by Mark Cain
But did Lilith count as a woman at all? Or even a female? Demons were generally not of any particular sex, though some, such as Uphir and Digger, I tended to think of as male. Then I remembered that succubi, and their male counterparts, incubi, were the exceptions to the rule. Their stock-in-trade was sex, so almost by definition they had to have one. A sex, I mean. A gender. I’d even heard of succubi bearing the children of men or incubi impregnating women. The offspring resulting from these unions were usually pretty hideous creatures, though sometimes they were merely watered-down demons and looked more or less human.
So Lilith was definitely female and, if capable of conceiving a man’s child, a woman. Sort of. In any event, she looked like all woman to me, except for the tail and horns of course. Any time I spent with her was very dangerous, a threat to my already-strained relationship with Flo.
Flo. I loved Flo, of that I was sure.
I needed to hold onto that thought. It wasn’t going to be easy, though, because, well, I was dealing with a succubus, a real pro. Surely if Lilith put her mind to it, no male, in love with someone else or not, would be capable of resisting her.
Yet she was a puzzle. Lilith was an odd combination of the searingly sexy and the kinda sweet. Her blue eyes gave her an innocent quality that made her sultriness even more alluring, at least to me. That would make sense, of course. In the same way Lilith’s eyes started to turn brown when I began thinking of Florence, this sexual chameleon’s personality might also adjust automatically to whatever her prey found attractive in a woman. And yet, her innocence and kindness didn’t seem like an act. I had always considered myself a good judge of character, at least on Earth. I’d been fooled many times in Hell, though mostly by Satan or Beelzebub. Seldom had a demon put one over on me, and after all, a succubus was nothing more than a demon, one that specialized in seduction and fornication.
Hey. There are worse demonic specialties to have.
Were Lilith’s friendliness and apparent desire to help just an elaborate put-on? I wondered. Her dad was an archangel, and even though he had a checkered past, Samael was accounted one of the good guys, which meant that, genetically at least, Lilith and her 665 sisters and cousins had some good in them. Yet my Lilith - well, not mine, but the only one I knew - had probably spent most of her life in Hell, so nurture could trump nature here, assuming nurture was a factor at all in the Netherworld.
In the final analysis, though, was anyone, other than the prime movers in this eternal morality play, completely good or completely evil? I had often pondered this. Even those that made it to Heaven couldn’t have had souls of unalloyed good. They just must have had more points in the nice column than the naughty one. By the same token, I knew from personal experience that there were a lot of pretty good people in Hell, folks like Pinkerton, Braille, Orson and Tesla.
I snapped out of my reverie as my body started to shake from the frigid waters. My gag reflex was starting to react to the smell. Time for another magic incantation. “It will be a cold day in Hell before I get another decent shower, with plenty of hot, clean water … and fresh soap!” I added as an afterthought, noticing that again there was no nausea. I was definitely getting my sea legs.
Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.
The water was as clean as that from the Adirondacks. I adjusted the hot water knob and got the temperature just to my liking then reached for the fresh bar of soap, humming as I lathered up. I’d forgotten the shampoo but didn’t want to press my luck. I used the soap to clean my hair. Fortunately, or unfortunately I suppose, I didn’t have much hair to wash. As I rinsed out my thin mane, a truly seditious thought came to me. Did I dare try it? Satan and Beezy might put up with me getting a break on the shower, but what I had in mind could get me in real trouble.
Screw it. I’m going for it.
“Ahem,” I said, clearing my throat. I wanted to get this just right. “It will be a cold day in Hell before I have hair like I had in my twenties … FOREVER!” I shouted triumphantly.
I both felt and heard the hair spring out of my scalp. Man! This is just too good to be true.
MINION! Satan’s voice yelled in my head.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Busted.
A blast of fire seared off the new hair on my scalp. I cowered under the faucet as I put out the flames, hoping the Earl of Hell wouldn’t do anything else to me. After a few minutes of my cowering, without anything else happening, I grabbed the soap and scrubbed out the clothes that were wadded in the back of the tub, wrung them out, and hung them over the rod of the shower curtain to dry.
