"malter's reward"

Posted by Menagerie on July 30, 2004 at 18:51:28:

MALTER’S REWARD
Malter was suddenly aware of a face.
It seemed to be hovering in space, just a few inches from his own. It first appeared as a looming, gentle cloud, but gradually turned solid and took on features—a rather craggy brow, deep-set, dark eyes. A large, amiable mouth, above jowls with just a hint of stubble. The mouth was curved into a great, beatific smile; the eyes twinkled. And a rumbling voice, at once warm and cultured, beckoned. “Welcome home, Mr. Malter,” it purred.
Malter blinked a few times, reached up, rubbed his eyes. He was in a rather majestic office, large books lining the walls. A good, solid, old-fashioned oaken desk separated him from the dark-visaged stranger; it dawned on him that he had no idea why he was there. In fact, the last thing he remembered—Malter’s eyes shot open wide, his hands came to his mouth and covered it, and the stranger’s features softened into open sympathy.
“Yes, Mr. Malter,” he clucked, shaking his head, “that truly must have been quite a fright. The owners of the office complex had said they would fix that elevator later in the day, but somebody neglected to deactivate it. However,” and here he smiled reassuringly, “you will be happy to learn that the complex has accepted full liability, and your family will be in receipt of a generous settlement. On top of the rather substantial insurance you had so prudently secured, Deborah and the girls will be well taken care of. Although there is no doubt they miss you, quite terribly.”
Malter had lived life quite pragmatically, and he knew better than to say to the mysterious stranger, “You’ve gotta be kidding.” He had just been told that he was dead, and that was that. He had mercifully fainted as he took that one step into the abyss of the empty elevator shaft, and now he found himself here, wherever “here” was. The man across from him was now thumbing through one of the books, every once in a while stopping to chuckle or to nod approvingly, even getting a little misty eyed.
Malter waited patiently, his eyes darting around the other volumes in the room; each was labeled with a person’s name—none of them recognizable to him. Where had he come, and what would be his fate? There was surely nothing intimidating about the stranger; abruptly, the man looked up at him, extended a big, warm paw.
“I’m so sorry,” he exclaimed. “My name is Potts, and I’ve been assigned your case. Nothing unusual—we’re all specialists, here, you know. Your file is truly impressive, Mr. Malter; there’s no doubt in my mind you’ve come to the right place.”
Malter found—well, not so much the courage, as the opportunity to ask. “And this place—where is it?”
Potts chuckled. “Well, as I’ve told you—you’re home! You’ll be spending the rest of your time with us, and it’s my job to ensure that it’s as pleasant a time as we can make it.” He returned to the book. “Truly impressive,” he murmured. “So much money to charity…so much time given to others. You made your mother very happy in her final years, you know. Every day, five-thirty, rain or shine.” He paused, smirked, shook his head. “And your employees—you paid them quite handsomely. Entirely too much, I’d suggest.”
Malter was beginning to warm to the strange, friendly man, in whose hands was his destiny. “Very hard to keep good help, you know,” he shrugged. “They were worth it to me.”
And with that, the man winked. “Particularly,” he said, “Tiffany.”
Malter felt himself stiffen; somewhere within him—was there still a him?—a chill took hold. Potts burst out laughing. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he chuckled. “We know everything, you know.”
“Then, you know there was no hanky-panky,” Malter said, almost questioning. Tiffany was a fine girl, just out of college, very efficient, big eyes, long legs, a delightful little overbite. Malter couldn’t help it; he kept giving her raises. “She was the best receptionist I ever had.”
“Mr. Malter,” Potts said, the broad smile still creasing his mug, “believe me, if there had been any ‘hanky-panky,’ you would not be here. There are other places for people who practice ‘hanky-panky’. But as I said, we know everything. We know why you kept raising Tiffany’s pay, for instance. It’s why you’re here, after all. As I said, we will endeavor to make your stay here as pleasant as we can”
Malter was trying to piece all of this together. Surely, he didn’t know—he looked at Potts, a bit startled. The big man nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said.
