“The winner!” revels the attendant.
“This is what rich people in Hell do for fun?” you object. “They bet to see which one lives the longest? Good Lord!”
Howard winces at the name. “I will add, Mr. Hudson, that the art of wagering was invented by Humans . . .”
“Then why aren’t Human beings tortured here, too?”
“These particular Coves function to judicially torture only the Hellborn, Mr. Hudson. All of the victims here have been convicted of terrorist activity or traitorous thoughts via a Psychical Sciences Center. But soon enough it’ll be my pleasure to introduce you to a facility for very select Humans only.”
You finally put the Roastery behind you, the revel of bettors fading in the background. “I don’t want to see anymore,” you say, drained. “None of it makes sense. Head-cooking? Filling monsters’ vaginas with hot rocks? Pumping piss into people? It’s hideous.”
“Well, certainly you understand that this is the intention in the Mephistopolis, Mr. Hudson. Notions expressly not hideous are conspicuously bereft.” Howard carries you through a gate exit manned by Ushers. Beyond this gatehouse steam-trucks empty hoppers of dead Hellborn onto conveyor belts that carry the piles into a warehouse marked, MUNICIPAL PULPING STATION #95,605.
Your vaporous mind feels like dead meat as the Turnstile’s black magic sizzles before your eyes, and next—
“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.”