The veiled joust was over—Curwen had won.
“Be prepared,” came Aldehzor’s whisper like the smoke off a ball of pitch. “What you long for will come soon.”
Curwen stared the Incorporeal down.
“In the name of all things unutterable, hail the Prince of Lies,” the Grand Messenger said and got out of the carriage.
Curse ye, and be gone with you, Curwen thought, and then when he saw another sixty-six Mongrels dropped at once into the Cauldron he nearly swooned as if opiated. Their screams were like the sweetest of songs to his ears.
(III)
The hollow sound in your head follows you as the Turnstile’s evil formulae are triggered and you and your guide are pressed yet again through the gauze of distance-collapsing sorcery. When the vertigo passes, you jerk your gaze to Howard.
“So that’s it? The winners of the Senary get to become Privilatos?”
“Ah, I see your observations have at last heightened the acuity of your powers of deductive reckoning. I gratefully affirm.”
You frown.
“However, our chancing upon Mr. Swikaj and his comely harem came quite by happenstance. We’re on our way to behold further facets of the abyss that should deliver a more formidable impact.”
Shylock Square is long behind you now, though curious occult graft work is still visible among passersby. One stunning woman in hot pants and a bra of the finest leaden fabric has no face at all but only smooth white skin and a belly button where her nose would be. Her face has been transplanted upon her abdomen, and when that fact finally registers, you notice that she is smiling at you. A buff man, Human save for elaborate horns, walks confidently into an enterprise called CRIPPENDALE’S; he’s wearing a vest of penises, and onto his earlobes have been sewn scrotums. Lastly, a slyly smiling She-Imp passes, her majora replaced by what appears to be a baby’s buttocks.
“I can perceive that you’re finally acclimating,” Howard remarks. “Your revulsion appears to be growing staid—quite a good sign.”
Finally you’re able to blurt, “You want me to accept the Senary, which means I’ll become a Privilato after I fucking die. Is that it?”
“Yes,” Howard says, his already long face lengthening further; his distaste obvious. “However, if I may conjecture, profanity does not suit you at all. It’s quite inappropriate and wholly uncharacteristic of a studious and devout man such as yourself.”
You fix on what Howard just said. Profanity? Yes, I cussed, didn’t I? I said “fucking die,” instead of die. The speculation unwinds like a coil of string. “I never swear,” you tell your guide. “Sure, a damn or a hell or an ass on occasion, but never . . . the F-word or the S-word.”
Howard is frowning. “It’s uncomplimentary, sir. It bespeaks ruffianism and roysterishness. Better to maintain an air of the dignified, even in so undignified a habitat as this.”
Trivial as the matter seems, it bothers you. I must hang out with Randal too much . . .
“But, yes, you’ve unveiled the intrigue at last,” Howard goes on. “It is indeed the motive of the master of this domain that you accept the Senary and rise to Privilato status upon your earthly demise.” Howard scrutinizes your impossible face. “And now you are weighing that possibility against the possibility of an eternity in Heaven, are you not?”
You stare. Am I? Yeah . . . of course I am . . .
“But you needn’t choose just yet. Let’s take in more sights before we arrive at the clincher.”
“The clincher? I can’t imagine.”
Does Howard smile? “No, I’m certain beyond all cogitation that you cannot. No one can . . .”
Your senses reel as you cross a footbridge over a mucus-filled creek. Several destitute Trolls nod as they stand on the rail, fishing. One Troll has eyeballs in his bait can, the other, tongues yanked from their seats.
But your hideous eyes go wide when you notice several twitchy Human women crossing the footbridge . . .
“More addicts,” Howard notes, “regrettable, but no more so than the seemingly illimitable Human capacity to ‘chase the dragon,’ as they say. Clearly beyond the bridge there’s a public Flenser’s in business.”
But you simply continue staring, for these women seem to have had all of the flesh cut from their arms and legs, while their heads and naked torsos remain intact. It is horrendous to behold, yet also, somehow, perversely fascinating.
“Street parlance refers to such types as ‘Bone-Limbers.’ ”
The implication collides with your psyche. “Like those people selling their skin for dope. Those two sold the meat on their arms and legs?”
Howard nods. “Every scrap, and mind you, a skilled Flenser can finish the task in moments—they’re quite deft of knife. And believe me, the potency of the narcotics of Hell are more than formidable. Human males tend to sell nearly every fiber of flesh from head to toe; women, however, are far less likely to follow suit as that instance could make the prospect of prostitution pitiably moot . . .”
With skeleton arms and skeleton legs, then, the pair of addicts cross the bridge, oblivion in their eyes and ruined smiles.
Yes, sir, you think. This is one big-time fucked-up place. But there you go again, so errantly thinking in terms adorned with profanity. You wince in your confusion.
In the distance, hulking Conscripts stand guard around a narrow black building that must be a mile long. MATERNITY BARRACKS, a high sign reads. Even from the distance you can hear the wails of infants . . .
You open your demonic mouth to speak but pause and don’t bother. You agreed to come here and see.
And now you will be shown.
Macabre, cancerous horses whinny as a prison wagon (identical to those you saw at the Punitary) stops before a guarded entrance. Now you stare hard.
“It’s loaded up with . . . really good-looking women,” you mutter.
“The acme of Human female stock, Mr. Hudson,” Howard augments. “The best in all of Hell—indeed—the proverbial cream of the crop. They’re hunted down with the zeal of children at an Easter egg hunt.”
Naturally, you don’t understand. So far you’ve seen unbelievable life forms, most hideous but some attractive, and Human women have comprised a fare share of the latter. This wagon, however, beggars superlative description. It is full to bursting with Human women who are among the most attractive you’ve ever seen anywhere.
“They could be runway models,” you utter.
“It’s part of the new Luciferic Initiative, and Lucifer—however plodding he can sometimes be—has grown fond of efficiency. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. You see, the inhabitants of these queer barracks make up the very finest, most attractive Human women in all of Hell. And in their stay, they will serve dual purposes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you drone as you approach, and now you watch the sinisterly helmed Conscripts haul the women out of the wagon. They’re all gagged, shackled, and stark naked. In single file, then, they’re led at trident-point into the barracks.
“There must be forty or fifty women packed into that wagon,” you exclaim.
“Sixty-six, to be precise,” Howard redresses. “And there are exactly sixty-six Impoundment Wings in this Maternity Barrack.”
The number staggers you, but then you ask, “What do you mean, dual purposes?”
“Pardon me while I get us in-processed,” Howard says aside.