The Hades Connection

by Gabriel S. Timar

Chapter 2

I don’t know how it feels when someone suddenly receives a pardon at the gallows and is released. The relief must be similar to the sensation of acquiring one’s first body in the third dimension. When I recovered from the shock of my reincarnation, I slowly wiggled my toes. They worked. I found all my limbs at their usual places. Every one of them was operational.

I slowly stood up, rather uncertainly walked to the closet, and opened the door. Somehow, I knew there was a full-length mirror on the inside. I gave myself a good long look.

Good old George Pike was alive again! I had the same body less a few pounds around the waist. Unexpectedly, I also had a marvelous suntan.

I was exuberant with joy: I was alive again... alive... alive...

I did not feel the need for dressing up. Stark naked, I walked around in the strange yet so familiar apartment. Most of the things I had grown fond of during my terrestrial life were there. Almost in a trance, I opened the small fridge by the bar and took the soda siphon. The bottle of Campari was where I had left it in the liquor cabinet next to the bottle of Remy Martin. Within a few seconds, I was enjoying my first Campari with soda. It was nice having a body again...

One could write odes about the joy of creation, inner peace, and clear conscience, but when it comes to fun, it is hard to beat the combination of iced Campari and a good woman. However, to enjoy those one must have a body. I just realized that I did not appreciate my body until I had to do without it for a while.

The shrill of the telephone interrupted my thoughts. I padded over to the desk and savoring every syllable, I intoned: “George Pike’s residence.”

“Hi, Mr. Pike. This is Arabella. Welcome to the world of the living.”

“It’s lovely to be alive again, “ I replied. “Life is wonderful!”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. Her intonation suggested that she was a little bored. “I’d like to suggest that you put on some clothes and meet me in the lobby in about fifteen minutes.”

“Wait,” I roared. “How do you know that I’m not dressed?”

“When people get a new body, they never put on any clothing for a while. They usually mix a drink and wish for sex.”

“I’m no exception,” I replied. “I wish you were here.”

“I don’t, even if it were permissible,” she said. “So soon with a brand new body any attempt at sexual gymnastics would be a total failure. Certain glands must be warmed up; it usually takes a couple of hours.”

“You don’t say...”

“I do say, Mr. Pike,” she continued obviously annoyed. “Please, hurry up. I hate waiting.”

“Okay, Arabella, I’ll hurry. See you in ten minutes.”

I hung up, stepped over to the closet to survey my new wardrobe and select the appropriate attire. Strangely, there were no winter clothes. I left the closet door open and went to the window. After parting the curtains I found myself staring at a palm-tree lined boulevard, white sandy beaches and the bright blue sea on the far side of the road.

“This must be a place with eternal summer,” I concluded.

Returning to the closet, without hesitation I picked out a tan suit, a pale green shirt, matching tie and lightweight suede shoes, and dressed swiftly. My usual musk cologne was there. On the top of the desk, I found my keys next to my wallet with driver’s license, some money, and my scented business cards.

I think all lawyers should use scented business cards. It is always an advantage to drive home your message through another one of the senses of your clients or adversaries. For example, I used a white card with gold letters and the scent of the lily of the valley every time I represented a woman in a divorce case; a red card with the smell of charcoal in cases involving fires or fire insurance claims. The rust-colored card with a faint scent of gasoline mixed with carbolic acid suggested that I was representing someone in an automobile related matter.

With a practiced, almost automatic gesture, I reached into the top left drawer of my dresser and pocketed my emergency reserve. It was a small folder containing a hundred-dollar bill and my American Express card. With all the essentials in my pocket, I gave myself a parting glance in the mirror and stepped out of the apartment. I noted that I lived in apartment 2808 on the 28th floor.

As I got out of the elevator in the spacious lobby, a lively-looking, dark-haired girl approached me. She was in her early twenties, wearing a tartan miniskirt, Cameron tartan of course, and a matching blue turtleneck sweater. Her four feet, eleven and a half inch body was perfectly proportioned. She looked up at my six feet two inch frame, held out her hand and in a firm tone she announced: “I am Arabella, Mr. Pike. Welcome to the third dimension.”

“The pleasure is mine,” I replied absently. My mind went back into limbo: now I understood her preference in men.

Her small hand was firm, and the grip strong. “We shall take my car, if you don’t mind,” she stated. “I’ll drive you back in the evening.”

I just nodded.

As we stepped outside, the pleasant, dry, warm air stimulated my senses. I became aware of my surroundings. My apartment building on the coastal boulevard was the Elizabeth Towers, just like the elegant apartment building I lived in on good old Terra. The traffic was light and the sea dead calm.

“The surf usually rises in the afternoon,” Arabella said. “Do you surf, Mr. Pike?”

“No, I don’t,” I replied. “The water is too cold off the Newfoundland coast. I play tennis and bridge only. I am too young for golf, too lazy for hunting and fishing, and I am not a masochist to work out in a gym. Chasing girls keeps me in shape.”

She smiled as she opened the door of her Mini.

I was uncomfortable in the little car. My knees were up to my chin, and I could not tighten the seatbelt properly. I didn’t think I would need the damn thing, but...