As I was toweling off, I glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair had grown back.
Inside my brain, Satan was grumbling.
I headed into my closet to look for some clothes to wear for my date - that is meeting - with Lilith. Then it’s true. This cold day in Hell thing is a real problem for the big guy. He’s not overreacting, he's not faking it, and he’s not involved.
I never really had Satan on my list of suspects. While he’d lied to me more times than I could count, this time I was pretty sure the problem with the HVAC system was not of his making. Motive, means, opportunity. He had the means and opportunity, he had a barrel of each in fact, but he had no motive. The prospect of a cold day in Hell was no picnic for him. Then again, it wouldn’t be for anyone here, on Earth or in Heaven.
I had no idea how long I’d be able to keep my hair. Adding “forever” to my phrasing gave me some hope that my beautiful new brown locks would stay full, but I’m sure Satan would think of some way to take them from me eventually. For now, I was going to enjoy it. First, though, I had to find something to wear.
The last time I was in this situation, when I needed some appropriate attire to go on a couple of dates with Flo, Satan had obliged me first with a tuxedo and then with a white dinner jacket. No such luck tonight, though. All I had were my clown suit, mauve hot pants and white puffy shirt. I thought briefly about “cold daying” my way to a nice outfit, but Satan was already pissed off at me, and I didn’t want to make things worse. With a sigh, I slipped on the shorts, shirt, some reasonably clean yellow socks and my work boots.
At least my hair looked good, I thought, as I ran a comb through it. My locks were still damp, but I’d had wonderful hair in my youth. As it dried, my tresses would fall into a fairly good-looking do on their own.
On my way out the door, I saw my full ensemble in the cracked, yellowed full-length mirror mounted on the back of my front door. The image reminded me vaguely of a brightly-colored duck.
I had a few minutes before I needed to meet Lilith, so I swung by the office to see how Orson was getting along with Edison and the deluge of work orders. I opened the door. Remarkably it didn’t fight me, as it did most of the time, but swung right open.
No one was inside. Orson and his new assistant must have been off trying to fix something. Bik had not yet returned from his visit to Surtr, which was fine by me. My puffy shirt didn’t have a pocket, and I didn’t want him coming with me anyway. The fewer people who knew about this little rendezvous, the better.
The mountain of work orders had been beaten into submission, which surprised me, since I didn’t think I’d been gone that long. Still, time being a bit screwy in Hell, I knew my foray up to the realm of Asmodeus didn’t necessarily have to sync with Orson’s activities. Ten new piles of work orders were neatly stacked in a corner of the trailer. I rifled through a small stack on my desk. Yep, all were top priority items. Beside the pile was a memo from Orson, with a work order paper clipped to it.
Plant Department
MEMORANDUM
TO: Steve Minion, Hell’s Super
FROM: Orson Welles, Assistant to Hell’s Super
DATE: Whenever
RE: HOTI Form ∞3971PDYFF 666-327?///WOE # ∞8911873987
This is a report on the successful resolution of WOE # ∞8911873987, to wit, “Replace burnt-out bulb on sign above Hell’s Escalator.”
After your departure to Lustland,
I instructed my new assistant, Mr. Thomas Alva Edison, in the subtleties of Plant Department Work Order triage. Owing to the large number of recently-received service requests, sorting them into essential vs. non-essential was a not insignificant undertaking. In the interest of time, I directed Edison to gather those work orders closest to your wire inbox and give them to me for my perusal, while he stacked as many of the remaining ones that would fit in the corner of our office. A plethora of paperwork still remained …
Plethora? A pretty high-fallutin’ word to put in a memo. I read on.
… These we placed on the curb outside. (They were gone when we later exited the trailer, though they may very well be recycled and appear once again through the pneumatic tube system.)
