by Edward Lee
“Perhaps you’ll be pleased by the present change of scenery,” Howard remarks. “Welcome to Shylock Square, a government-accredited Shopping District for Hell’s most privileged and monetarily endowed. And the thoroughfare we’re traversing now is the most recent addition.”
When the black static dissipates you espy a street not unlike those in the Living World—save for the scarlet sky and black moon above—which is lined by fancy shops, cafés, and the like. Well-dressed She-Demons and creatures in business suits window-shop along the crowded lane. The street sign at the corner reads HELMSLEY BLVD.
“It can be likened to the Fifth Avenue of Hell,” Howard adds. “Here you will see the city’s most posh, most elite, and most upper crust—indeed, demimondes extraordinaire . . .”
Window signs pass by: DEMONSWEAR BY MARQUETTE, FINE HUMAN LEATHER, THE HARRY TRUMAN HAT SHOP—ONLY THE FINEST MERCURY USED, CUSTOM PORTRAITS BY GUSTAV DORE. It takes a moment for your vertigo to drift off; then you peer into a window stenciled HAND-COUCH MASSAGE and see a shapely, greenish-skinned She-Demon stretched nude on a couch made of severed hands. The hands meticulously knead every muscle in her body while a servant Imp stands by with a tray of refreshments. ELITE APPAREL FOR DEMONIC WOMEN reads the next window, and hanging on Human mannequins made of salt are an array of Tongue-Skirts, Lip-Sweaters, and Hand-Bras, and next—MATTRESS RETAILERS—PROCRUSTEAN BEDS—where an unfortunate female Troll, knob-faced and high-breasted, is forced to demonstrate before a group of more chatty She-Demons. Blades slam down to sever the creature’s feet the instant she lay down; and next—COSMETIC AND DENTAL TERATOLOGY—where an attractive Human Concubine sits tensed in a chair while a Warlock extracts her teeth and replaces them with baby toes.
“And this is how rich people in Hell live it up?” you ask, revolted.
Howard seems surprised by the tenor of your remark. “Mr. Hudson, the clients on this selfsame street are among the most favored and most advantaged in the city. Barons and Blood Princes, Dukes and Archdukes, Viceroys and Chevaliers, and their superlative concubines—She-Demons and Fellatitrines, Erototesses and Succubi, Sex-Imps and Vulvatagoyles. The men possessed with the most power are always followed by women with the most desirability. What they merely wear, Mr. Hudson, bespeaks their sheer social status.” And that’s when you take closer note of just what some of these ritzy monsters are wearing—
Good God!
One curvaceous She-Demon taps down the sidewalk in Bone-Sandals, wearing a bra whose cups are Gryphon faces, while the monstrous woman’s hot pants seem to be composed of stitched-together eyeballs. The eyeballs look at you when she prances by. Hand-Bras and Tongue-Skirts are prevalent as well but then a vivacious bluish-skinned Succubus turns the corner dressed in an entire bodysuit of tongues. You groan when you see that each and every tongue is alive. Through another window you steal a glance at a sleek and perfect-bosomed Imp as she tries on a teddy made of shellacked bat wings, while yet another Succubus tries on a negligee made from various scalps. In a Surgical Salon next door, a fussy She-Imp appraises her own round rump in a mirror and complains to an attendant, “My ass is too big. I want hers!” and then points to one of several Human women standing on display. A man in a white smock says, “A fine choice, miss,” and promptly slices both buttocks off the Human who is held down on a cutting board by a Golem. The smocked man—presumably the cosmetic surgeon—hefts each buttock in his hands and says, “Come along to the surgery suite, miss. I’ll have these transplanted in a jiffy.” And if that’s not enough, your senses stall when a bell rings and then a crystalline door opens—fancily labeled COSMETIC GRAFTING—and out steps a petitely horned and very lusty She-Demon. Onto every square inch of her skin a nipple has been grafted. She seems delighted with the service and enthuses to Howard, “Oh, my husband, the Grand Duke Desalvo, has such a fetish for nipples, I just know he’ll love this!”
“Charming,” Howard compliments, then back to you, he continues, “Indeed, Mr. Hudson. Hell’s most exclusive are what you are beholding now. No indulgence, no luxury is deprived of this select group. In fact, there is only one class of inhabitant more favored, and that would be the members of the Privilato Class.”
You offer Howard a funky look. “The Privilat—”
“And, look! There’s one now!” Howard says and excitedly points upward.
An odd groaning sound ensues and fifty feet above the street, you notice something that can only be described as a wavering hole in the sky, approximately ten feet in diameter. A bizarre, fluidlike green light rims the hole and within stands a long-haired Human man wearing clothes fashioned entirely from sparkling jewels. His face appears ordinary, yet it is set in the widest grin, and then you see that even his teeth are exorbitant jewels. On his forehead is a fancy Gothic mark: the letter P. Hmm, you think. What’s with that guy? But what you notice even more profoundly are the man’s companions, six of the most beautiful naked women you’ve ever seen.
