Boniface fretted. What in the name of
Hell could threaten us from Rot-Port?
(II)
"Rot-Port, huh?" Ruth griped, looking around with a
wince. "Fuck. At least they picked the right name."
Docks spongy with colorful rot squished beneath her
Day-Glo pink Teva flip-flops.
"It's just the first stop on our itinerary," Father Alexander said. "But every district in Hell is well-named: Tepesville, Osiris Heights, White Chapel-the Grand Duke
there is a guy named Edward, Duke of Clarence. He's
also known as Jack the Ripper. See, those who are born
here-Demons, Trolls, Imps, et cetera-the Hellborn,
have no creativity at all. The Fallen Angels themselves are
pretty stupid in that department, too. I guess that's the
deal when you don't have a soul. Everything here, since
Lucifer's fall, every twisted science, every warped equation, all the architecture-every single thing that can be
thought of as the product of innovation and creativity
comes from the minds of the Human Damned. The Green
River District, the De Rais Institutes of Occult Science, the
Richard Speck Immemorial Medical Center. Hexegenic
research, the Teratology Labs, where they use Human
anatomical science to manufacture monsters, the Voudun
Zombie Clinic-everything. It's all here because Humans
are here. Even the restaurants have an interesting creative flair that we can thank our Damned brothers and sisters
for. You'll see that one very soon."
Ruth huffed past a barrel full of clumps of mold and
slime. A sign read PLEASE RECYCLE YOUR ROT HERE. "What
do you mean I'll see that one very soon? Restaurants?"
"I'll tell you when we get there."
Ruth couldn't believe the visual spectacle as she
walked on. Rot as thick as sheets of ivy seemed to grow
over every wall of every building in the District, all bursting with the most macabre colors. The road beneath her
feet, too, seemed to be tiled with different varieties of decomposed matter. What the fuck is this? she thought, stopping at a shop. PICKMAN'S ART STUDIO, the rotten transom
read. Inside, a live female model-obviously a Ghoulposed for a man at an easel wearing disheveled 1920s
dress. The Ghoul was curvaceous and well-bosomed, but
emaciated nonetheless, meager strands of muscles taut
beneath gray, dust-dry skin. The artist was enthralled,
painting maniacally. When Ruth looked harder, she noticed the artist's palette contained not oil paint but daubs
of liquified rot.
"This place is really fucked-up," Ruth observed.
Of course, she couldn't see the priest frown behind
her. "Ruth, do you have any conceptions at all about
Grace?"
"Huh?"
"We should all pursue some aspect of Grace, shouldn't
we? Because it brings us closer to God. Just because your
sins have landed you in Hell doesn't mean you shouldn't
still seek Grace."
Ruth guessed her period was coming on; she was in a
bad mood. "I don't know what the fuck you're fucking
talking about."
"Your language! You have the foulest mouth of any
woman I've ever encountered."
Ruth had to keep reminding herself that Grace wasn't a
woman. She stopped and yelled over her shoulder at the
human knapsack. "Oh, yeah, listen to you! You throw stones at me, and look at you! Priests aren't supposed to
go to Hell, or Purgatory. But here you are, telling me I have
no grace. Fuck that and fuck you."
"I'm just trying to give you some spiritual advice, Ruth.
I am a priest, you know."
"Yeah, a fucked-up priest on some secret mission in
Hell that you aren't telling me shit about." She stalked
down the road that would lead them away from the piers.
"You got no arms or legs, buddy. You need me."
"Yes, I do."
"So stop giving me shit! I feel bad enough as it is." She
scanned down the road and could've thrown up at the
sight of the place. "I wasn't that bad of a person. Sure, I
partied a little, I did some bad things-"
Father Alexander laughed on her back.
"Oh, kiss my ass! Little Mr. Perfect back there." On the
side of the rot-covered road,
Hell could threaten us from Rot-Port?
(II)
"Rot-Port, huh?" Ruth griped, looking around with a
wince. "Fuck. At least they picked the right name."
Docks spongy with colorful rot squished beneath her
Day-Glo pink Teva flip-flops.
"It's just the first stop on our itinerary," Father Alexander said. "But every district in Hell is well-named: Tepesville, Osiris Heights, White Chapel-the Grand Duke
there is a guy named Edward, Duke of Clarence. He's
also known as Jack the Ripper. See, those who are born
here-Demons, Trolls, Imps, et cetera-the Hellborn,
have no creativity at all. The Fallen Angels themselves are
pretty stupid in that department, too. I guess that's the
deal when you don't have a soul. Everything here, since
Lucifer's fall, every twisted science, every warped equation, all the architecture-every single thing that can be
thought of as the product of innovation and creativity
comes from the minds of the Human Damned. The Green
River District, the De Rais Institutes of Occult Science, the
Richard Speck Immemorial Medical Center. Hexegenic
research, the Teratology Labs, where they use Human
anatomical science to manufacture monsters, the Voudun
Zombie Clinic-everything. It's all here because Humans
are here. Even the restaurants have an interesting creative flair that we can thank our Damned brothers and sisters
for. You'll see that one very soon."
Ruth huffed past a barrel full of clumps of mold and
slime. A sign read PLEASE RECYCLE YOUR ROT HERE. "What
do you mean I'll see that one very soon? Restaurants?"
"I'll tell you when we get there."
Ruth couldn't believe the visual spectacle as she
walked on. Rot as thick as sheets of ivy seemed to grow
over every wall of every building in the District, all bursting with the most macabre colors. The road beneath her
feet, too, seemed to be tiled with different varieties of decomposed matter. What the fuck is this? she thought, stopping at a shop. PICKMAN'S ART STUDIO, the rotten transom
read. Inside, a live female model-obviously a Ghoulposed for a man at an easel wearing disheveled 1920s
dress. The Ghoul was curvaceous and well-bosomed, but
emaciated nonetheless, meager strands of muscles taut
beneath gray, dust-dry skin. The artist was enthralled,
painting maniacally. When Ruth looked harder, she noticed the artist's palette contained not oil paint but daubs
of liquified rot.
"This place is really fucked-up," Ruth observed.
Of course, she couldn't see the priest frown behind
her. "Ruth, do you have any conceptions at all about
Grace?"
"Huh?"
"We should all pursue some aspect of Grace, shouldn't
we? Because it brings us closer to God. Just because your
sins have landed you in Hell doesn't mean you shouldn't
still seek Grace."
Ruth guessed her period was coming on; she was in a
bad mood. "I don't know what the fuck you're fucking
talking about."
"Your language! You have the foulest mouth of any
woman I've ever encountered."
Ruth had to keep reminding herself that Grace wasn't a
woman. She stopped and yelled over her shoulder at the
human knapsack. "Oh, yeah, listen to you! You throw stones at me, and look at you! Priests aren't supposed to
go to Hell, or Purgatory. But here you are, telling me I have
no grace. Fuck that and fuck you."
"I'm just trying to give you some spiritual advice, Ruth.
I am a priest, you know."
"Yeah, a fucked-up priest on some secret mission in
Hell that you aren't telling me shit about." She stalked
down the road that would lead them away from the piers.
"You got no arms or legs, buddy. You need me."
"Yes, I do."
"So stop giving me shit! I feel bad enough as it is." She
scanned down the road and could've thrown up at the
sight of the place. "I wasn't that bad of a person. Sure, I
partied a little, I did some bad things-"
Father Alexander laughed on her back.
"Oh, kiss my ass! Little Mr. Perfect back there." On the
side of the rot-covered road,
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