Lucifer's Lottery

—you are there.

Your head spins like a proverbial top as your senses first alight and you think you hear . . .

A deep, incessant throb, like crickets in a vast field only much more intense. Before you can even contemplate the nature of the sound, it brings an immediate smile to your face.

It’s then that your vision turns crisp; you find that you are indeed standing in a vast, sweeping field of verdant grass a yard high.

It’s beautiful.

And the sounds throb on.

“Cicadas,” you dreamily mutter. “The seventeen-year kind. It’s one of my earliest childhood memories—that sound. It’s always been my favorite sound . . .”

“The powers that be are aware of that,” Howard tells you, your head-stick in hand as he walks along through the gorgeous, blight-free grass. The scent of the grass is intoxicating. “As a Privilato, everything you are endeared to, everything that brings you jubilancy and exultation will be heaped upon you to the very best of our abilities. And, mind you, forever.”

Then Howard turns and you see the castle.

“Noticing a familiarity?” Howard asked.

The castle’s great buff-colored blocks gleam atop the grass-swept hill, with five massive bastions rimmed with turrets, merlons, and arrow slits, a moat surrounding all. And come to think of it:

It DOES look familiar, you recall.

“You were quite an aficionado of the Middle Ages when you were in middle school—”

Then the memory sweeps into your head. “Chateau-Gaillard . . .”

“Correct, the famed bastion of Richard the Lionheart, in Les Andelys, France. Of course, the real one is a ruin now, but Lucifer’s Architects have constructed this duplicate, down to every excruciating detail. It appears as it did, in every conceivable way, in 1192 AD. In your early teens, castles, knights, and the like had a tendency to fascinate you.”

And he’s right; you remember now.

“While the interior has been modified to a scheme you’re sure to be delighted in,” Howard added.

Incredible, you think. As Howard approaches the drawbridge you notice eleven other magnificent castles on eleven other hills in the dim distance. “Who lives in those?”

“Your neighbors. The other men—er, I should say, ten men and one woman who’ve won the Senary since it began in 4652 BC.”

“Ten men but just one woman?” you question.

“Yes. Women seem to be more concrete about their notions of sin versus redemption. Our only female winner is a quite attractive Judean named Arcela, a concubine of a Roman governor. You’re certain to make her acquaintance, along with all the winners.” But then Howard clears his throat. “That is, if you decide to accept your winnings.”

“But I’ve already decided not to,” you remind your guide. “This castle looks like really cool digs . . . but it’s not worth my soul.”

“Of course, of course, but . . . wait till you view the interior.”

Your gourd-head sways along on the stick as Howard carries it across the magnificent drawbridge and through a barbican and iron portcullis. Next, up a stone spiral staircase, and suddenly the air feels cool as if climate-controlled. Through a spectacular archway, you’re startled by a brilliant shine, then—

“Oh, wow,” you utter.

“This is the Hall of Gold.”

You’re standing in a long room completely walled in pure gold.

“Stunning, eh? The decorative effect seems to awe Humans. Six hundred and sixty-six tons of gold have been used to wall this room,” Howard tells you as he walks on, through another arch, “while six hundred and sixty-six tons of diamonds wall this one—the foyer.”

The sight is dizzying. You’re now in the middle of another chamber walled similarly with diamonds. The effect is impossible to describe. “This really is beautiful,” you admit.

“I should say so!”

“But it’s still not worth my soul. Come on, be serious. I get to spend eternity in a neat castle full of gold and diamonds? Big deal. I’m still in Hell.”

“Um-hmm,” Howard consents. “But you haven’t met your house staff—sixty-six of them, by the way.” Howard snaps his fingers, and then a diamond panel raises, and through it saunter dozens of beautiful women—Humans and Demons alike.

The drove of smiling women don’t make a sound as they enter, stand in rank, and bow.

Yes, the most gorgeous Human women you’ve ever seen, but now you must confess that some of the Hybrids and Demons are even more gorgeous. Fellatitrines, Vulvatagoyles, Succubi. Lycanymphs and Mammaresses, and even a Golemess that puts your sultry chauffeur to shame.

“The sins of the flesh, Mr. Hudson, but not a bad thing in a domain where sin does not exist,” Howard’s voice echoes in the glittering hall.

You gulp. “Yeah, but I couldn’t get it on with all these women in a hundred years.”

“But of course you could, and a hundred after that and a hundred after that. Forever. And when you weary of these, more will be afforded you.”

Now you stare at them. That’s an awful lot of . . . sex . . .

“But now, we’re off to your bedchamber, where your very personal harem awaits.” And then Howard takes you up more steps, down a torch-studded corridor, and into a long room adorned with all manner of jewels and precious metals.

“Holy shit!” you yell.

Howard frowns.

You’re staring at the bed. “I’ll bet you didn’t get that at Mattress Discounters.”

The bed is circular, twenty feet in diameter, but the mattress itself is somehow a mass of Human breasts.

“The Breast-Beds are Hexegenically manufactured, for Privilatos only,” Howard informs. “I was never possessed of much of a sexual drive—much to my wife’s ire, and I’d bet my precious Remington she was committing infidelities in Cleveland.” Howard paused amid the digression. “Er, anyway, even I must admit, I wouldn’t mind stretching out on such a Breast-Bed.”

A bed made of tits, you tell yourself. And not just any tits—GREAT tits.

“But didn’t you also say something about—”

“Your personal harem,” Howard went on. “Oh, yes.” Again, Howard snaps his fingers.

A door clicks open and in walks a very perfect and very buck-naked—

“It’s Pam Anderson!” you wail.

And so it is. The woman curtsies for you, then stands in a displaying pose.

“She’s even better-looking than she was in Barb Wire,” you observe, but then your eyes bulge when five more identical Pam Andersons enter the bedroom and stand in formation.

Your gaze snaps to Howard. “Six Pam Andersons? All for me?”

“All for you, Mr. Hudson, should of course you accept the Senary.”

You stare at the impossible line of spectacular women. “But how did you . . .”

“They’re products of quite an impressive occult invention, called Hex-Cloning,” Howard explains. “They look —and feel—exactly like the genuine woman in the Living World you so desire, but they’ll do anything you tell them. Anytime you want.”

You gulp again, looking at those six pairs of legendary breasts . . .

“And I suspect you’ll enjoy the next prospect: the Bath,” Howard says and takes you into what you guess is