“You see, Mr. Malter,” he went on to the confused little man, “you lived your life virtuously, humbly, piously. You kept your hidden pleasures hidden; so did everyone else who finds his way here. Nobody knew about your fantasies, except you; I am here to give you the opportunity to live out your fantasies, as your reward for a job well done.”
Malter could hardly believe it, and the businessman in him took hold. “Surely,” he said slowly, trying to keep from sounding too suspicious, “there is a catch?”
The man smiled, reassuringly. “None at all,” he said. “No one will be harmed—if you prefer, you can live out a single reverie, day after day, for as long as you wish. The setting will be perfect and fully equipped; the results will be just as you want them to be. There are no strings; the catch was, you had to be saintly in life, and you were. Now, your bill has come due. Good for you!”
The words cascaded over Malter; whether it was his corporeal or ethereal presence, he felt a singular rush, as if emerging into glowing warmth from a long darkness. His forehead creased; the corners of his eyes crinkled. And, for the first time since he had set one foot into an empty elevator shaft, Malter smiled.
“That’s the spirit,” beamed Potts, who jumped to his feet with surprising agility. “Come on; let me show you around.”
Malter found himself on a moving sidewalk; they were winding, slowly, through what looked like the corridors of a grand old hotel, like the place he’d worked during the summer as a young man. Potts was saying something about appearances and reality. “This place is something different to everybody who arrives,” he says. “We want you to feel at home. Good, here’s our wing.”
A sharp, left turn, and a long hallway, with brightly lit green numbers upon each door. “You won’t need my company, eventually,” said Malter’s host. “I just knew you’d find it more comfortable, at first. You can come here any time you want. Let’s try this room, first,” he said, pushing the door easily open.
Malter stepped from a hotel corridor into a jungle; the cries of creatures mixed with the rustle of trees. He stared up, open mouthed; fluttering palm leaves a hundred feet above gave way to an azure sky. He got a whiff of smoke. “Dinner’s on,” Potts said, blandly; they stepped nimbly along a dirt path until Potts brushed aside some low hanging leaves. “Behold!”
It did not surprise Malter at all to see his young niece Sharon, totally naked, cooking in a large pot which was surrounded by smoldering logs. After all, he had envisioned this many, many times; even the trees surrounding the clearing looked familiar. The girl’s hands were bound behind her; the gurgling water was up to her waist. Her pale skin was reddening; large, spongy tits dripped. “Uncle Herschel!” she shrieked. “Please, save me! They’re going to eat me!”
Malter looked hesitantly at Potts, who shrugged and pointed toward the helpless, squealing teenager. The girl struggled, twisting to and fro; her bare skin shimmered with sweat and the heat. She paused, looked wild-eyed at her uncle. “Please!” she sobbed. He responded by extending an index finger toward Sharon, pressing it into her clavicle, then drawing it slowly and deliberately along that fine, plump breast, and finally tasting it.
It tasted good. “You taste good,” he told his niece, and she burst into tears; bubbles were starting to form in the water. Malter could see a few vegetables bobbing around in there. He turned to his host, who was standing with his arms crossed and beaming. “When will she be ‘soup’?” he asked.
“Any time you’d like,” Potts answered. “You will find your appetite to be insatiable; I’ve known guests to go from banquet to banquet, all day long, in all kinds of unusual settings. Don’t worry, you’ll never be too full. Quite a dish, your niece is.”
“Sadie’s girl,” he told the man earnestly, almost oblivious to the fact he was talking about an hysterical young woman who was doomed to cook in a cannibal’s pot. “Excellent student, and the boys are all after her.”
“I can see why,” Potts said approvingly. “Which cuts will you prefer?”
Malter turned to appraise the sobbing girl again. “The breast, I think,” he said. “Uncle Herschel!” Sharon shrilled, and again fought her bonds in the simmering drink.
