Lucifer's Lottery - Edward Lee [91]
“What?”
“Behold, sir.”
Suddenly you smell a simple, yet delectable aroma:
Burgers on the grill?
And once again your unnatural eyes follow Howard’s gesture where a small congregation mingles. Several men and women chat happily about a barbecue, and sure enough, they are cooking hamburgers and hot dogs.
“Wait a minute,” you object. “How can there be hamburgers and hot dogs in Hell? They must be fucked up, like dick-burgers or some shit, right?”
Howard puts his face in his hands. “Mr. Hudson, please. The profanity. I regret this peculiar acclimation you’re experiencing. Hell’s influences can indeed be quite negative. But ruffian talk bespeaks only ruffians. Men such as ourselves are hardly that.”
“Sorry, I can’t help it for some reason,” you say, still mystified by the instantaneousness with which you cussed.
“But to render an answer, Mr. Hudson, I’ll assure you of the contrary. It’s true, there are no cattle nor swine in Hell, at least none that would taste the same as what you’re accustomed to, yet through the marvel of Hexegenic Engineering, our Archlocks can produce foodstuffs that taste identical to any food on Earth.” Howard’s brow rises. “If one is so privileged.”
“Privileged as in a Privilato, you mean.”
“Quite. But, please. Be more attentive.”
Next, you take closer note of the actual people at the barbecue, and the recognition jolts you.
You know everyone there.
“My father and mother!” you rejoice. “My sister, too!” They had all died years ago but now you deduce the direction of their Afterlife. Manning the grill itself is Randal, who glances upward and waves.
“And Randal! My best friend where I live, but . . . wait. He couldn’t be here. He’s not dead.”
“Regrettably, he is, Mr. Hudson,” Howard tells you. “As I’ve been properly informed by the so-called powers that be. He was killed just hours ago by an unstable intruder at his convenience store, apparently a quite obese homeless loafer.”
Homeless. Obese. The image pops into your gaseous brain. The schizo in the stained sweatpants who threw up in the Qwik-Mart! You consider the situation and nearly chuckle, though there’s nothing funny about it. He must’ve gotten sick of Randal throwing him out of the store, so he . . .
“Evidently this inauspicious derelict got hold of a ball bat and, well, introduced it with some vim and vigor to your friend Randal’s knees, groin, and skull.”
It’s ironic at least. Your monstrous eyes squint harder . . .
There’s a third man there as well.
No, you think dully.
The man’s attire is shocking enough—black shoes, black slacks, and black shirt, and a Roman collar—but when you recognize his face?
“Not Monsignor Halford!” you exclaim.
Howard seems surprised. “Your reaction sounds troubled, Mr. Hudson. I’d think you’d be pleased to find your mentor here.”
“What’s he doing in Hell?” you yell. “He’s a fucking monsignor!”
Howard winces at your next implementation of foul language. “It is with great regret that I must inform you of Monsignor Halford’s recent demise—some manner of coronary attack. As for being here, I hardly need to explain.”
“He’s a priest, for shit’s sake. Why didn’t he go to Heaven?”
Howard’s brows rise in a scolding attitude. “I should think the answer would be clear. Priest or not, he didn’t live his faith as you do. He didn’t practice as he preached, so to speak.”
That’s bullshit, you fume, but then . . . Well, at least he’s here. He’s someone I like and know.
“And the two more . . . provocatively dressed young ladies I’m sure you’ll recognize as well. They were killed last night, in an aspect of mishap I’m told is known as a ‘drive-by.’ ”
You blink, and see them.
The two trashily attractive women turn and wave as well. Tight T-shirts cling to impressive bosoms, and they read: DO ME TILL I PUKE and NO GAG REFLEX.
“The hookers from the bar!” you exclaim.
“Indeed, and, look, here comes one more.