“Oh, so that guy with all the hot Demon girls is in the government or army?”
“I said, Mr. Hudson, only very rare exceptions. Nectoports are able to constrict great distances by reprocessing psychic energy from the Torturian Complexes. Sorcerers trained at the De Rais Labs devised the unique method. It’s possible for a Nectoport to travel a thousand miles of Hell’s terrain without the occupants ever really leaving their debarkation point. Do you comprehend me?”
“No,” you emphatically state.
“It’s neither here nor there. But to elucidate, the Privilatos are entitled to unlimited Nectoport usage, due to their staggering rank.”
You shake your gourd-head in more confusion. “Okay, so the guy’s not in the government, he’s not a cop, and he’s not in the military but he’s superprivileged?”
“Precisely.”
“Okay. Why?”
Howard beams through his pallored face. “Mr. Hudson, I’m absolutely delighted that you’ve made the inquiry . . .”
As Howard talks, your eyes flick to the Nectoport. The crush of sexy Soubrettes are cooing in the Privilato’s ear, feeling him up with deft hands.
“—the gentleman’s name is Dowski Swikaj, formerly a friar from Guzow, Poland—”
But as Howard goes on to answer your question, you continue to stare upward. The Nectoport hovers closer now, and the razor-sharp vision afforded you by your Ocularus eyes scrutinize each of the jeweled man’s nude consorts. Several are Human, and their sexual enhancements are obvious, as though every aspect of what men find desirable in women has been accelerated tenfold, while the others, however demonic, are just as outrageously desirous in spite of genes that make them technically monsters. One, an auburn-haired Fellatitrine, has four full breasts on each side of her supple physique, yet each nipple is a puckered mouth, while the mouth on her orb-eyed face is a hairless and perfectly cloven vagina. Next to her stands a sultry Vulvatagoyle, with skin the hue of chalk but shining to a gleam as if lacquered. Wide hips and a flawless flat belly entice further staring, and then you notice the veritable cluster of vaginas packed between her coltish legs. Each vagina seems to be that of another life form, and they all throb in excitement. Her navel, too, is a vulva—more petite—while another vagina exists in each armpit, and yet another where her anus should be. Lastly, a lissome Lycanymph—even more stunning than the barkeep at the Taproom—coddles the Privilato. She’s covered with the finest red hair beneath which a perfect Human physique can be seen. Gorged teats the size of baby pacifiers stick out from marvelously sloped breasts, and she grins fang-mouthed as her furred hands slip beneath her master’s sparkling trousers.
An uproar rises from the street as the Nectoport lowers to the bone-hewn pavement. It’s landing, you think. The Privilato stands hands on hips within the Port’s green-glowing oval, looking upon the ritzy crowd of uptown Demons in a way that reminds you of an old picture of Mussolini looking down into the town square from a stone balcony. The crowd in the street hoots and hollers, the females in particular nearly apoplectic with enthusiasm. “Privilato!” a corroded chorus rises. “Privilato!”
“Oh, dear.” Howard frowns. “He and his entourage are coming out.” And then he takes you back to an alley. “I’m just not attuned to boisterous crowds, never have been. Indeed, New York was stifling enough but this—this elephantiasis of nonhumanity exceeds my demarcation of tolerance.”
You barely hear him, squinting at the loud rabble. For some reason you can’t figure, this jeweled man—this Privilato—intrigues you. The glowing rim of the Nectoport’s aperture dilates, and before the Privilato can step out—
“Holy smokes,” you mutter.
“All Privilatos, too, enjoy a full-time detachment of bodyguards. Note the Conscripts from the lauded Diocletian Brigade.”
From the Nectoport, two formations of said Conscripts dispatch. Some wield swords, others brandish mallets whose heads are the size of fifty-five-gallon drums. Plated suits of Hexed armor adorn each troop, while their shell-like helms possess only slits to look through. The crowd’s uproar turns chaotic; then a horn blares, and one of the Conscripts raises a large, hollowed-out horn to his mouth like a loudspeaker. “Attention, all elite of Hell. A Privilato wishes to debark. Do not encroach upon the exclusion perimeter.” And then more Conscripts run lengths of barbed chain from the Nectoport’s mouth to the door of one of the shops on the street.
“The Privilato is about to step into your midst! Bow down and pay reverence to our esteemed favorite of Lucifer!” blasts the horn.
Most of the crowd falls to its knees, though many females in the audience can’t control themselves when the Privilato finally emerges onto the street. One shapely She-Demon in a gown of bone-needle mesh leans over the barbed cordon, reaching out with a manicured hand. “Privilato! I’m honored by your presence! Please! Let me touch you!” But once she inclines herself over the chain—
SWOOSH!
—a great curved sword flashes and cuts her in half at the waist.
But the crowd continues to surge forward. You actually groan to yourself when two more Conscripts unroll a red carpet before the Privilato’s jeweled feet.
Talk about the high life . . .
“Back! Back!” warns the loudspeaker. “Disperse now and let the Privilato enjoy a refreshment in peace!”
The Privilato comes forth, his robust concubines trailing behind. The crowd roars louder, which only doubles your perplexion. You look at the jeweled man and notice that, save for the jewels, there is nothing extraordinary about him. His long hair sifts around a bland, unenlivened face. His eyes look dull. Nevertheless he offers the crowd a smile and when he waves at them the uproar rises further.
Finally you object: “This guy’s acting like Kid Rock. What’s the big deal?”
Howard doesn’t answer but instead shoulders through the crowd toward the storefront. “You’ll be interested in seeing this, Mr. Hudson. One of Hell’s greatest delicacies. We’ll have to settle for watching through the window, of course.”
Hell’s greatest delicacy?
“Behold the ultimate indulgence, Mr. Hudson. One snifter carries a monetary value of one million Hellnotes,” Howard sputters. “And to think I fed myself for thirty cents a day on Heinz beans and old cheese from the Mayflower Store.”
The sign on the window reads: FETAL APERTIFS.
Now the crowd watches in awe as the Privilato approaches, his busty consorts in tow.
“Let me blow you!” comes the crude plea from a vampiric admirer.
The Soubrettes grimace at her, then one—the Vulvatagoyle—expectorates yeast onto the haughty fanged woman.
When one surgically enhanced Imp jumps the cordon and begs to put her hands on the jeweled man—
WHAM!
—a Conscript brings down his mallet and squashes her against the street.
“Back! Back!”
Even Howard seems awed when the glittering Privilato and his entourage pass by and enter the classy shop.
“The guy looks like a long-haired Liberace,” you complain. “Why is he so important? And what the hell is a Fetal Aperitif?”
“Something I’ve never partaken in—I’m not privileged enough, though I did have cotton candy once at Coney Island.” Then Howard smiles at you in the oddest manner. “Mongrel fetuses exist as quite a resource in Hell, Mr. Hudson. Akin to ore, akin to cash crops.”