Lucifer's Lottery

Now another, less lively shuffle, and from the same corner the Golemess appears. She seems winded, wearied now, and when she trudges into more torchlight, you see why.

She’s pregnant.

“The dude with the meat cleavers for hands got her pregnant!” you exclaim. The gray clay belly looks stuffed, the breasts doubled in volume, presumably full of Golem milk now.

“I was unaware that our Golemess came equipped with fertility features. No doubt before her clay was Hexegenated, the Master Sculptors at the Edward Kelly Institute of Inanimate Enchantment implanted her with a reproductive tract and ovarian process. This is another Luciferic Law that’s gradually activating: the Public Gravidity Initiative. Lucifer desires that anything female—even things unalive—be fertile. More progeny, more fodder for the machinations of the Mephistopolis. God invented reproduction via Human passion, to bring forth more Children of God to one day enjoy the Firmament of Heaven. Lucifer, therefore, perverts God’s endeavor, to reduce femalekind to repositories of lust, and bring forth more meat and building material.”

You stare at the huge stomach as the fatigued Golemess lumbers to the steam-car. “But what . . . what’s going to come out?”

“Immaterial,” Howard answers. “It’s purpose is served, and the Initiative is duly discharged.”

Meat, you recite Howard’s information. Building material.

“And now, Mr. Hudson,” Howard intones. “You’ve had this moment of respite. I’m curious as to the constitution of your thoughts.”

Your hideous head swivels to meet his gaze. “I’m thinking that everything here is illogical—”

“Which serves as the perfect logic within the confines of an antithetical demesne.”

“—including my being here.” You blink. “What, I win this Senary because I’ve tipped some scale of sin, some fulcrum. It makes more sense to go after some guy who’s a hundred percent. A cardinal, a bishop . . .”

“Perhaps in your own purview of logic. Just as popes don’t question God, we don’t question Satan.”

You smirk. “Okay, fine. But in that case, your methods are terrible.”

“Really?” Howard seems intrigued. “Be kind enough to articulate your impression.”

You recite them thus far. “I’m a good enough person that if I died right now, I’d go to Heaven, right?”

“Beyond doubt.”

“But Lucifer wants me to give that up so that when I die, I come here instead. He wants me to make that choice, right?”

“Precisely.”

“He wants me to give up Heaven, in favor of Hell, right?”

“Indubitably.”

Your eyes lock open. “WELL THEN WHY WOULD I DO THAT? HELL SUCKS!”

Your outburst bounces off the vault’s obsidian walls like bullets ricocheting. The Golemess flinches. Even the Imperial Truncator jolts from the start.

“My, Mr. Hudson,” Howard says after his own shock. “That’s . . . quite an ejaculation . . .”

“You guys must be out of your minds!” you continue to rail at the senselessness of it all. “This place is the biggest pile of shit I’ve ever seen! Bridges made of people? Taverns where the kegs are bare boobs with beer taps on the nipples, and bars that serve wine made from fermented babies? Towns made of guts and towns made of skin? And the guy who runs the whole shebang lives in a mansion made of heads! Who the FUCK would want to live here?”

“Please, Mr. Hudson,” Howard urges. “At least try to mind your cursing.” A long, crackly pause. “But certainly, sir, you can comprehend the unending bliss of one who enjoys Privilato status?”

“The Privilato? That asshole in the jewelly jacket?” You roll your demonic eyes. “He’s a putz with a posse of hot chicks who wouldn’t give a shit about him if he wasn’t a Privilato in the first place. Big deal. He drives around town in a flying hole in the sky and gets a red carpet wherever he goes. You gotta do better than that, man.”

“Ah, well, I see that you are underestimating the entireness of the Mephistopolis for those few granted privilege.” Howard raises a finger. “Allow me to query. Seeing that the lion’s share of your sins—however meager that may be—fall primarily into the lust category . . . if you could revel in the carnal pleasures of any woman in the world, who would that be?”

The question, absurd as it is, percolates in your mind. Angelina Jolie? Paris Hilton? Jessica Alba? Just as you think you’ve been stumped, the answers appears. “Well, I’m kind of old-school, but I’d still have to say Pamela Anderson.”

Howard nods. “Bear in mind, of course, that since Mademoiselle Anderson is still a member of the Living World, it defies possibility for me to be familiar with her. However, I can assure you beyond all dubiety that the women awaiting you as a Privilato will be possessed of a desirability no less than sixty-six times that of your coveted Ms. Anderson.”

You try to picture that in your mind. Women . . . sixty-six times HOTTER than Pam Anderson . . .

Wow.

But still . . . the proposition is folly and you know it. “Doesn’t matter if they’re sixty-six thousand times hotter, Howard. This place is still Hell, and Hell sucks. Not to mention, I’m celibate. Next week I’m going to the seminary to become a priest.”

“Then what could possibly explain your recent intent with those slatternettes?”

“Slattern—what?”

“The prostitutes the other night. You fully intended to proposition them, for a sex act. You trumpeting the piety of celibacy and the pursuit of the priesthood seems . . . hypocritical.”

If you had a finger, you would point in his face. “Hey, I almost propositioned them. Part of me . . . wanted to know what sex was like before I officially gave it up for a life of godly servitude.”

Did Howard frown as if unconvinced?

“Sex out of wedlock is a sin, and priests—as well as priests-to-be—regard sin as an enemy of the soul. I don’t consider agreeing to take this tour to be a sin, and I don’t think God does either. It will strengthen me in my purpose; it will verify my faith and make me a better priest.”

“Oh, please extrapolate, Mr. Hudson! How can one being temporarily in the midst of Hell make one a better priest?”

“Simple,” you explain. “It’s an opportunity that no other priest but Christ himself has received. By seeing Hell firsthand? I’ll be able to prepare Christians more effectively. This will make me work even harder to save souls, and the more souls I save, the fewer Lucifer will get his hands on. It’s a victory for God.” You grin at Howard. “Glory be to God.”

Howard seems disappointedly quelled. “Your mind appears to be made up in quite an intractable fashion.”

“It is.”

“Then explain your seeming turn toward profanity. Is it not true that to profane is to offend God?”

“Oh, God doesn’t give a shit about that,” you feel sure. “I never cuss on Earth. The only reason I’ve started to here is just due to the environment, I guess.”

“Hmmm . . .”

“And my mind is made up,” you reiterate without hesitation. “So get me out of this fucked-up pumpkin so I can go back to my life like you promised.”

“As you wish, if you’re sure.”

“Sure I’m sure, and this little tour of yours is the reason I’m sure. It proved to me that Lucifer’s a grade-A moron. He’s a nitwit. All that power and all these resources and technologies, and look what he does with it. He could turn Hell into a great place, and