Howard’s voice, in spite of its elevated pitch, seems to turn foreboding. “Not your castle, Mr. Hudson. Mine.”
Only now do your eyes lower to scan the rest of Howard’s form. He’s no longer dressed in the shabby 1920s-style shirt and slacks . . .
He’s wearing a surplice of multifaceted jewels of every color conceivable and inconceivable. An ornate P has been mysteriously imbued on his forehead. More jewels glitter when Howard smiles: the most illustrious dental implants. “You haven’t won the Senary, Mr. Hudson. I have. Lucifer is not only notoriously dishonest, he’s also industriously dishonest. And I’d say your current circumstance demonstrates the extent of his machinations. By effectively causing you to believe that you won the Senary, you disavowed your Salvation, and since I was principal in stimulating your decision, the Senary has been awarded to me.”
“This is a pile of shit!” you bellow. “You screwed me!”
“Indeed—”
“I could’ve gone to Heaven!”
“Quite right, but here you are instead.” And then Howard picks your head up by the hair and carries you along, holding it over the ramparts. “Enjoy the view while you can. You’ll not see my beautiful castle again.”
“It’s supposed to be my beautiful castle!” You’re sobbing now. “That was the deal!”
“That was the deal that your greed allowed you to perceive. So intoxicated were you, Mr. Hudson, by the prospect of having all of this, that you never once considered the unreliability of the monarch here. Love is blind, they say, which is true, but it’s truer still that greed is so much more blind.” Howard looks forlorn for a moment. “The genuine deal is that I won the Senary and its sequent Privilato status by convincing you of the opposite, for enticing you to give your Salvation to Lucifer of your own free will. It really is quite a prize for my master and I might add, my master rewards those who do him service.”
“I won, damn it! Not you! I won!”
“You’ve won nothing but what your greed and betrayal of faith have earned you.”
The sound of a breeze stretches over the vast landscape.
“Where’s my body?” you moan now, tears running.
“There.” Howard holds your head between two merlons where you see the revelers in the courtyard: your mother, father, and sister; Randal, Monsignor Halford, and the two rowdy prostitutes; Marcie, your first girlfriend; and the six Pamela Andersons. They’re all chatting happily as they busy themselves around the barbeque. Racks of ribs have already been laid across the grill, while Randal and Marcie are systematically sawing or cleaving steaks off of the headless body stretched across a long butcher block table. Your body.
You begin to cry like a baby.
“There, there,” Howard consoles, and after a few more steps that familiar black static crackles, you scream, and—
WHAM!
—you’re someplace else, and it only takes you a moment to realize that you’ve seen this place before as well, not in reality but in the hectographs Howard showed you earlier. Thousands and thousands of heads look at your head as Howard walks you through Lucifer’s Atrium, Great Hall, Dining Room, and, lastly, the Bedchamber.
Wall after wall after wall of living female heads.
Many of them smile when you pass by.
“So behold now, Mr. Hudson, the true seat of your destiny. You will remain here forever, and though I can fathom your disappointment in now acknowledging the ruse played on you, you may at least take some solace in knowing that you have inherited a unique privilege . . .”
Oh no, your thoughts croak when Howard takes you into Lucifer’s circular-walled commode-chamber, where more, more female heads look at you with the most satisfied smiles. The head smiling the most, however, is that of the lone chubby-faced blonde lying cheek-down on the gilded toilet-stand.
“Oh please!” she exclaims in a trashy Southern accent. “Please let it be true!”
“And so it is, my dear,” Howard tells the head as he lifts it off the stand and flings it to the floor.
And what he puts in its place on the stand is your head.
“You are now the first male head to become a permanent fixture at Manse Lucifer,” Howard says.
“Howard!” you scream. “I’m begging you, man! Don’t do this to me!”
“Ah, but really, you’ve done it to yourself, haven’t you?” And then Howard turns to make his exit.
“Don’t leave me here! This isn’t fair! You tricked me! I don’t deserve to be the Devil’s toilet paper for eternity, do I? My sins weren’t that bad!”
“Sin is relative, Mr. Hudson,” pipes Howard’s voice a final time. “And with those words I’m afraid I must take my leave and enjoy the privileges I’ve duly inherited.” Howard sighs dreamily, and smiles with his jewels for teeth. “At last, I’ll finally be able to write The Lurker at the Threshold! And thank you, Mr. Hudson, very much. I could never have won the Senary without you . . .”
“NOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Howard leaves the commode-chamber and closes the head-paneled door behind him.
All the heads that form the walls, floor, and ceiling begin to laugh.
And all you can do now is sit there in dread, wondering how often the master of this house moves his bowels . . .