Arabella slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. After leaving the parking lot, we swung into the traffic. As soon as we were on the road roughly pointing in the right direction, she brutally trod on the accelerator. The Mini screamed, shot forward like a bullet, and the force of gravity pushed me back on my seat. The laws of physics apparently applied on the planet Mammon, just like on Earth.

In a few seconds, we were doing at least seventy miles an hour on the coastal boulevard. Arabella appeared immersed in her driving. I kept quiet because I did not want to distract her while the safety of my newly acquired body was in her hands. Every car attempting to pass us or just trying to keep up was the enemy. Arabella gave those poor unfortunates a dirty look and at the first opportunity cut them off mercilessly. There were some loud groans, moans and screeching of tires accompanied by less than complimentary gestures.

Although my new life and limbs were in constant danger, I could not stop my eyes from wandering. Arabella was the perfect junior executive type. Her small breasts looked firm; her shapely legs had a gold chain accentuating the slim ankles. She looked good. In fact, she was indecently pretty.

We were speeding, actually flying low on a freeway overtaking everybody on sight. Suddenly disregarding the traffic around us, she shifted into second gear and stood on the brake. The Mini on the verge of a skid swerved over to the right lane; before I recovered from my state of shock, she somehow regained control, and we were racing down an exit ramp.

I was considering closing my eyes for the remainder of the trip but my pride did not let me do it. Some street signs flashed by, and suddenly a tunnel swallowed us.

The first sign of sanity in her driving returned when we entered an underground parking garage. She was still going too fast but at least kept all four wheels of the Mini on terra firma. She pulled into a parking slot, checked her watch, and concluded: “Thirteen minutes, twenty-three and nine-tenths seconds from door to door. It’s a new record.”

“You didn’t have to do it with me on board, my dear,” I sighed, “I would not have liked to send my new body to the repair shop after such little use. By the way, is there any guarantee on it?”

“Of course there is,” she smiled mockingly, “one year or twenty thousand miles, whichever comes first. The warranty covers the power train only; teeth, hair and sexual organs are not included.”

* * *

We got into the elevator and shot up to the twentieth floor. The building looked like a new, expensive office tower anywhere in North America. There was a heavy oak door across the elevator with a large, silver number one on it, nothing else.

“This is my office, Mr. Pike,” Arabella said in a strange, cold voice. She had changed drastically since we entered the office building. Her vivid colors toned down a little, and her lively manner became efficient, cool, and economical.

A little tremor ran down my spine. There was something scary about the building and the changes in Arabella. I could not put my finger on it, but definitely there was something weird about the set-up.

We entered the office. The place was nothing special; it looked like the executive secretary’s digs at any large terrestrial corporation. Only the color scheme was unusual. The walls, the furniture, and the carpet were all combinations of purple, red, black, and silver, very tastefully coordinated. The large, gaudy, silver-plated door, obviously the entrance to the inner sanctuary of the boss, dominated the room. If it were anything but large, gaudy, and silver, it would not have fitted into the surroundings.

“Sit down, Mr. Pike,” said Arabella. “I’ll tell the boss you are here.” And she disappeared through the silver door.

I sat down with trembling intestines. I was scared because I never had a job interview with a large corporation. The corporate presidents I met did not scare me; invariably I was suing them. The tone of our meetings was hostile, and I was the aggressor. As a professional, I was always confident; I believed I was good. However, this encounter was going to be difficult: I realized that I would not be negotiating for a mere job; my life was at stake!

I looked at the silver door, and slowly a Dante quotation appeared on it: Lasciate ogni speranza. It means: ‘Give up all hope’. Cold sweat trickled down my back. I shook my head and looked again. There was no inscription on the door. Was I hallucinating? Maybe there was something wrong with my new body. I didn’t know. I stood up and stretched my limbs.

“What the hell,” I thought defiantly. “I’m already dead and prepared for total oblivion. Instead, here I am with a great new body, and apparently, my skills are in demand. It can’t be that bad unless the whole charade is just the build-up for a major letdown. Even that would be all right. After all I’m supposed to be in Hell.”

I chased away those morbid thoughts. “Whatever may happen,” I continued my line of reasoning, “it would not matter. I know what it is to die. Whoever they are, whatever they want to do to me, they can’t scare me, even though I come from a long line of cowards.”

The last thought calmed me completely, and I sat down again. I knew I had all my mental faculties, my intellect, and my negotiating abilities intact. No matter what, given half a chance, I was sure I could negotiate my way out of any tight spot.

The silver door opened, and Arabella appeared. She stepped up to me and said: “Sir, Mr. Lucifer will see you now.”

“It will be my pleasure,” I replied forcing a smile although the name of the boss scared the living daylights out of me. I gave Arabella a wink and, with shaking knees, I swaggered to the silver door. With one hand on the door handle I turned back to Arabella, and in a steady tone with a defiant smile I declared: “If the boss offers me a drink, my dear, it is Campari with soda, half and half and lots of ice...”

I took a deep breath and entered.

To be continued...

to Challenge 344...