“I’ll be back for supper, Sweetheart,” he called to the girl over his shoulder, as he and Potts trudged back toward the entrance. He heard a splash, and then a hiss as the water found the embers. “Getting comfortable?” asked Potts; they made their way to the door, passed back out into the hotel corridor.
“I guess,” said Malter. He thought he was quite aroused—again, he really couldn’t tell if he was physically there. But the sight of Sadie’s girl stewing in that pot…he was a bit confused, and Potts jumped right in. “Mr. Malter,” he said. “Sharon got a straight ‘A’ today on her Trigonometry test, and is on her way to meet friends at the movies.”
“That wasn’t really her?” he asked. It sure looked…smelled…tasted like her.
“Of course, it was her,” said Potts. “We have as many ‘hers’ as you can devour. Each one is as real as the Sharon you know. If that would have bothered you, of course, we wouldn’t have brought you here.”
Malter allowed himself to smile. Soon—whenever he’d like, in fact—he’d be eating Sadie’s girl’s tit. “Where are we going next?” he asked, and Potts’ smile doubled in breadth.
“Delicious!” Malter declared. He was sawing through a large, thick chop that had been removed from the back of the lady at the bank. “Mrs…?”
“Ambruster,” Potts finished for him; he was snacking on some back ribs. They were seated at an elegant dining table, starched linen on shining mahogany; the lady at the bank, thoroughly nude and entirely roasted, was lying on her belly on a platter, surrounded by fresh fruit. A waiter—Malter recognized her as the girl at the Italian place, the one he always tipped $20 extra for the holidays—was busily carving slices of meat from Mrs. Ambruster’s back.
Malter couldn’t stop looking at the face of the bank lady; she had always smiled and kind of cocked her head when he brought in the day’s deposits. Now she was staring vacantly, an apple stuffed in her mouth. The waiter, Kim, brought him a slab from Mrs. Ambruster’s rather plump thigh. “Any more for now, Mr. Malter?” she asked cheerfully.
“No,” he found himself saying, “you may fellate me now.” And the young woman set down her platter and dropped to her knees. “You’d be surprised,” said Potts, “how many of our new guests expect to be slapped when they say that. Or something similar.” Kim unzipped Malter’s pants, prodded his schlong loose and commenced to wrap her mouth and tongue around it. “As with the meals,” Potts was telling him, “you’ll find you can enjoy this as often as you like; there’ll be no trouble at all.”
Deborah had been prodding Malter to try those new “male enhancement” things; he had shrugged it off. “If I can’t, I can’t,” he’d told her. Potts, as usual, could read his mind. “Nobody holds that against you, here,” he said, digging in for a second serving of Mrs. Armbruster’s ribs. “And, I’ll let you in on a little secret—those things don’t really work.”
Malter gasped; he’d shot his load into the attractive waitress’ mouth. She stood up; he said, “By the way—next time, I expect to see you on that platter.”
“Sure, Mr. Malter,” the girl beamed. “No problem.”
“…Not all of these,” Potts was saying, “are available to you. You understand; some of our guests are treated privately.” They were in a different wing; here, the numbers on the doors were either yellow or red. “But, you’re welcome to visit any of our ‘yellow’ guests; many of them quite enjoy sharing their pleasures. Now, this old fellow’s been with us quite some time,” and pushed his way into a room.
Malter was astonished to find the glitz and glamour of a fancy Hollywood soiree, tuxedoed waiters snootily handing out champagne and hors d’oeuvres, beautiful people mingling. Several of them turned, and greeted the two of them warmly; with a start, Malter recognized them as movie stars from his youth. Potts exchanged handshakes and hugs as they worked their way through the room and to the back; a smiling older gentleman sat there, flanked by a couple of gorgeous starlets. And before him, a silver platter, upon which were several cooked human feet.
