Lucifer's Lottery

“My name is Dorris Markle. I ruh-ruh-run the bait shop and boat rentals, and I’m from Ocala, Florida . . .”

The grafted face surveyed her. This man—or this semiman—had muscles bugling over more muscles, and when they moved, the severed faces stitched over them seemed to sigh.

The sword point lowered, and the stony voice gurgled, “My name is Conscript First Class Favius, formerly of the Third Augustan Legion and currently of Grand Duke Cyamal’s Exalted Security Brigade. I am from Hell.”

He turned to the three nine-foot-tall clay men, pointed his sword, and barked, “Golems of Rampart South! Single file, follow me.” And then they walked away and disappeared into the woods.

Dorris, in a trance of revulsion and disbelief, stared after them for several minutes. When things began to howl from the atrocious scarlet water, Dorris snapped, and ran and ran and ran.

EPILOGUE

Was it a dream?

You hear a THUNK! as in the sound of a cleaver striking a cutting board, and then comes the impression of rising—up a circular staircase?—and you hear footsteps. Then—open air.

Finally your eyelids prize apart.

“ ‘Let not thy hand be stretched out to receive, and shut when thou shouldest pay,’ ” comes a high-pitched, New England accent.

Your vision re-forms and then you know that—

This is no dream.

You are back at the Privilato castle, and the first thing you see is the grand courtyard and inner wards.

It’s Howard who looks back at you; he seems elated, but there’s also a tinge of scorn in his eyes. “It’s a line from the Bible,” his voice piped, “which I foolhardily never believed in. The Book of Ecclesiasticus, parablizing the sin of greed. I’d have been wiser to have heeded that book, rather than in obsessing over the creation of my own.”

“You promised me I’d die when I’m sixty-six! You promised me supernatural protection!” you wail at him.

“I, personally, forged no such promise, Mr. Hudson. It was, instead—as you’re well aware— Lucifer’s promise.”

“I sold my soul for a price!” you scream.

“Consider the author of the terms,” Howard lamented. “It’s so very regrettable: that resonant and universal power known as avarice. You were a very, very easy victim, Mr. Hudson. But, honestly! Why do you think they call him the Lord of Lies, the Great Deceiver?”

“This is bullshit!” But then only now do you realize something crucial, because when you try to look around, your head will not obey the commands of your brain. “What-what—”

“—happened to you?” Howard finishes. “It’s elementary. You died, you went to Hell, and immediately upon the commencement of your eternal Damnation, you were decapitated.” Howard, then, holds up a mirror that reflects back your severed head, which has been neatly propped upright within a stone sconce. “And, as you have hopefully cogitated, we are back at the Chateau-Gaillard—”

“My castle!” you spit in outrage, “where I’m supposed to spend eternity living in luxury as a Privilato! But I can’t be a Privilato with my fuckin’ HEAD cut off!”

Howard’s voice, in spite of its elevated pitch, seems to turn foreboding. “Not your castle, Mr. Hudson. Mine.”

Only now do your eyes lower to scan the rest of Howard’s form. He’s no longer dressed in the shabby 1920s- style shirt and slacks . . .

He’s wearing a surplice of multifaceted jewels of every color conceivable and inconceivable. An ornate P has been mysteriously imbued on his forehead. More jewels glitter when Howard smiles: the most illustrious dental implants. “You haven’t won the Senary, Mr. Hudson. I have. Lucifer is not only notoriously dishonest, he’s also industriously dishonest. And I’d say your current circumstance demonstrates the extent of his machinations. By effectively causing you to believe that you won the Senary, you disavowed your Salvation, and since I was principal in stimulating your decision, the Senary has been awarded to me.”

“This is a pile of shit!” you bellow. “You screwed me!”

“Indeed—”

“I could’ve gone to Heaven!”

“Quite right, but here you are instead.” And then Howard picks your head up by the hair and carries you along, holding it over the ramparts. “Enjoy the view while you can. You’ll not see my beautiful castle again.”

“It’s supposed to be my beautiful castle!” You’re sobbing now. “That was the deal!”

“That was the deal that your greed allowed you to perceive. So intoxicated were you, Mr. Hudson, by the prospect of having all of this, that you never once considered the unreliability of the monarch here. Love is blind, they say, which is true, but it’s truer still that greed is so much more blind.” Howard looks forlorn for a moment. “The genuine deal is that I won the Senary and its sequent Privilato status by convincing you of the opposite, for enticing you to give your Salvation to Lucifer of your own free will. It really is quite a prize for my master and I might add, my master rewards those who do him service.”

“I won, damn it! Not you! I won!”

“You’ve won nothing but what your greed and betrayal of faith have earned you.”

The sound of a breeze stretches over the vast landscape.

“Where’s my body?” you moan now, tears running.

“There.” Howard holds your head between two merlons where you see the revelers in the courtyard: your mother, father, and sister; Randal, Monsignor Halford, and the two rowdy prostitutes; Marcie, your first girlfriend; and the six Pamela Andersons. They’re all chatting happily as they busy themselves around the barbeque. Racks of ribs have already been laid across the grill, while Randal and Marcie are systematically sawing or cleaving steaks off of the headless body stretched across a long butcher block table. Your body.

You begin to cry like a baby.

“There, there,” Howard consoles, and after a few more steps that familiar black static crackles, you scream, and—

WHAM!

—you’re someplace else, and it only takes you a moment to realize that you’ve seen this place before as well, not in reality but in the hectographs Howard showed you earlier. Thousands and thousands of heads look at your head as Howard walks you through Lucifer’s Atrium, Great Hall, Dining Room, and, lastly, the Bedchamber.

Wall after wall after wall of living female heads.

Many of them smile when you pass by.

“So behold now, Mr. Hudson, the true seat of your destiny. You will remain here forever, and though I can fathom your disappointment in now acknowledging the ruse played on you, you may at least take some solace in knowing that you have inherited a unique privilege . . .”

Oh no, your thoughts croak when Howard takes you into Lucifer’s circular-walled commode-chamber, where more, more female heads look at you with the most satisfied smiles. The head smiling the most, however, is that of the lone chubby-faced blonde lying cheek-down on the gilded toilet-stand.

“Oh please!” she exclaims in a trashy Southern accent. “Please let it be true!”

“And so it is, my dear,” Howard tells the head as he lifts it off the stand and flings it to the floor.