Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [43]
“I presume the Senarial Messenger has apprized you of the fact that we’re subject to a considerable time constraint, the equivalent in your world of six minutes. So we must be concise and, above all, declarative,” the man said. “My name is Howard, and I bear the curious title of this term’s ‘Trustee to the Office of the Senary,’ and I’m speaking to you from a Scrivenry at the Seaton Hall of Automatic Writers. It’s located in a quite malodorous Prefect dubiously known as the Offal District . . .” Abruptly, then, he smirked. “Are you able to hear me, sir?”
Hudson’s mouth hung open for a time, but he eventually managed to say, “Yes . . .”
“Splendid. It’s my infernal pleasure to tell you that you’ve won the Senary—”
“What’s the Senary?” Hudson blurted.
“Denotatively? From the Latin senarius: anything of or relating to the number six. But here we’re only concerned with its connotation. The Senary is a drawing, in a sense, but those eligible are not random. Aspects of your own . . . resolve present the most pertinent considerations. Let me reiterate, we must be expeditious, and as I have no way of discerning that constant unit of measure known as time, your colleague will alert you when one minute remains. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“That is immaterial. You’ve been invited to partake in a—”
“A tour of Hell?” Hudson interrupted.
“Quite right. Only a smattering of persons, in all of Human history, have received this lauded opportunity. Indeed, you’re one of a privileged lot. It is guaranteed that no harm will come to your physical body, nor your Auric Substance, should you choose to proceed. You will be returned, intact, to make your final decision. At the end, in other words, you’ll be free to return to your normal life, should you so choose. But I can say to you, sir, that in 6,660 years . . . no Senary winner has ever elected to not accept the prize.”
Hudson could think of nothing to say, save for, “I-I-I . . .”
This man, Howard, held up a warning finger. “We mustn’t be frivolous with verbosity, sir—I can only presume that time is growing short, so without further delay, I must show you the Containment Orb.” Then he reached beneath the table and brought something up—something on a stick.
“Huh?” Hudson uttered.
The object on the stick, about the size of a basketball, looked brown, mottled, and, somehow, organic. A twist at the top reminded Hudson of a pumpkin’s clipped stem, and in the middle of the bizarre thing was a half-inch hole. Howard pointed to the hole. “The intake bung is here, as you can perceive—”
“But, what is that thing? It looks like a brown pumpkin.”
“Hell’s rendering, you might say—in specificity, the Feotidemonis Vulgaris, commonly referred to as a Snot-Gourd. It’s been eviscerated completely, of course, and disenchanted by Archlocks, so to serve as your Auric Carrier. And—” Howard swiveled the peculiar fruit on the stick, to reveal its other side—
“Holy shit!” Hudson profaned.
A semblance of a face existed on the other side of the thing. Two eyeballs had been sunk into the pulp; below that, a large, pointed snout as of some oversize rodent had been affixed. Also a pair of fleshy lips, and lastly, two ears, though the ears were maroon and pointed.
First he thought of a nightmare rendition of Mr. Potato Head, but then thought, A jack-o’-lantern from Hell, but just as he began his next question, the deaconess tapped him from behind. “Tell the Trustee there’s only one minute left.”
Hudson bumbled, “Uh, uh, I’m supposed to tell you—”
“So I’ve gathered,” Howard said, still holding up the hideous brown fruit with a face. “By now, it’s my hope that you can cogitate the entails of what awaits; hence, I ask you, sir . . . Do you choose to proceed?”
Hudson blinked. No obligation, his thoughts raced. Guaranteed that no harm can come to me, that I’ll be returned intact . . .
And my opportunity to be the first in history to say no to their faces . . .
“I ask