“A new friend, Schwartzie!’ exclaimed Potts. “This is Mr. Malter; Schwartzie was not only a highly successful Hollywood producer after the war, but also one of the greatest charitable benefactors of all time—literally gave millions to youth homes and special schools.”
Malter heard part of all that, but his eyes were locked on the platter. One of the feet was half eaten; they were smothered in some kind of a fruit sauce, and smelled delicious. The toes were all curled daintily. “Go on,” Potts impishly told the slyly cackling old man, “tell him.”
And Schwartzie grinned up at Malter, mischievously pointed to each foot, and said, “Marilyn Monroe…Jayne Mansfield…Rosalind Russell…”
Now, that’s a fantasy, Malter thought to himself. The starlets giggled; one of them seized a knife and fork, sawed off one of Miss Mansfield’s toes, plopped it into Schwartzie’s mouth. He closed his eyes, swallowed, and broke into a beatific smile; reopening his eyes, he looked up again at Malter and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “Care for a taste?” he asked Malter, who smiled back.
“Maybe next time,” he said. Schwartzie nodded, winked, and refocused his attention on the tender pods before him, as the ingenues fought over who would get to forkfeed the little old man; Potts had turned to fight his way through the beautiful peoples’ best wishes and bon voyages, and Malter followed.
He exhaled as they exited. “Quite an experience,” he told his guide. Potts beamed. “Every day, all day,” he said. “You know what they say about movie people—insatiable appetites.”
Malter was still amazed. “Were those really Marilyn—” “As real as Sharon and Kim,” Potts answered. “Just one of an inexhaustible supply of Sharons and Kims, for your taking. Here’s another guest whose light is on; fairly recent.”
Malter wondered about the red doors; Potts, as always, read his mind. “Everybody is different, Mr. Malter,” he said, as they entered through the door he’d indicated. “You are a rather matter of fact sort, and I dare say your individual scenaria will also be available to other guests. You delight in giving of yourself, as, really, all of our ‘yellow door’ visitors did. But the red doors are entirely different cases.”
This new room was very dark; Malter’s eyes eventually focused on what appeared to be a rather spare meat locker. There was a teenage boy, a table, a set of knives, and a naked woman hanging upside down. The boy turned, smiled shyly. “Who is it today, Ralph?” called out Potts cheerily.
“Mrs. Davados,” the boy eagerly responded, and Malter could see the woman was alive; her belly had been split open, blood running down her chest and face, and she was writhing and gurgling in pain. Rather skinny, long, dark hair brushing the floor as she bucked. “Sixth grade, right?” asked Potts.
“Kee-rect” said the boy, as he selected a large, wicked knife, and plunged it into Mrs. Davados’ groin; the woman uttered a hoarse shriek, and Ralph made a circular cut and pulled out a length of viscera. Malter was a little unnerved. “Water hero,” responded Potts. “Saved a dozen lives as a lifeguard. Finally got one who fought too hard.” Ralph, laying lengths of gut on the table, invited the two to join in the butchery; Malter politely declined. “Her pussy’ll taste good tonight,” jeered the kid, as his sixth grade teacher weakly thrashed.
“She’s rather thin,” Malter noted. Potts said, “We’ve a cure for that, haven’t we, Ralph?” and the kid laughed evilly.
Malter found out what they meant in the very next room, stepping through the yellow glowing door onto a real farm. Open skies beckoned; gentle breezes rustled through a field of tall wheat. A barn seemed distant, then, with a few steps, directly before them. A balding man in overalls appeared at the door, waved them in and disappeared again.
“One of the good ones,” said Potts, and a litany of the farmer’s deeds followed. “Was he really a farmer?” asked Malter. Potts laughed. “He is now,” and they entered the barn.
As it turned out, a farmer of human cattle. A dozen rather plump women resided in the pens, contently munching on grain or laying lazily on their sides. The farmer was frowning as he examined one of the reclining women, a redhead with pendulous teats and a rather wide ass. “I figured she’ll yield about 72 percent,” he said. “You keep them here too long, and they’re only good for sausage.”