“No wonder the guy’s smiling,” you mention, your own lust sparked. “Check out the drop-dead gorgeous women he’s with.”
“And they’ll be with him in aeternum, Mr. Hudson, or until he wearies of them in which case they’ll be replaced by more. The women are known as Soubrettes—the very pinnacle of sexual servitor. Inhuman Growth Hormones are occultized and injected, to augment their most desirable body parts, and they’re trained quite exhaustively in the Sexual Arts. The technology they’re flying about town in is called a Nectoport.”
You stare incredulous at the spectacle—literally a hole in the sky, or a portal that’s moving. The oozing green light about the rim throbs. “What the . . . hell is it?”
“Hell’s answer to flying carpets, you could say,” Howard chuckles. “Did you know that I read The Thousand and One Nights when I was but a lad of eight years? Oh . . . of course you wouldn’t know that. Nevertheless, a Nectoport is quite obviously a mode of transportation . . . as well as a very exclusive one. With only very rare exceptions, they’re only to be operated by either the Constabulary, the Satanic Military, or the highest members of the Governmental Demonocracy.”
“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 c
loven 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.”
The notion—the mere way he said it—makes you queasy.
“Economic diversification, by any other classification.”
“Baby farms?” you practically gag.
“Yes! Well put, sir, well put. Like choice grapes selected for the finest wineries, choice fetuses are harvested for this four-star aperitif bar.” Howard’s finger directs your gaze to the rearmost anteroom of the establishment, where you see a great tub made from wooden slats.
No no no no no, you think.
Worker Demons empty bushel baskets full of fetuses into the tub . . .
“I was always amused by the French cliché,” Howard goes on. “The idea that our shifty enemies in the Indian Wars would pile grapes into tubs and crush them barefoot . . .”
When the tub has been filled with squirming newborn Demons, a nine-foot-tall Golem steps in and begins to ponderously walk on them. Eventually the contents of the tub are crushed, and a tap drains the precious liquid into kegs that are then rolled aside to ferment.
Howard looks forlorn. “It’s supposedly delectable, not that I’ll ever receive the opportunity to sample it, not on my pitiful stipend. Lucifer has seen to it that the poverty which mocked me in life will continue to do so in death . . .”
Inside, the Privilato eyes trays of bizarre food placed before him by licentious servers. Wicked versions of shrimp and lobster (lobsters, of course, with horns), braised roasts of shimmering meat, steaming vegetables in arcane sauces. In spite of its alienness, it all looks delicious.
“You see, Mr. Hudson, the elite in Hell gorge on delicacies the likes of which would sink the banquets of Lucullus to tameness, and the wine? Splendid enough to green Bacchus with envy.”
You watch now as the Privilato raises a tiny glass of the evil wine and shoots it back neat. The occult rush sets a wide smile on his face, and he looks past the table, right through the window . . .
At you.
The Privilato nods.
You’re sure that if you actually had hands you would grab Howard by the collar and shake him. “Why are you showing me this stuff? And what’s the big deal with that guy in there? He’s got the best-looking girls in Hell for groupies, he flies around in a Nectoport, and he gets to drink wine that costs a million bucks a glass. Why?”
“Because,” Howard answers, “and I’ll iterate, the gentleman’s name is Dowski Swikaj, formerly a friar from Guzow, Poland.”
“Yeah?” you yell. “So what!”
“In th
e frightful year of 1342 AD, Mr. Swikaj won the Senary . . .”
CHAPTER FIVE
(I)
The great, even gouge in the Hellscape that was the Vander-mast Reservoir gave rise to the most abominable stenches, though one well-accustomed to the most evil odors—as Conscript Favius—grew used to them. Stomach-prolapsing smells were as commonplace here as screams. Yet fastidious and well-trained infernal soldiers such as Favius learned to use the sense of smell to their advantage. For instance, when something smelled suddenly different . . .
Something could be wrong.
Favius called the rampart under his command to its highest alert state, which entailed observation teams of lower-ranked Conscripts readying weapons, while the Golem Squads went from static to marching patrols. The thuds of the unliving things’ clay feet resounded like thunder; and, meanwhile, Favius’s nostrils flared as the cryptic new odor heightened in potency. What in Satan’s name is happening? he thought, his halberd ready in one massive hand, the sword ready in the other. Within minutes, he could see all the nearest ramparts of the reservation coming to alert as well.
It was a vicious stench that suddenly whelmed the place. An insurgent gas attack? he wondered. This would not kill Human Damned Conscripts such as himself, nor Golems, of course, but everything else? Yes.
However . . .
No insurgent sightings had been reported, and this far out in the Hellscape? Their supply lines would become exhausted before they’d even traversed one one-hundredths of the distance from the city to the Reservoir . . .
What, then?
When the hectophone at the sentry post began to glow, Favius knew who it was.
“Conscript First Class Favius reporting, Grand Sergeant, at your command!” he answered the severed Gargoyle head that had been modified for this purpose. The thing’s frozen-open maw sufficed for the earpiece; its ear was what Favius spoke into. Occultized Electrocity signals served as the frequency through which such long-distance communication was achieved.