Lucifer's Lottery

Hell? I’m supposed to believe that?”

Her fingers glided hard over his sweat-slick shoulders, then slid forward to rub his pectorals. “That’s as good a way of putting it as any. Upon boiling, the steam that rises off the Elixir will trigger the Conduction. You’ll have exactly six minutes to listen to the Trustee, ask any questions you have, and then accept or reject the offer. And even if you accept, which I pray you’ll do, you’re under no obligation. Nothing becomes binding unless you say yes upon completion of the tour.”

The tour . . . Those words bothered him more, perhaps, than anything else tonight. There was something potent about them. Even when he thought the words, they seemed to echo as if they were called down from a mountain precipice.

But then more thoughts dripped. “This is a pact with the Devil, you mean.”

“Not a pact. A gift. One thing to keep in mind. The Devil doesn’t need to offer contracts for souls very often these days. Think about that . . .”

Hudson’s eyes narrowed. “But I’m a Christian. I’m a theologian and student of Christ. I’m about to go to the seminary. To be a priest!”

Her voice drifted in delight. “Perhaps what you see will dissuade you. Your reward will be beyond imagination.”

Hudson gave her remark some thought, even in the “afterglow” of his sin. So THAT’S it! They want to tempt me, they want to make me break. Suddenly the madness and sheer impossibly of everything made wild sense.

What greater way could there be to prove his faith? To take this tour and realize these rewards, only to say no in the end? Christ had been tempted, hadn’t he? Only to likewise say no.

Hudson resolved to do the same.

The prospect made him gleeful, but then he heard the faintest bubbling. The contents of the skullcap—the Elixir—was boiling.

“It’s time,” she whispered and stepped away. “Look at the hole in the wall . . . and prepare to meet the Trustee.”

Hudson tensed in his seat, squinting. The teeming night was all that continued to look back at him from the hole. The steam wafting off the skullcap was nearly nonexistent. How on earth can—but after a single blink . . .

The hole changed.

In that blink the hole’s ragged boundary of Sheetrock and shingles had metamorphosed into something like ragged flaps of what he would only think of as organ meat. Hudson leaned forward, focused.

My God . . .

What he looked at now was a room, or at least a room of sorts. Is that . . . No, it couldn’t be, he thought, because the room’s walls appeared to be composed of sheets of what looked like butcher’s waste (intestines, sinew, bone chips, and fat), which had all somehow been frozen into configuration. Amid all this sat a splintery wooden table on which had been placed . . .

That’s a typewriter!. Hudson realized, and he could even read the manufacturer: Remington. Atop a shelf in the rear, more odd objects could be seen: a package of Williams shaving soap, a square tin of Mavis talcum powder, and an empty can of Heinz beans. Hudson meant to glance behind him, to question the deaconess, but her hands firmly pressed his temples.

“Don’t take your eyes off the Egress,” she said.

When Hudson refocused on the hole . . . a man stepped into view.

The Trustee . . .

It was a very gaunt, stoop-shouldered man who looked back at Hudson. “There you are, at last,” he said in a squeaky accent that sounded like New England. He had close-cropped hair shiny with tonic and a vaguely receding hairline to show a vast forehead, which gave the man an instant air of learnedness. He wore a well-fitting but threadbare and very faded blue suit, a white dress shirt, and narrow tie with light and dark gray stripes. Small, round spectacles. His jaw seemed prominent as though he suffered from a malocclusion. The only thing about him that wasn’t normal was the pallor of his face. It was as white and shiny as snow just beginning to melt but marbled ever so faintly with a bruised blue.

The man sat down at the rickety table. He paused momentarily to frown at the typewriter, then his eyes— which were bright in spite of the death pallor—looked directly at Hudson.

“I presume the Senarial Messenger has apprized you of the fact that we’re subject to a considerable time constraint, the equivalent in your world of six minutes. So we must be concise and, above all, declarative,” the man said. “My name is Howard, and I bear the curious title of this term’s ‘Trustee to the Office of the Senary,’ and I’m speaking to you from a Scrivenry at the Seaton Hall of Automatic Writers. It’s located in a quite malodorous Prefect dubiously known as the Offal District . . .” Abruptly, then, he smirked. “Are you able to hear me, sir?”

Hudson’s mouth hung open for a time, but he eventually managed to say, “Yes . . .”

“Splendid. It’s my infernal pleasure to tell you that you’ve won the Senary—”

“What’s the Senary?” Hudson blurted.

“Denotatively? From the Latin senarius: anything of or relating to the number six. But here we’re only concerned with its connotation. The Senary is a drawing, in a sense, but those eligible are not random. Aspects of your own . . . resolve present the most pertinent considerations. Let me reiterate, we must be expeditious, and as I have no way of discerning that constant unit of measure known as time, your colleague will alert you when one minute remains. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“That is immaterial. You’ve been invited to partake in a—”

“A tour of Hell?” Hudson interrupted.

“Quite right. Only a smattering of persons, in all of Human history, have received this lauded opportunity. Indeed, you’re one of a privileged lot. It is guaranteed that no harm will come to your physical body, nor your Auric Substance, should you choose to proceed. You will be returned, intact, to make your final decision. At the end, in other words, you’ll be free to return to your normal life, should you so choose. But I can say to you, sir, that in 6,660 years . . . no Senary winner has ever elected to not accept the prize.”

Hudson could think of nothing to say, save for, “I-I-I . . .”

This man, Howard, held up a warning finger. “We mustn’t be frivolous with verbosity, sir—I can only presume that time is growing short, so without further delay, I must show you the Containment Orb.” Then he reached beneath the table and brought something up—something on a stick.

“Huh?” Hudson uttered.

The object on the stick, about the size of a basketball, looked brown, mottled, and, somehow, organic. A twist at the top reminded Hudson of a pumpkin’s clipped stem, and in the middle of the bizarre thing was a half-inch hole. Howard pointed to the hole. “The intake bung is here, as you can perceive—”

“But, what is that thing? It looks like a brown pumpkin.”

“Hell’s rendering, you might say—in specificity, the Feotidemonis Vulgaris, commonly referred to as a Snot-Gourd. It’s been eviscerated completely, of course, and disenchanted by Archlocks, so to serve as your Auric Carrier. And—” Howard swiveled the peculiar fruit on the stick, to reveal its other side—

“Holy shit!” Hudson profaned.

A semblance of a face existed on the other side of the thing. Two eyeballs had been sunk into the pulp; below that, a large, pointed snout as of some oversize rodent had been affixed. Also a pair of fleshy lips, and lastly, two ears, though the ears were maroon and pointed.

First he thought of a nightmare rendition of Mr. Potato Head, but then thought, A jack-o’-lantern from Hell, but just as he began his next question, the deaconess tapped him from behind. “Tell the Trustee there’s only one minute left.”

Hudson bumbled, “Uh, uh, I’m supposed to tell you—”

“So I’ve gathered,” Howard said, still holding up the hideous brown fruit with a face. “By now, it’s my hope that you can cogitate the entails of what awaits; hence, I ask you, sir . . . Do you choose to proceed?”

Hudson blinked. No obligation, his thoughts raced. Guaranteed that no