“Who are they?” asked Malter, and the farmer shrugged. “Come from all over,” he answered; Potts explained, “Mr. Simonsen buys them at auction.” “I have a good ‘eye’ for the ones that will finish the meatiest,” Simonsen bragged. “Come on down to the house and we’ll talk over fresh brisket.”
As the farmer’s stocky, smiling wife bustled around the kitchen, they sat at a hearty, oak-hewn table. “Only slaughtered this one yesterday,” Simonsen said. “Fresh as dew.” His wife placed a platter of sliced meat on the table, the slow-cooked belly of one of the women in his pens. Simonsen gestured, and Malter scooped up a few slabs, plopped them on his plate.
Very tasty, he decided, rather strong and chewy, but good. Through a mouthful of woman meat, Simonsen was debating with Potts the relative merits of salt versus smoke curing of female thighs. “I’ve got a couple of hams hanging in the smokehouse,” the farmer said, “that will knock your socks off. Came off a plus-sized model from Argentina.”
The rest of the plus-sized model, Malter discovered, was hanging in the farmer’s cooler. He inspected the eviscerated torso with awe. “Seventy-seven percent,” Simonsen said with pride. “She laid on muscle the way she put on those fancy duds she used to strut down the catwalk.” The half a woman slowly rotated, left to right, under their inspection, massive breasts hanging forlornly on either side of the gaping cavity, ivory ribs embedded in the pink meat of the woman’s back.
They departed amicably, Malter promising to visit again, soon; he carried under his arm a gift, strips of seasoned jerky made from one of the farmer’s human livestock. “Nice fellow,” he told Potts, who just smiled.
Life—or whatever this was—became a blur to Malter. He spent all of his time stepping from one exotic, depraved fantasy into another. He and the African natives repeatedly feasted on young Sharon; sometime she was sprawled out on a terra cotta platter, sometimes seated and cross-legged, sometimes on all fours, her plump rear perched in the air. But she was always well-boiled, her skin a shocking pink, and she was always dead, eyes gently closed and an exotic fruit in her mouth, more surrounding her body on the earthen dish.
There were more meals in the bistro, too, sometimes with Mrs. Armbruster as the main course, sometimes Kim, sometimes his next-door neighbor, the Italian widow in her mid-30’s with the big bazooms and the six kids she was always trying to corral. “Hiya, Mr. Malter,” she’d yell over a shoulder, as she grabbed at a naked, dripping wet five-year-old trying to traverse directly from the tub to the street.
Malter had replied cheerily, enjoying Mrs. Maltese’ ample bottom wig-wagging back and forth as she dove for the unruly children. Now, he could sample that same tuchis, a carrot between the cheeks; Mrs. Maltese lay on the big plate, a glassy look in her eyes. “More butt roast, Mr. Malter?” asked Kim, and when he politely declined, she dove to her knees without even being asked.
There was even a special dinner in his honor. Potts had winked, as Malter hesitantly placed his hand on a door he hadn’t yet tried. “You’ll love it,” said his mentor before departing, and a surprised Malter stepped into his very own dining room.
Deborah stood anxiously; she was wearing an apron, and nothing else. She still looked very good, thought the startled man, taking in his wife’s figure. Still trim at 55, had the boys whistling at her. “I’ve made a special dinner, Herschel,” Mrs. Malter said. “I do hope you like it.”
The special dinner, as it turned out, was Tiffany under glass. The receptionist had been slow-roasted; her meat was falling off the bone. Nobody, Malter reflected, could cook like Deborah. She fussed over him, tucking in his napkin, pouring some sherry, scooping up bits of Tiffany to put on his plate. He ate slowly, luxuriously, savoring each shred of his overpaid employee, slurping down the wine and dabbing at his plate with a bit of bread.