Top priority, naturellement, was the burnt-out fixture atop the Gates of Hell. I resolved to take the long ladder, but when BP found out that - as assistant - he had to carry it, he insisted we could manage with the painter’s ladder. I’m sure you recall how inadequate to the task that particular handyman tool-of-the-trade is. Nonetheless, I acquiesced, knowing what the outcome would be.
After procuring a replacement bulb from Parts, where Edison was introduced to Dora (she wasn’t impressed), we caught the elevator up to Gates Level.
The remainder of the job was a veritable rerun of the time you and I replaced a bulb in the sign using only the painter’s ladder. When BP found out that, in order to reach the burnt-out bulb, I would have to stand on his shoulders while he stood on the top step of the ladder, his outpouring of profanity was so loud St. Peter came over and pummeled him on the head with a ruler. My appropriately chastened assistant climbed the ladder. Then I stepped up behind him and got on his shoulders. I was pretty sure my four hundred pounds of ectoplasm would be much harder for him to bear than your weight was on my own shoulders, but putting forth an Herculean effort, BP managed to support me. I frankly did not think him capable of the deed. I give him points for that.
The bulb was replaced posthaste, then I made a point to destabilize the ladder, so that it, BP and I fell. As planned, I landed squarely on top of him. I believe, judging from the multiple pops I heard, that all of BP’s limbs dislocated from the impact of my bulk on his more modestly-proportioned frame. This was great fun for me, though not for my best boy. Still, a proper orientation is important for a new employee, and there’s nothing like a modicum of pain to drive home a point. I think that in future Edison won’t argue with me when I give an instruction.
In short, the entire service call was a rousing success, BP was appropriately chastened and I was greatly amused.
I look forward to our next order, which will be WOE # ∞8911874123, Mussolini’s sewing machine.
xc: Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies
Jeez. What a blowhard.
I knew requiring Orson to file written reports would be a mistake. He enjoyed the written word way too much. It took me almost as long to read his report as it would have to replace the bulb myself.
I left the office, whistled for BOOH, and made my way to the Kit Kat Club.
Chapter 13
The Kit Kat Club was in much better repair than most establishments in Hell, probably because its primary customers were devils and demons. The sidewalk in front of the club was, surprisingly, neither cracked nor chipped. The windows of the Kit Kat were jet black to give its diabolical customers some privacy from the damned that might walk by. Those windows gave the place a dark anonymity as well as a cool vibe that Hell’s nightspots generally lacked. The entrance did not have an awning. Instead, the doors were framed by neon figures of voluptuous women dressed in sexy kitten outfits. That entrance clearly wasn’t anonymous, but it was eponymous, so that was okay.
I hopped off BOOH’s shoulders. From the darkness erupted a series of catcalls - my ridiculous outfit was drawing some attention - but I walked with as much dignity as possible to the club’s entrance and opened the door. Stepping over the threshold, I heard piano music in the background; surprisingly, it was in tune. I wasn’t sure, as a human, that I would be allowed to stay, but the bouncer just gave me the once-over and motioned me to the bar. Lilith must have gotten permission for my presence in the club; there was no other good explanation. The bar was easily thirty feet long and made of a rich mahogany that had been polished to a fine sheen. Yep. Devils and demons certainly had classier places to hang out than did the damned.
Lilith was waiting for me, perched gracefully on a barstool that showed off her legs to good effect. She had had time to change and was now in a short red strapless dress, held up only by her enormous breasts. I had always been a breast man, though, so a substantial rack, well on display, was fine by me. I found it titillating.
Sorry. Couldn’t resist.
Lilith’s dress seemed to be made mostly of tinsel, reminding me of an X-rated flapper outfit. The look worked for her; she was positively sizzling with sex appeal, and my body responded predictably. My hot pants probably looked like I had more than a diminutive fire giant in there. Felt kind of like the great white whale.
“Hello, Steve,” Lilith said in a sultry voice, though her blue eyes flashed in surprise. “That’s some outfit. A puffy shirt?”
“Sorry. Satan doesn’t allow me much of a wardrobe.”
