Then you look back at the obscene house; even in the utter evil of its design, you have to be impressed. But your confusion couldn’t be more intense. “So this is the clincher? This is the final sight that’s supposed to make me accept the Senary—a house of heads?”
Howard unreels a high, nasally laugh. “Goodness no, Mr. Hudson. This is the final sight that’s intended to fully evolve your awareness of the totality of Lucifer’s power and forethought. The clincher shall arrive later . . .” Howard pauses, then adds, “But the tour is nearly at an end. I dare say a minor respite is in order . . . before our final debarkation.”
You’re taking a final glance at the ghastly manse, at the innumerable living heads facing you, all those lips mouthing silent horrors, and all those eyes shock-wide by the excruciating particulars of their Damnation; and the millions more heads that comprise this entire incalculable place when the black static sizzles yet again and then—
Coolness.
Quiet.
Your gourd-head clears, and you find yourself back in the bedimmed Turnstile. It’s uneven, flat black walls emit the faintest indescribable luminescence.
“Ah,” Howard utters. He sits down on a squat, companulated protrusion made of the same material of the Turnstile itself. He loosens his frayed gray tie and smiles at you.
“Just as sleep is nature’s balm, I daresay quietude is its sedative.”
Your stick has been leaned against a corner whose angles are precisely sixty-six degrees. Within the polygon’s inner vault, you’re finally able to relax. The only sound you’re aware of arrives as the most distant hum, which is somehow organic, not electronic. That and an occasional tick of the steam-car’s cooling engine.
Howard unwraps a napkin and removes a cookie of some sort. “I’d offer you a Uneeda biscuit but, lo, your Auric Carrier doesn’t allow you to consume food.”
“Thanks just the same . . .” You try to collect your thoughts but aren’t sure how to; you’re not even sure what to think. But you know that Howard is merely giving you time to either consider or recover from all the detestable things you’ve seen.
You jerk your gaze at a sudden sound: a grunt, a shuffle. Torchlight sputters from a farther corner, and then a shadow lengthens.
The Imperial Truncator—the watchman of this place—shuffles nonchalantly across the black floor, his cleaver-hands swinging, the Ghor-Hound helmet high on his head.
“I forgot all about him,” you remark, but then: “Hey! What happened to the—”
“Ah, yes. Our lithe chauffeur, the Golemess . . .” Howard squints; then his shoulders slump. “Ostensibly not so lithe any longer.”
Now another, less lively shuffle, and from the same corner the Golemess appears. She seems winded, wearied now, and when she trudges into more torchlight, you see why.
She’s pregnant.
“The dude with the meat cleavers for hands got her pregnant!” you exclaim. The gray clay belly looks stuffed, the breasts doubled in volume, presumably full of Golem milk now.
“I was unaware that our Golemess came equipped with fertility features. No doubt before her clay was Hexegenated, the Master Sculptors at the Edward Kelly Institute of Inanimate Enchantment implanted her with a reproductive tract and ovarian process. This is another Luciferic Law that’s gradually activating: the Public Gravidity Initiative. Lucifer desires that anything female—even things unalive—be fertile. More progeny, more fodder for the machinations of the Mephistopolis. God invented reproduction via Human passion, to bring forth more Children of God to one day enjoy the Firmament of Heaven. Lucifer, therefore, perverts God’s endeavor, to reduce femalekind to repositories of lust, and bring forth more meat and building material.”
You stare at the huge stomach as the fatigued Golemess lumbers to the steam-car. “But what . . . what’s going to come out?”
“Immaterial,” Howard answers. “It’s purpose is served, and the Initiative is duly discharged.”
Meat, you recite Howard’s information. Building material.
“And now, Mr. Hudson,” Howard intones. “You’ve had this moment of respite. I’m curious as to the constitution of your thoughts.”
Your hideous head swivels to meet his gaze. “I’m thinking that everything here is illogical—”
“Which serves as the perfect logic within the confines of an antithetical demesne.”
“—including my being here.” You blink. “What, I win this Senary because I’ve tipped some scale of sin, some fulcrum. It makes more sense to go after some guy who’s a hundred percent. A cardinal, a bishop . . .”
“Perhaps in your own purview of logic. Just as popes don’t question God, we don’t question Satan.”
You smirk. “Okay, fine. But in that case, your methods are terrible.”
“Really?” Howard seems intrigued. “Be kind enough to articulate your impression.”
You recite them thus far. “I’m a good enough person that if I died right now, I’d go to Heaven, right?”
“Beyond doubt.”
“But Lucifer wants me to give that up so that when I die, I come here instead. He wants me to make that choice, right?”
“Precisely.”
“He wants me to give up Heaven, in favor of Hell, right?”
“Indubitably.”
Your eyes lock open. “WELL THEN WHY WOULD I DO THAT? HELL SUCKS!”
Your outburst bounces off the vault’s obsidian walls like bullets ricocheting. The Golemess flinches. Even the Imperial Truncator jolts from the start.
“My, Mr. Hudson,” Howard says after his own shock. “That’s . . . quite an ejaculation . . .”
“You guys must be out of your minds!” you continue to rail at the senselessness of it all. “This place is the biggest pile of shit I’ve ever seen! Bridges made of people? Taverns where the kegs are bare boobs with beer taps on the nipples, and bars that serve wine made from fermented babies? Towns made of guts and towns made of skin? And the guy who runs the whole shebang lives in a mansion made of heads! Who the FUCK would want to live here?”
“Please, Mr. Hudson,” Howard urges. “At least try to mind your cursing.” A long, crackly pause. “But certainly, sir, you can comprehend the unending bliss of one who enjoys Privilato status?”
“The Privilato? That asshole in the jewelly jacket?” You roll your demonic eyes. “He’s a putz with a posse of hot chicks who wouldn’t give a shit about him if he wasn’t a Privilato in the first place. Big deal. He drives around town in a flying hole in the sky and gets a red carpet wherever he goes. You gotta do better than that, man.”
“Ah, well, I see that you are underestimating the entireness of the Mephistopolis for those few granted privilege.” Howard raises a finger. “Allow me to query. Seeing that the lion’s share of your sins—however meager that may be—fall primarily into the lust category . . . if you could revel in the carnal pleasures of any woman in the world, who would that be?”
The question, absurd as it is, percolates in your mind. Angelina Jolie? Paris Hilton? Jessica Alba? Just as you think you’ve been stumped, the answers appears. “Well, I’m kind of old-school, but I’d still have to say Pamela Anderson.”
Howard nods. “Bear in mind, of course, that since Mademoiselle Anderson is still a member of the Living World, it defies possibility for me to be familiar with her. However, I can assure you beyond all dubiety that the women awaiting you as a Privilato will be possessed of a desirability no less than sixty-six times that of your coveted Ms. Anderson.”