Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [63]
“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