Lucifer's Lottery

“I’m a . . . seminarist-to-be,” Hudson replied.

She kept wincing.

“Is Randal around?”

“I don’t know the asshole’s name, buddy,” she snapped. She yanked off several bags of chips, attacked a Mrs. Freshley’s snack cake rack, paused, then darted behind the service counter and grabbed a carton of Marlboros. “The tightwad poo-putt motherfucker’s in back.” Then the cowbell clanged and she flip-flopped briskly out, milk-sodden breasts tossing as if they sought to rock their way out of the top.

The sidewall was hung with black velvet paintings of either Elvis, Jeff Gordon, or Christ. The Jesus paintings were cheapest. Randal appeared next, looking displeased. “Oh, hey, man.”

“Hi, Randal. An . . . acquaintance of yours just made a speedy exit. Probably not on her way back to Yale.”

“The dumb ho. Pain in the ass. Gives the worst bj’s in town but at least I talked her down to fifteen.” Randal shook his head—a shaggy head and an atrocious Talibanlike beard. “Guess I get what I pay for.”

“You may have gotten a little more than you paid for.” Hudson pointed to the floor where the woman had spat.

Randal’s nostrils flared, like those of an indignant bull. “That bitch! She spat my load on the floor?”

“And then promptly relieved you of some chips, snack cakes, and one carton of Marlboros.”

“That bitch! That thieving pregnant bitch!”

“ ‘The wages of sin are death,’ ” Hudson recited. “It’s God’s way of saying ‘what goes around, comes around.’ Think about it.”

“Oh, listen to Mr. Almost-A-Priest over here. Mr. Celibacy. I’ve seen you eyeball chicks before.” Randal grinned wickedly. “Didn’t Jesus say that if you look at a chick and think, ‘Wow, I’d love to plug her slot,’ that’s the same as really doing her?”

“Well, not in language quite so refined,” Hudson laughed, “but, yes, he did.” He was going to further point out his lifelong celibacy but then declined. Don’t be a hypocrite. Crude as he may be, Randal’s right. Last night I came very close to being a whoremonger.

“So what is it, next month you’re going to this seminary?”

“Next week,” Hudson corrected.

“Fuck, man. Change your mind. You can still do good deeds and shit without becoming a priest.”

“Well said, Randal, but, no, I’m not changing my mind. It’s something I’ve been thinking about my whole life pretty much. You’re my best friend, you should want me to pursue my dreams.”

“If never getting laid is your dream? You’re fucked up.”

“Thanks.”

“Besides, look what you’re doing to me. You’ll be leaving me stuck in this criminal armpit town of ours. I’ll be all alone with junkies, bums, whores, psychos. How can you do that to me?”

“You’ll manage. And since I won’t be seeing you again for a while, why don’t you go to church with me this Sunday? It’ll be like old times, when we were kids.”

Randal hesitated. “Naw, not my style. I haven’t been to church in so long, I’d probably get repelled by the cross, like a fuckin’ force field.”

“Have some faith, Randal. You used to.”

“Yeah, before I started working here.” He clattered out a mop and bucket. “Here’s my faith, man. This mop.” He ground his teeth. “How do you like that dizzy, knocked-up ho? Walks in here with a bellyful of white trash and rips me off? Hocks my jizz on the floor?” He sloshed the mop over the spot. “Got to clean this up before some junkie, bum, ex-con, or all of the above walks in here, sees it, then slips on purpose. Then the redneck scum sues the store for ten million bucks and wins.”

Wow, that’s some heavyweight cynicism, Hudson thought. He watched Randal haphazardly mop up the expectorant, then roll the bucket back down the hall. “You know, you’ve got to be the only guy in town who wants to stay a virgin his whole life.”

“There’s plenty of Catholic clergy in this town, and everywhere, Randal. Sexual abstention is an utmost oblation to God. Christ was chaste, so when a mortal man strives to be chaste, he struggles to imitate Christ. God likes that.”

Randal looked off, nebulous. “Speaking of celibacy, wasn’t there some saint a long time ago who actually cut his own johnson off to prove his faith in God?”

Hudson sighed. “Actually several saints are rumored to have done that but no one knows for sure.”

Now Randal looked focused. “Okay, so say a saint did it—he cut off his meat missile . . . Aren’t saints supposed to be—shit, what’s the word? Pristine? When they die, they don’t rot?”

“There are dozens of cases of dead saints being exhumed and their bodies found in pristine condition, yes.”

Randal stroked his chin, in deep thought. “Okay, so say some saint in the Middle Ages cut off his pud. Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well then his pud would be pristine, too, right? It would have to be. So when he dies, he never rots, but neither does his cut-off dick.”

Hudson groaned.

“Serious. If it’s true, then there’s probably some box somewhere that’s got some saint’s dick in it, and it looks like it got cut off a minute ago.”

Hudson shook his head at the whimsy. “Randal, if you used your powers of creative thinking for something practical, you’d be a genius.”

“Yeah.” Randal began to diddle with a clipboard, his ludicrous contemplations already faded. “Anyway, as you can see, my job’s a pile of shit, so how’s yours going? The oyster shucking business?”

“They were about to lay me off again so I just put in my notice and they let me go on the spot.”

“Wow, that really shucks, man.” Randal laughed. “Get it?”

Hudson groaned. “It’s no big deal because I’m leaving next week anyway.”

Randal poured two coffees, but the brew looked like squid ink. “That pregnant hooker really pisses me off. One of these days I’ll find a decent one.”

“Most of those girls are drug addicts,” Hudson affirmed. “When you solicit them for sex, you’re helping them remain in an environment of moral bankruptcy, degradation, and misery.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Randal sputtered.

“If you give them money for drugs in exchange for action, it’s the same as if you’re buying the drugs yourself. It all goes to the same place, the same evil. Besides, hookers and johns offend God.”

“Here we go with this shit again.” Randal grabbed a broom and whisked it around the store, half assed. “If there was a God, then there’d be no drug addiction, so then there’d be no girls offering to do you for money.”

Hudson frowned. “I think God is about free will, Randal. It’s about the choice. Does one choose to do drugs or does one choose not to? Do they choose to consort with prostitutes or do they choose not to? God’s really got nothing to do with it.”

“Whatever . . .” Randal swept some dust beneath the counter. “So, what? You came in here tonight just to try to con me into going to church?”

“Well . . . I wanted to ask a favor.”

“Fuck no, man. Get out of my store.” Randal hooted. “Relax! I’m kidding.” Then his eyes darted. “Damn, I forgot.” He opened the glass door on the rotisserie, then spat on the hot dogs.

“What the hell!”

Randal smirked. “Those fuckin’ things are a buck a pack wholesale. But if you spit on ’em every hour, they