HIGH PRAISE FOR EDWARD LEE!
“The living legend of literary mayhem. Read him if you dare!”
—Richard Laymon, Author of Funland
“Edward Lee’s writing is fast and mean as a chain saw revved to full-tilt boogie.”
—Jack Ketchum, Author of Joyride
“He demonstrates a perverse genius for showing us a Hell the likes of which few readers have ever seen.”
—Horror Reader
“Edward Lee continues to push the boundaries of sex, violence and depravity in modern genre lit.”
—Rue Morgue
“One of the genre’s true originals.”
—The Horror Fiction Review
“The hardest of the hardcore horror writers.”
—Cemetery Dance
“Lee excels with his creativity and almost trademark depictions of violence and gruesomeness.”
—Horror World
“A master of hardcore horror. His ability to make readers cringe is legendary.”
—Hellnotes
TO SEE THE DEPTHS OF HELL
“You’ll have exactly six minutes to listen to the Trustee, ask any questions you have, and then accept or reject the offer. And even if you accept, which I pray you’ll do, you’re under no obligation. Nothing becomes binding unless you say yes upon completion of the tour.”
The tour . . . Those words bothered him more, perhaps, than anything else tonight. There was something potent about them. Even when he thought the words, they seemed to echo as if they were called down from a mountain precipice.
But then more thoughts dripped. “This is a pact with the Devil, you mean.”
“Not a pact. A gift. One thing to keep in mind. The Devil doesn’t need to offer contracts for souls very often these days. Think about that . . .”
Hudson’s eyes narrowed. “But I’m about to go to the seminary. To be a priest!”
Her voice drifted in delight. “Perhaps what you see will dissuade you. Your reward will be beyond imagination . . . .”
Other Leisure books by Edward Lee:
EDWARD LEE
LUCIFER’S
LOTTERY
For Rex Miller—Rest in peace.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This project is a novelization of my previously published small-press novella The Senary. I liked the concept so much that my Muse demanded I transform it into a full-fledged novel for my mass-market readers. Ultimately, I must thank you, the reader, for buying it! I hope you like reading the book as much as I liked writing it. More thank-yous to: Don D’Auria, Wendy Brewer, Dave Barnett, Tim McGinnis, GAK, Bob Strauss, Larry Roberts, Jason Byars, William Patrick, Thomas Deja, and Christine Morgan. William at the Tyrone Barnes & Noble; Shroud Magazine; my friends at Wild Willy’s in Largo, Florida, the coolest bar in the world: Nick, Rhonda, Johnny, Bob Monday, Sheri, Roz, Stacy, Mitch, Randi, English Richard, James, Royce, Doug, and the rest. Krist at Diabolical Radio; Tracy Lee Hunt and Temple Arnold Corson IV. Also to the following fans and readers: Paul Legerski; Sandy Griffin and Tony Brock; Jonah Martin, Rob Johns, James L. Harris, Jordan Krall, splatterhead4ever, harleymack, Amy M. Pimental, mrliteral, Horror Freek, Lilith666, Bateman, Lazy Old Fart, vantro, TravisD, JameyWebb, reelsplatter, boysnightout, Nephrenka, carthoss, Amano Jyaku, Insalubrious, VT Horrorfan, bgeorge, Tod Clark, John Copeland, dathar, godawful, Ken Arneson, Bob & Jaime Taylor, Killa Klep, darvis, antitheism, Onemorejustincase, S. Howard, S. Eliot-O’Leary, FrederickHamilton, niogeoverlord, horrormike, Serra, swix, vladcain, Kerri, lazy2006, bellamorte, GNFNR, mpd1958, sassydog, IrekB, jesus was a robot, dk78, FeedMeaStrayCat, sunnyvale22, goregirl, Zombified420, Becki, Patricia Maier, Cyberkitty, squeakytherat, sikahtik, Craig Cook, Qweequeg. Plus, special thanks to Monica O’Rourke and Wrath James White for pulling off a dynamite Killer Con in Vegas.
PROLOGUE
Six minutes after he officially died, Slydes found himself standing agog on a street corner like none he’d ever seen. He stood as he had in life: broad-shouldered, tall, dark dirty hair and a bushy black beard. Blue jeans and work boots, and his favorite T-shirt stretched tight over his beer belly; it read ST. PETE BEACH – A QUIET LITTLE DRINKING TOWN WITH A FISHING PROBLEM. Slydes was a redneck, tried and true, a shitkicker. A bad ass. He’d seen a lot of outrageous things in his day, but now . . . Now . . .
This?
The wind screamed. Winged mites swarmed in the humid air and splotched red when he swatted them against his brawny forearms. What kind of city is this? he thought as his gaze was dragged upward. Dim, drear-windowed skyscrapers seemed a mile high and leaned this way and that at such extreme angles, he thought they might topple at any moment. Twisted faces that couldn’t possibly be human peered out of many of the narrow panes, while other panes were either broken out or spattered with blood. The sky visible between the buildings appeared to be red, and there was a black sickle moon hanging between two of them. Slydes blinked.
A dream, it had to be. It was this notion that he first entertained. His Condemnation only minutes old, he couldn’t remember much. He couldn’t remember where he was born, for instance, he couldn’t remember his age, nor could he remember his last name. Indeed, Slydes couldn’t even remember dying.
But die he had, and for a lifetime of wincingly outrageous sins and wickedness, he’d been Damned to Hell.
So here he was.
A nightmare, that’s all, he convinced himself. A red sky? Office buildings leaning over at sixty-degree angles? And—
SWOOSH
A black bat with a six-foot wingspan and a vaguely human face glided by just over his head. Slydes felt a stinking gust, then recoiled when the impossible animal shat on his head.
“Fucker!” Slydes yelled.
The bat—actually a Hexegenically created Crossbreed of one of several genera known as Revoltus Chiropterus—looked over its leathery shoulder and smiled.
“Welcome to Hell,” it croaked.
Slydes stared after the words more than the creature itself. Hell, he thought quite obliquely. I’m not really in—
WELCOME TO ST. PUTRADA CIRCLE, HELL’S NEWEST FISTULATION & TRANSVERSION PREFECT, the sign said.
Slydes could only stare at the sign as the splat of monstrous guano ran down the sides of his face.
Hell’s newest . . . WHAT?
At the corner another sign blinked DON’T WALK, and then a rush of pedestrians crossed the street. Slydes just kept staring . . .
He didn’t know what they were at first: People? Monsters? Combinations of both? A slim couple held hands as they strode by, flesh rotting from their limbs and faces. Several impish children wove through the crowd, with fangs like a dog’s and eyes as big and as red as apples. A werewolf in a business suit and briefcase passed next, and after that a fat clown with a hatchet in its face. To Slydes, the clown bid, “Hi, how are ya?”