell her to leave, the image of her body grew more intense, silencing him, commanding him to watch.

Now her hands massaged the oil into the abundant triangle, which began to shine like spun gold.

This is too much . . . Hudson thought.

The woman simply lay still, waiting.

“You-you-you-you’re allowed to,” she droned.

Hudson reeled, staring.

“No,” he blurted, cursing himself. I want to, damn it, but . . . “You’re going to have to leave, miss. Are you on medication or something? Drugs? I could call a hotline through my church—”

“You’re-you’re-you’re . . . not interested?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she responded. “Okay.” Then she dully put her raiments back on, adjusting the white collar. She shambled to the sink to soap and wash her hands.

For land’s sake. What is going ON?

Hudson watched, mute, as she ground her teeth a few more times, winced, then headed for the door.

“You’re-you’re under no obligation, by the way,” she said, her back to him. “I’m-I’m-I’m ssssss-upposed to tell you that, and muh-muh-make it clear.”

“What is this Senary stuff!” Hudson barked.

“But if you’re . . . interested . . . Fuh-fuh-follow the instructions,” she feebled, and then she walked out of the apartment, leaving Hudson dumbstruck, painfully aroused, and smelling olive oil.

Did any of that really happen? He stared at the closed door for five full minutes. Perhaps he’d dreamed it; perhaps he was sleeping. He pinched himself hard and frowned. But if you’re interested . . . follow the instructions.

Only then did he realize he was still holding the envelope she’d initially given him.

He opened it and pulled out, first, a plain sheet of paper on which had been floridly handwritten:YOU HAVE WON THE SENARY. ALL WILL BE EXPLAINED IF YOU CHOOSE TO PROCEED. SHOULD YOU DECIDE THAT YOU ARE INTERESTED, CARRY ON TO THE FOLLOWING ADDRESS AFTER SUNDOWN WITHIN THE NEXT SIX DAYS.

An unfamiliar address—24651 Central—was written below, which he believed was somewhere in the downtown area. Hudson read what remained.YOU ARE UNDER NO OBLIGATION TO ACCEPT, AND WHETHER YOU DO OR NOT, YOU MAY KEEP THE REMUNERATION.

Remuner—

Hudson dug back into the envelope and discovered another envelope.

It felt fat.

He tore it open and found—

Holy SHIT . . .

—$6,000 in crisp and apparently brand-new one-hundred-dollar bills. The bills were oddly bundled, however, in paper-clipped divisions of six.

CHAPTER TWO

(I)

“You gotta be shitting me!” Gerold muttered when he wheeled up to Worden’s Hardware Store. He’d always liked the place because it reminded him of days past—days when recessions weren’t strangling the economy and changing the way people shopped. Now everything was malls, Internet shopping, and Home Depots the size of naval vessels. Whatever happened to mom-and-pop shops? Modernity, that’s what. There was no place for them these days, just as there was no place for small, family-owned hardware stores like Worden’s where the people working there actually knew what they were talking about.

Hence, Gerold’s displeasure, after wheeling three blocks in the sun from the bus stop. The sign was a sign of