Deborah’s eyes were bright, a tired smile played on her face; she was damn happy to see him. They left the forlorn remains of the girl on the old table, Deborah’s mother’s table, and adjourned to the bedroom. Malter whisked off the apron with a flourish, and proceeded to perform like a stallion. “You are so good, Herschel!” his wife cried out.
Malter had just eaten his receptionist and balled his wife, and he exited from the room a bit shaken. “Bit of a clash there, Mr. Malter?” asked Potts, sympathetically, and Malter nodded. “There often is,” said Potts. “Reality meets fantasy in that room; we knew you could handle it and enjoy it, but I daresay you won’t be returning any time soon. You do have a real-time memory here; in time, that experience will fade, and you’ll want to sample it again. And don’t worry—Mrs. Malter, your Mrs. Malter, is doing as well as she can without you.”
Malter licked his lips. “Has she—has she found another man?”
Potts chuckled, clapped Malter on the shoulder. “Mr. Malter—she hasn’t even thought about it. No man could replace you. That’s why you’re here!”
And true, there was a bit of guilt at not marching right back through that door and announcing he was home to stay. But it faded, faded in the non-stop exercise of vivid fantasy, dreams come to life. The meat was always sweet, the sex always rambunctious, and the neighbors in his new world, always friendly.
He found yet more of them; a husband and wife, he forever cooking her, she always enjoying it. “Greetings, Nancy!” he’d shout as he swung open the oven door to find her there, sweating juices, her skin reddening in the heat. The skinny schoolteacher would look up, eyes shining with delight, as he’d take up the baster and drizzle her own drippings back onto her. “Come back for dinner,” said her husband, heartily; it was an invitation he couldn’t pass up.
And the female soldier who happily disrobed and leaned over a table as, time after time, her friends impaled her with a steel rod, before eviscerating her and roasting her over a bed of coals. And the college professor who endured an eternal session of excruciating tortures, loving every minute of it, until she was finally plunged pussy-first onto a vertical rod, to be broiled alive in an electric oven. Malter got to know them all, shared their fantasies and their flesh. They were all in doors with yellow numbers.
Does even one’s ultimate pleasure start to fade? Malter found himself reaching for the other doors, those with red numbers. “Some of our guests,” Potts’ voice echoed in his head, “are treated privately.” He looked around, startled; the big fellow was nowhere to be found. The temptation was great; he shied away. But what lay beyond those doors?
More indulgences. A crowded restaurant; a waiter trudges to his table, dragging behind him a cart. On the cart is a cage; in the cage were three sobbing girls in cheerleading uniforms. “Which shall it be, sir?” asked the huffy maitre d’; Malter pointed to the leggy blonde, who gasped. “Very good, sir,” and away he plodded, the screams of the blonde carrying over the rattle of plates and silverware.
There was supper with the rabbi. Malter had always been very generous in giving to Temple. Dinner in Rav Gordon’s home featured his daughter the doctor, a tall, striking redhead, who had been ritually slaughtered and then baked; as the Rav’s wife dutifully carved and served her, the rabbi stood, his glass of slivovitz in hand. “Shalom!” he proclaimed, improbably. The two men debated points of Torah between bites of lady doctor. “Do you remember when she fixed the bunny’s broken leg?” kidded the rabbi, as he delicately severed a sliver of the woman’s tender inner thigh and popped it between his beard and moustache.
One day—Malter still thought of them as “days”—there was a knock on his door. He had been relaxing, enjoying a sandwich, brought back from his last trip to farmer Simonsen’s. Potts was there, looking tired, but happy. “I’ve been reassigned,” he told Malter. “We’ve decided to ask you to move up to Administration. You’ve been with us a long time, Herschel; we know you can handle it.”
