The physical torments of Hell do not allow for the convenient side-door exit of unconsciousness. And so Hatcher McCord, anchorman for the Evening News from Hell, newly invested but free-thinkingly subversive minion of Satan, in full consciousness begins to suffer in ways that go rather beyond the poor powers of language to describe, as one foot is devoured and then the other, one leg done in four bites and then the other, the torso done in a dozen large chunks, the throat taken in one bite, and Hatcher McCord’s head — including his universally recognizable face — is swallowed whole. And then, last but not least, the famous anchorman’s penis remains utterly alone in the center of the bed, spouting on manfully, bravely. After making rather thorough use of this final part for a time, Lulu finally looks at it thoughtfully and then swallows it one gulp. All of Hatcher’s parts have now vanished down the wide-gaping throat and into the ever-expanding stomach of the redoubtable Lulu, succubus spawn of Grand Mater Lilith, as the Mater herself flutters nearby watching, having already collected more than enough of his essence for the Hatcher McCord snow globe.
Lulu belches.
“Cover your mouth, dear, when you do that,” Lilith says.
Lulu farts.
Lilith rolls her eyes and shakes her head, and with her cupped palm full of Hatcher, she floats off to her arts and crafts corner at the other end of the trailer.
Lulu — her belly vastly distended — lies back on the bed. She pulls a pack of Lucky Strikes from under a pillow and lights a cigarette. She blows a smoke ring and reflects: I adore having a man inside me. Even if they don’t appreciate it and just want to shoot their little load and then roll off you and turn their back and act like you’re not even there. And you’re so like them, Mama. Deep down, you prefer to watch. The Internet is all you really need. And when you do them, it’s just to add to your collection. Oh I did this one. And I did that one. For me, this is the real moment. I cannot hold you close enough, my darling. Come inside me, my darling. We are one, my darling,
Lulu belches again. This time, with no one to see, she covers her mouth.
Meanwhile, jumbled inside the one large room that is the double-wide of Lulu’s inner body, Hatcher also reflects: In mortal life as well, how often sex went terribly wrong. No. Not always “terribly wrong,” sometimes quite subtly wrong and sometimes wrong and right both but mixed so thoroughly that you couldn’t tell the difference. But not really “often” wrong either. In fact it always went wrong, somehow, on some level, even if it was the itch on the heel of your right foot, or what’s that distant siren out the window up Riverside Drive or down F Street, or is a two-parter on personal tax deductions during February sweeps a sure thing or a bad risk, all the while you’re having sex with a woman who you’re never going to see again and you should try to remember or you expect to see for the rest of your life — well, who knows, maybe not that long but certainly indefinitely since you’re married to her — and you should try to stay connected to her. And sometimes it was:
Was it good for you?
Yes, was it good for you too?
Yes.
Was it as good for you as it was for me?
How do I know?
Was it the best you ever had?
It was good.
Oh shit.
And sometimes it was:
Are you asleep?
Trying.
Now?
Yes.
Can’t we talk?
I’m exhausted.
I want to get pregnant.
Oh shit.
Or instead of “I want to get pregnant” it’s “I want it to be like it was” or “I want to get away for a week, alone” or “I want to be famous too”—no, that’s too honest — that one wasn’t even a question, it was “You never ask me for my opinion” or “What are you really doing for the world” or “I was watching Rather tonight.” Or Frank Reynolds. Or, once, Connie Chung. Connie Chung. Oh shit.
And now Lulu shifts on the bed and Hatcher’s parts jumble around and his roughly detached head oozes from between chunks of his thighs and his face pops up tightly against Lulu’s soft inner flesh. His valiant attempt to remain rational falters: She is on my arm, my darling Lulu, we enter the conference room and I lay my cheek against her naked shoulder, and the men in the room all rise at our entering and they are pure white from head to toe — faces and hands and suits and ties and hair — as white as the bones of some man that my darling has picked clean in the desert, and I say, “Gentlemen, we’ve had many fine discussions, the six of us, and Mamie has always been a very gracious hostess, and now I’d like you to meet my darling Lulu — Lulu, this is President Dwight Eisenhower, he’s raising both arms to you in electoral triumph, and the man with glasses nodding at you is Harry Truman” and at this Truman lifts both his hands and spreads them as if to measure quite a long penis indeed, and he says, “The fuck stops here” and the Presidents are gone and Lulu and I are crossing the square in Pittsfield, heading for the Rainbow Restaurant for cheeseburgers and cherry Cokes and we pass beneath the awning of the storefront Hotel Parkway and Lulu says, “Let’s go in there and fuck” and I say “You bet” but just now my father steps out of the Rainbow and his face is smeared with ketchup and he’s popping a final French fry into his mouth and Lulu does a double take and she says “Even better” and she is upon him instantly and his clothes are flying and I really really want to look away before I see my father’s cock, especially in the grip of my darling Lulu, and someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn and it’s Mamie Eisenhower — the whiteness of her face and hair and pearl necklace and modest fitted woman’s suit is dazzling there in the sunlight in Pittsfield — and she lifts her hands and offers me a cup of tea even as my father’s voice fills the square shouting “Fuck me, Lulu, yes!” and Lulu cries “At last a real man!” and I drop Mamie’s teacup and I run, I run across the square and past the courthouse and on and on till I slam into our front door and I go up the steps three at a time and I find my mother — her late-October-afternoon gray eyes turning on me and brightening — and I sit beside her on the bed where she hugs a terry cloth robe tight around her and I take her hand and I begin to pat it and I pat it and I pat it and she says to me, quite low but quite clearly, “It’s all right, my darling. You have everything to give to the world. And everything about you is perfect. Do you hear me? You don’t need to worry. You’re perfect.”