The sexy little succubus stroked my arm. “Well, it’s the thought that counts. Besides, the hot pants show off your legs … and that great ass of yours. And, I see,” noticing Moby, “something else that looks pretty succulent.”
“Why is it,” I said with a gulp, “that I always find myself blushing when I’m around you?”
Lilith pulled me into the chair next to her and gave a big hug to my arm. I almost lost it somewhere in her cleavage. “I can make anyone blush. It’s one of the things we succubi are good at. You know,” she said, running her hands through my thick mane of hair, “I didn’t notice before how gorgeous your hair is.”
“It needed a good shampooing,” I said in embarrassment. “I just washed it.”
“Well, I love it,” she said, stroking it again.
“Ah.” The normally facile-tongued Steve Minion was stumbling all over himself. “Would you like something to drink while we talk?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay, what do you want?” I gestured for the bartender, a young demon wearing a polo shirt with the Kit Kat logo on it.
“A black Russian.” She looked around the bar then turned to me. “But I don’t see one, so you’ll do fine.”
“Good one,” I chuckled, despite myself. “To drink?”
Lilith laughed. She was having a very good time at my expense. “I’d like a crackhead slammer.”
“A what?”
“Cinnamon schnapps, peppermint schnapps and Dr. Pepper.”
“Yuck,” I said, grimacing. “That sounds nasty.”
The voluptuous redhead shrugged, setting her breasts to jiggling. I was mesmerized. “An acquired taste, I suppose, but it has cinnamon in it, and that’s my favorite flavor. What do you want, Steve?”
“Oh, just some club soda, I guess.”
“Sure about that?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
I could have had anything to drink. Drinking on the job wasn’t strictly prohibited. Besides, no one except Florence Nightingale could get drunk in Hell, though there might have been others. Maybe some of the magical creatures or mythical beings, like BOOH or Charon, could too. I didn’t know for sure, though it seemed to me that BOOH had a little buzz going after he had his two gallons of Scotch at Pinkerton’s workshop. On reflection, I decided that Charon probably could not. Since he’s a skeleton, any booze he drunk would likely flow right out of him. “Hey, barkeep. Bring me a drink and a mop.”
I looked to the bartender. “A crackhead slammer for the lady and a club soda for me.”
“Sure thing, Daddy Warbucks.”
“Daddy Warbucks?” I said to Lilith.
“He thinks you’re a cheapskate.”
“Oh.”
“You’re going to regret yo
ur drink order,” Lilith said.
“Why?”
“Take a look.”
The demon rapidly put together Lilith’s slammer, then took a second highball glass and filled it with tap water. In the tray that held maraschino cherries, limes, lemon twists and olives, there was a tiny demon tied to a swizzle stick. The bartender picked up the demon and placed him in the water. After a few seconds of the little guy doing something unspeakable in the glass, the bartender removed him, added some ice then brought both drinks over to us.
Mine certainly had lots of bubbles now. “I see what you mean.”
Lilith laughed. “Warned you.”
“That’s okay,” I said, pushing the glass some distance away from me. “I wasn’t really thirsty anyway.”
“You should have gotten a crackhead slammer,” she said, sipping at her drink through a straw. “They’re delicious.”
“If you say so, though schnapps and Dr. Pepper have never been at the top of my list.”
As we sat together, Lilith seemed incapable of keeping her hands off me. She was constantly running her fingers along my arm, or up my leg, occasionally quite far up, as if she wanted to do some major exploration of my privates. Gently, I took her adventurous hand and held it in mine.
“Aw, that’s sweet,” she said. “No one’s held my hand in ages. Other parts of me, sure, but not my hand.” She kissed me on the cheek.
And that tightening between my legs got worse.
We sat quietly for a few minutes, Lilith looking thoughtful as she sipped on her drink, me just enjoying the company of a beautiful woman, even if she was a demonic one. “They’re cute,” I said aloud.
Lilith’s impossibly blue eyes opened wide. “What?”