It was the first time Potts had ever called him by his first name, Malter thought, as he tried to figure out how long he’d been there. There was no reason to keep track of time, but he had a good businessman’s sense; it had been, he decided, upwards of 20 years. It made no difference; Sharon was still a teenager, Deborah, on those rare occasions he visited, still middle-aged. He’d ever dared to visualize, and of course it came true, Deborah preparing herself, sitting contentedly in a large pan surrounded by carrots, coating herself in that apricot glaze she’d used for the Passover lamb. “I hope you enjoy me, Herschel,” she had said earnestly, and indeed, he had.
Potts was waiting, rubbing his hands, still wearing that eternal, blissful smile. “You mean”—Malter paused, then, “your job?”
“Oh, no, no, not initially,” Potts reassured him. “You’d have to work your way up the seniority ladder, though I’m confident you could eventually move into the big office. For now, you’d be handling assignments from Janssen, the next in line—there are plenty of ‘em. But you’re the sort who relishes a challenge; I’m sure you’ll be in charge of Orientation or Design in no time.”
As always, Potts knew Malter better than Malter knew himself; he was ready for a change, eager to be of service. “Am I giving up—?” he began.
“Not at all,” Potts assured him. “The perquisites are plenty in your new job, but so are the challenges. Janssen will show you.”
The balding, peripatetic Janssen was waiting, eyes shining bright through his thick glasses. “Welcome aboard, Herschel,” he said with delight, pumping Malter’s hand. “Not many make the transition from guest to management. We have big assignments for you; brand new visitors, need to be acclimated. I hope you’re ready, because we’re plunging right in!”
Dutifully, he followed the two men, down the other wing of the grand, old hotel. Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow. Red. They stopped; the door swung wide. Astonished, Malter turned and peered at Potts, who smiled, and motioned him in.
It was a familiar scene; a brawny man, stripped to the waist, was turning a naked, thirtyish woman on a spit over a fire. She was squirming with discomfort, her fingers and toes wriggling; her eyes were clouded in agony. The man stopped, turned and saluted the three, grinning.
“Ed, Judy,” said Janssen to the happy man and the unhappy woman, “meet Malter; he’s in charge of this wing now. He’ll be making modifications as he sees fit, so he’ll need your input. How’s she doing?”
“Medium-rare,” answered Ed, who resumed turning the spit; the woman moaned through the steel spike clenched in her teeth. “I’ve got the fire nice and low; she’ll last a long time.”
“Ed’s a real pro,” said Janssen, turning to Malter and baring his teeth in a smile. “You have any questions, feel free to ask him; you’ll see him around a lot.”
Malter was confused. “He’s a guest here?”
Potts broke in. “No, no,” he corrected. “You’re his new supervisor. Judy, here—” the suffering woman on the spit—“poisoned her two young children for the insurance money. This was what she feared most.”
The red doors suddenly made sense to Malter. No wonder the people within did not want guests. “Yes, Herschel,” Potts said, invading his thoughts again. “We handle both tasks around here.”
“And that’s why—” Malter broke off. That’s why there was an endless supply of Sharons, of Kims, of Deborahs… “There are a lot more of them,” said Potts quietly, “than there are of us. Remember, to each of our guests, things will appear differently, as his fondest dreams. Or—” gesturing to Judy—“her worst nightmares.” And as he watched the struggling woman, she became smaller…and sleeker…and finally, she became Tiffany, who looked up at Malter, eyes brimming with tears.
“Come join us later,” Ed told Malter, “for dinner.”
There is an old joke. A man dies and goes to Hell; the Devil shows him around. There’s Stalin, being stretched on the rack. And Caligula, on a bed of hot coals. Finally, they enter a room, and there is Hitler sitting on a couch, making passes at Mae West; she keeps trying to push him away, and the grinning old dictator is still going at her. “I don’t understand,” says the man. “These other bastards suffering, and Hitler gets Mae West as a reward?”
The Devil laughed. “No, no,” said Old Scratch. “She’s not his reward. He’s her punishment!”