Shit happens, he reasoned. But it had been a lot of fun whizzing around carte blanche in a Nectoport. How many Trolls get to do that?
How many Trolls, Imps, Demons, Humans—whatever!—got to see the Mephistopolis from this high up? It’s a privilege, I guess, and it must be worth SOME brownie points. Down here everything is good against evil, and good almost NEVER wins, but I’m on the side of good.
Krilid supposed this fact made him either very unselfish or very stupid.
He took no chances of being detected, slipping the Nectoport in and out of clouds. All of the scaffolding around the Demonculus had been taken down, and he spotted very few Balloon Skiffs floating about the unliving thing’s colossal body. That means all the maintenance duties are finished. They only have a few more things to do before they bring that disgusting thing to life . . .
However, there were a few more things for Krilid to do as well, before he could hope to pull this off.
He pulled the Nectoport off with a simple thought, and then found himself hovering high above one of the Torturaries in the Pogrom Park District. This particular compound specialized in Cage Roasting as its mode of slow torture, and it exclusively housed Human Damned who—like Krilid—had defected to Ezoriel’s Contumacy or some other anti-Satanic sect. From this range, the compound looked like a typical prison yard, with towers manned by armed Conscripts, and a nearly impenetrable Blood-Brick fence resistant to not only impact but also Breech Spells. The rolls and rolls of “barbed” wire did not sport barbs but instead invisible needle-teeth from exterminated Bapho-Rats.
Krilid loved coming to the Torturaries—they were perfect places for target practice.
Slug-skinned Ushers stalked the grounds to supervise the Torture Attendants, and as for Cage Roasting? Sulphur beds were kept sizzlingly hot by various Crossbreeds forced to constantly pump foot-operated bellows systems. Above each bed hung a cage, quite like an iron maiden, which contained one very unhappy subject. The cages were lowered very slowly, and when the occupant began to burn, the cage was raised, to protract the unassuagible pain. Agonicity terminals were implanted into each subject’s brain, to provide the compound with all the power it needed.
Krilid groaned as he watched the machinelike process below: the systematic raising and lowering of the facility’s hundreds of Roasting Cages. Eventually a captive would be roasted down to a crisped twig but since almost all prisoners here were Human Damned, those twigs never died. They’d be thrown into trenches where they would twitch, shudder, and think for eternity.
Krilid figured he was half a mile up when he sighted his matchlock rifle. The sounds that came from below could’ve been a diabolic song. Screams intensified as cages were lowered, then diminished when they were raised. It was a pipe organ in Hell, with Human throats as the pipes.
BAM!
Gotcha! Krilid rejoiced after the rifle’s delayed discharge. The horrific head of an Usher in the center of the field erupted like a large, ripe fruit. Consternation ensued after that first shot, Conscripts coming to alert in the towers, Torture Attendants being called back to barracks—
BAM!
The head of a Captain of the Guard burst next. Krilid chuckled as he reloaded. Now alarm sirens were sounding. When an Air Viceroy took off on a saddled Gryphon—
BAM!
—Krilid waited till the winged beast had ascended to a sufficient height before he shot its beaked head off. Spiny feathers dispersed, and the Viceroy fell straight down and landed in one of the sulphur beds.
Yeah!
Krilid knew his time was short. Now that the Torturary was under attack, an Archlock would be summoned to determine Krilid’s position. If detected fast enough, Krilid could be blinded or paralyzed via the Psychic Sorcerer’s telepathy, but—
I’ve never killed an Archlock before, he realized.
It was a foolhardy chance he was taking but Krilid felt lucky today. He squinted from the Nectoport’s egress. An Archlock wouldn’t expose himself on the open field but he would have to make a visual assessment of the scenario . . .
Windows, Krilid thought. No Archlock could psychically scan the sky without at least looking out a window.
And Archlocks all gave off auras . . .
Don’t dillydally, Krilid ordered himself, his shooting eye wide open behind the sight.
It was in one of the tiny tower windows that Krilid thought he spotted the tiniest flash of liquid-black light, like a wavering luminous vapor. It was a long shot, but he aimed, squeezed the weapon’s rickety trigger, then bucked backward when the sizable projectile rocketed out of the rifle barrel.
Krilid kept his gnarled fingers crossed. Then—
You gotta be kidding me!
—the prison tower exploded as if demolitioned, not from the impact of the bullet, of course, but from the spontaneous release of cabalistic energy caused by the bullet’s entrance into the Archlock’s skull. Bricks, Conscripts, Ushers, blood, guts, and limbs all flew violently into the air, then rained back down. Bolts of black light like stygian lightning cracked in the wake of the Archlock’s assassination.
Krilid chuckled when he zoomed the Nectoport out of the vicinity. I guess that’s what you call a hole in one.
But his amusement and satisfaction didn’t last long. True, he’d done a good job, but it was only target practice. Very soon, he would be faced with the Real McCoy—and have to score a similar head-shot on Master Builder Joseph Curwen . . .
(III)
Howard turns around, with you on the stick. Suddenly you’re facing all sixty-six of your personal concubines, standing beautiful and nude, in formation, the six Pamela Andersons right up front.
My God, you think. I can’t believe what I’m about to do . . .
“Well, Mr. Hudson?” Howard asks.
You don’t even hesitate now. “I accept the Senary.”
Howard’s pale face seems to flush with relief. “Great Pegana! For a while I truly feared you would turn it down.”
So did I . . . You sigh. “So what happens now?”
“Well, I hope you’ll pardon the cliché, keeping in mind, however, that clichés are actually quite powerful Totems of classicism here.”
“Cliché?”
Howard nods. “You’ll have to sign a formal contract.”
“In blood, I suppose.”
“Yes. Your own.”
Then it strikes you: “I can’t sign a contract! I’m a pumpkin! I’ve got no hands!”
“Not here, Mr. Hudson. Remember, right now you are still in fact an inhabitant of the Living World. Once I displace you back to the Larken House, the Senarial Messenger will have your contract prepared.”
The deaconess, you remember. “So then what? I sign and then kill myself?”
“Goodness no! You still have the rest of your life to enjoy, and you will be able to do so in grand style.”
“I don’t get it,” you tell him.
“Upon putting your commitment into writing, Lucifer will grant a so-called ‘signing bonus,’ in the sum of six million dollars—”
“Six million! In cash?”
“Cash money, sir, this for you to suitably finance yourself until your physical life does, in fact, end. You will die painlessly in your sleep, Mr. Hudson, six days after your sixty-sixth birthday.”
Your demonic eyes bloom. And I’m still young! I’ve still got more than HALF MY LIFE left to live! And with six million bucks to boot!