conjecture, profanity does not suit you at all. It’s quite inappropriate and wholly uncharacteristic of a studious and devout man such as yourself.”

You fix on what Howard just said. Profanity? Yes, I cussed, didn’t I? I said “fucking die,” instead of die. The speculation unwinds like a coil of string. “I never swear,” you tell your guide. “Sure, a damn or a hell or an ass on occasion, but never . . . the F-word or the S- word.”

Howard is frowning. “It’s uncomplimentary, sir. It bespeaks ruffianism and roysterishness. Better to maintain an air of the dignified, even in so undignified a habitat as this.”

Trivial as the matter seems, it bothers you. I must hang out with Randal too much . . .

“But, yes, you’ve unveiled the intrigue at last,” Howard goes on. “It is indeed the motive of the master of this domain that you accept the Senary and rise to Privilato status upon your earthly demise.” Howard scrutinizes your impossible face. “And now you are weighing that possibility against the possibility of an eternity in Heaven, are you not?”

You stare. Am I? Yeah . . . of course I am . . .

“But you needn’t choose just yet. Let’s take in more sights before we arrive at the clincher.”

“The clincher? I can’t imagine.”

Does Howard smile? “No, I’m certain beyond all cogitation that you cannot. No one can . . .”

Your senses reel as you cross a footbridge over a mucus-filled creek. Several destitute Trolls nod as they stand on the rail, fishing. One Troll has eyeballs in his bait can, the other, tongues yanked from their seats.

But your hideous eyes go wide when you notice several twitchy Human women crossing the footbridge . . .

“More addicts,” Howard notes, “regrettable, but no more so than the seemingly illimitable Human capacity to ‘chase the dragon,’ as they say. Clearly beyond the bridge there’s a public Flenser’s in business.”

But you simply continue staring, for these women seem to have had all of the flesh cut from their arms and legs, while their heads and naked torsos remain intact. It is horrendous to behold, yet also, somehow, perversely fascinating.

“Street parlance refers to such types as ‘Bone-Limbers.’ ”

The implication collides with your psyche. “Like those people selling their skin for dope. Those two sold the meat on their arms and legs?”

Howard nods. “Every scrap, and mind you, a skilled Flenser can finish the task in moments—they’re quite deft of knife. And believe me, the potency of the narcotics of Hell are more than formidable. Human males tend to sell nearly every fiber of flesh from head to toe; women, however, are far less likely to follow suit as that instance could make the prospect of prostitution pitiably moot . . .”

With skeleton arms and skeleton legs, then, the pair of addicts cross the bridge, oblivion in their eyes and ruined smiles.

Yes, sir, you think. This is one big-time fucked-up place. But there you go again, so errantly thinking in terms adorned with profanity. You wince in your confusion.

In the distance, hulking Conscripts stand guard around a narrow black building that must be a mile long. MATERNITY BARRACKS, a high sign reads. Even from the distance you can hear the wails of infants . . .

You open your demonic mouth to speak but pause and don’t bother. You agreed to come here and see.

And now you will be shown.

Macabre, cancerous horses whinny as a prison wagon (identical to those you saw at the Punitary) stops before a guarded entrance. Now you stare hard.

“It’s loaded up with . . . really good-looking women,” you mutter.

“The acme of Human female stock, Mr. Hudson,” Howard augments. “The best in all of Hell—indeed—the proverbial cream of the crop. They’re hunted down with the zeal of children at an Easter egg hunt.”

Naturally, you don’t understand. So far you’ve seen unbelievable life forms, most hideous but some attractive, and Human women have comprised a fare share of the latter. This wagon, however, beggars superlative description. It is full to bursting with Human women who are among the most attractive you’ve ever seen anywhere.

“They could be runway models,” you utter.

“It’s part of the new Luciferic Initiative, and Lucifer—however plodding he can sometimes be—has grown fond of efficiency. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. You see, the inhabitants of these queer barracks make up the very finest, most attractive Human women in all of Hell. And in their stay, they will serve dual purposes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you drone as you approach, and now you watch the sinisterly helmed Conscripts haul the women out of the wagon. They’re all gagged, shackled, and stark naked. In single file, then, they’re led at trident-point into the barracks.

“There must be forty or fifty women packed into that wagon,” you exclaim.

“Sixty-six, to be precise,” Howard redresses. “And there are exactly sixty-six Impoundment Wings in this Maternity Barrack.”

The number staggers you, but then you ask, “What do you mean, dual purposes?”

“Pardon me while I get us in-processed,” Howard says aside.

The two gate guards—a pair of pugnacious, phlegm-eyed creatures in scaled armor—stand at a spiked iron gate.

“I’m with the Office of the Senary,” Howard relays and holds up his palm. It’s the first time that you’ve noticed it: a luminous six branded into his palm.

The sentries bow and step back; then the spiked gate rises. But before Howard escorts you in, the chain gang of sixty-six outrageously beautiful woman are led in first. Hopeless eyes stare back at you as they’re hauled onward.

“Ah, and here comes the most recent Impoundment Block to expire,” Howard points out.

Another chain gang of women are being led in the opposite direction, preparing to exit. This consignment, however, differs from the first group in two ways.

One, they’re emaciated, haggard, and bone-thin, and—

Two, they’re headless.

“Out with the old in with the new as they say,” Howard explains. “The production cycle of these unfortunates has expired, while it’s only about to begin for the group we just saw entering . . .”

“Production cycle,” you say more than ask. The headless women are worn out (as if having one’s head removed wouldn’t wear one out enough), and then you suddenly have an idea why. Their bellies hang like limp sacks streaked with stretch marks, their breasts but emptied flaps of skin.

“This particular barrack, by the way, is the major supplier of fetuses to the aperitif bar we visited upon earlier.” Howard leads on down the reeking corridor of sheet iron. “The women, once beheaded, are taken to a Decapitant Camp. You’ll recall the Luciferic Initiative I referred to earlier? It’s officially titled the Beheadment Initiative—the law of the land now. Human women deemed attractive enough for Preeminent classification must all be beheaded, and the process functions twofold. It’s a constituent of their punishment, and while the wares of their wombs supply the lucrative gourmand market, their heads provide an exclusive construction component.”

Again, you scarcely hear Howard, your attentions fixed instead on the troop of headless women shuffling out of the complex. Moments later, several hunched Imps in laborers’ garb exit the complex as well, each pushing wheelbarrows full of Human female heads. As the barrows pass, the eyes on the heads all hold wide on you.

“Why, why, why?” you plead.

“It’s elementary, Mr. Hudson. Lucifer loathes the Human Damned, but this unadulterated hatred burns exponentially hotter for the Human Female Damned.” Howard pauses at a trapdoorlike window in the iron wall. “This may afford you an acceptable view . . .”

He raises the square metal viewing port and holds your gourd-head up to look.

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