Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [100]
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!
“There’s only one point I need to make, though, Mr. Hudson, and I cannot overemphasize its pertinency.” Howard looks at you quite seriously. “Once you’ve signed the contract, no amount of repentance can reverse its terms. Once you’ve signed the contract . . . you’ve abandoned God forever.”
The words sink deep.
Howard shrugs. “But with all you’ll be given here, in a lock-solid guarantee? What real man would ever want to repent?”
As you stare once more at all those beautiful women and demons, you can think of nothing—absolutely nothing—to counter what he’s just said. I’ve believed in God my whole life. I’ve done everything in my power for as long as I can remember to SERVE GOD. My faith was so strong that I was going to become a PRIEST. But-but—
“You’ve got a deal, Howard,” you say.
“And so do you, Mr. Hudson. You have Lucifer’s untold gratitude for the victory you’re allowing him to score over God.” Howard takes your Snot-Gourd off the stick. “We’ll all be waiting for you. And I look forward to an eternity of friendship with you.”
“Ditto,” you say.
“And now? Until that wondrous time . . .” Howard removes the pulpy plug in the back of the gourd, and the gas of your Ethereal Spirit slips out like air from a popped balloon . . .
PART FOUR
MACHINATION
CHAPTER ELEVEN
(I)
When Favius’s muscle-girded body dove into the pit, he felt as though he’d landed in a morass of scarlet sewage. He’d done this, though, with no hesitation. The Grand Sergeant may well have already sunk to the bottom, or been consumed by some atrocious seaborne monstrosity that the Pipe-way had transferred to the Reservoir, but—
It is my duty to Lucifer to try to save him.
At once the appallingly thick currents turned him this way and that. The chunky Bloodwater remained turbulent from the winds of the passing storm; alternate currents tugged him farther from the force of still more Bloodwater surging through the sub-inlets. His inhumanly strong arms and legs stroked in the hot red slop. Small things nudged at him, scenting his presence and also his fear, but then some larger things nudged him, too, Divell-Eels, probably, and Gut-Fish. Favius thrashed them away, knowing all the while that much bigger creatures would be scenting him as well, things that could swallow him whole. He knew he had precious little time to find the Grand Sergeant and drag him out.
Holding his breath,