Lucifer's Lottery

cars. They have gas here?”

Howard ruefully shakes his head no, and carries you farther . . .

“It’s a Human filling station, Mr. Hudson. Another demonstration of Lucifer’s execration for the Human Damned.” Then Howard gestures a prison wagon being drawn in by more unnameable horned beasts. Within the wagon’s iron bars, you can’t help but see the group of naked Humans. They’re either pleading for mercy, or down on their knees in desperate prayer.

“This Cove tends to Humans who have the audacity to continue to pray to God. It should go without saying: Lucifer does not approve of such behavior . . .” Now Howard points upward to a high water tower but when you look at it, you do a double take.

The tower reads, URINE ONLY.

“Every urinal in the District empties into that collection tank. It’s 66,666 gallons, by the way.”

You’re already getting sick in the contemplation; then your eyes follow several pipes leading from the tower’s base to six objects that appear almost identical to gasoline pumps in the Living World.

Six at a time, then, Humans from the prison wagon—male and female alike—are strapped to gurneys and rolled before the pumps.

You feel your spirit paling as you watch . . .

Equally identical nozzles are brandished by Imp attendants. “Fill ’em up!” a Constable shouts, and then the Imps part the jaws of the Humans and insert the nozzles down their throats. The handles are depressed, and bells begin to ring for each gallon dispensed.

The Human prisoners are promptly filled.

“Next!” shouts the Constable. “Keep ’em moving!”

“Exactly six gallons are pumped into each captive,” Howard adds.

The gurneys are moved off, to be replaced by more. Of the Humans already filled, their abdomens bloat. More Imps move now, holding objects that look like blowtorches but when the triggers are pulled, mist, not flame, shoots out. The mist is applied across the mouths and anuses and urethras of the captives, and before your own eyes, their lips and excretory orifices are impossibly sealed shut.

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.”