What Would Satan Do? (28 page)

“What?” said Eli.  “You can’t.  They’ll—”

“No, Eli.  It’s okay.”  Satan put his hand on the prophet’s shoulder.  “I’m doing the Lord’s work.”  And he got in the car.

Chapter 34.
          
Frying Pans Suck

Liam woke up lying on a leather couch.  He groaned.

“He’s awakeen,” said Ramón. 

“Finally,” said Lola.  She knelt down, and leaned over Liam.  “What the hell happened?”

“What?  I have no idea—”  Liam’s head throbbed, but he still had to remind himself not to look down her shirt.  “I don’t know.  My head hurts.”

“They’re gone, Liam,” she said, the location of her eyebrows relative to her hairline indicating that she felt no small amount of displeasure about this fact.

He propped himself up on his elbows, and then rolled, haltingly, so that he was sitting up.  Ramón, Lola, and Alistair Preston stood in a semi-circle around him.  The leather couch made farty sounds as he shifted.  He reached up and felt the knot on his head.  “Ow.”  Ramón and Lola stared at him.  “They?” he asked.  “There was another one?”

“Yes,” said Lola.

“I only saw the one.”  Liam spoke the words to himself.

“No kidding,” said Lola.

Ramón held up a large, iron skillet.  “He hhhit jou with this.” 

“What the hell?”  Liam rubbed the knot on his forehead again.  “Frying pans suck.”

“Jes.”  Ramón pursed his lips, squinted, and nodded a contemplative nod. 

Liam got to his feet, wobbled a bit, and then took the frying pan from Ramón’s hand.  “Who the hell attacks someone with a frying pan?” 

Ramón shrugged and smirked.  “I know!” he said, and the two men stood there, bonding over the heinous fuckery that was attacking someone with a frying pan.  Liam decided that he liked Ramón after all.

“Liam,” said Lola.

“I mean, seriously.”  Liam waved the frying pan around a bit, as if trying it out.

“¡Si!  Ees crazy,” said Ramón.

“Liam,” said Lola.

“There are just so many dangerous weapons in a kitchen.  So many things to choose from.  Why… this?”  He held the frying pan out as if it were a week-old trout.

“He totally could hab baked jou in the oben, jes?”

“Liam!” 

Liam, who was reevaluating his stance on Ramón yet again, finally acknowledged Lola.  “What is it?”

“They took Festus.”

Liam let the hand with the frying pan fall, and regarded Lola with the kind of steely, wary-eyed look that gunslingers get just before someone yells, “Draw!”  “They did what?”

“They
took
him.” 

“Where?  You sure he’s not still hiding somewhere?”  Liam glanced around the room as if he might spot Festus crouching behind a chair.

“He’s gone,” said Lola.  “We checked.”

Liam sighed.  “We’ve got to go after him.”

“No, we can’t.  That’s not our—”

Liam gave Lola a look was not entirely unlike the kind of look that mama bears give to campers who try to interact with cute baby bears.  “We’re going to get him.”

“Liam— “  Lola paused.  “We don’t even know where they went.”

“Oh, of course we know.  Or we can guess.  We’ll just start with the Governor’s Mansion.”

“We can’t just barge into the Governor’s Mansion.”

“You can’t, maybe.”  He handed the frying pan to Ramón and stepped toward the door. 

“Oh, okay,” said Lola.  “We’ll just march right in.  Good plan.  You figure that out before or after you got clobbered with the frying pan?”  Liam didn’t answer.  “You know, your shoot-from-the-hip approach hasn’t been real successful so far today.”

Ramón put his hands on his hips, cocked his head to the side and watched the drama unfold.  He looked as if he might start snapping his fingers or bust out a “You go, girl!” or “Amen, sista!” at the first hint of an opportunity. 

Liam rubbed his eyes, and gave Lola a bleary look.  “Well, I’m not going to sit around here.”  He gestured at the lack of Festus or bad guys in the room.

“We need to call Boehner.”

“Call him if you want.  I’m going.”

“Well, wait.  We need to—”

Liam walked out.

“Jou know, I think he’s leabing,” said Ramón. 

“Yeah,” said Lola.  “Thanks.”

Chapter 35.
          
God is a Violence Junkie

Festus slowly nodded his head in approval.  It was, after all, his first trip in a monster truck.  At least, it seemed like a monster truck.  It had the biggest tires he’d ever seen in real life, and the view he had of the road and all the rest of the cars was fantastic.  If he ever got a set of wheels, it would be one of these for sure.  

He sat in the middle of a long bench seat, wedged between two guys he thought were total wackos, which is saying a lot really, since Festus tended to be a pretty open-minded guy – and, of course, kind of a whack job himself. 

He’d managed to get their names – Jimmy and Wayne – but other than that, the passenger compartment had been filled only with silence and awkwardness.  “So … uh, nice monster truck,” he said, trying again to make some conversation.

Neither man responded.  Jimmy stared straight ahead, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.  On Festus’ other side, Wayne had adopted the posture of a sullen teenager, sitting slumped down on the seat, his arms crossed, and eyes staring up and kind of off to the right.  He sighed repeatedly, getting louder each time.

“Are you guys having some kind of a spat?” asked Festus.  “A lovers’ quarrel perhaps?”

Wayne ceased his moody, tight-lipped staring to goggle at the bearded weirdo sitting next to him.  Jimmy, not aware that Wayne was already on top of the situation, reached out to smack the freak, but Festus was sitting too close for Jimmy to get a good whack at him.  It is, after all, kind of hard to strike at a target just inches from your armpit.  In fact, this spot is known among professional fighters as “the null zone,” and there have only been a few short Japanese guys with a fondness for sneaking around in pajamas who’ve mastered the art of attacking a victim located in the null zone.  But Jimmy wasn’t a ninja, and even if he had been, there really wasn’t room in the truck to attempt a spin move (especially since he was driving).  So he smacked – or rather, attempted to smack – Festus a few more times, using his elbow at one point, before finally opting to slap Festus’ knee.

If Jimmy had been a ninja, he’d probably have got kicked out of the ninja coven (or swarm or gaggle or whatever ninja teams are called) for executing such a wussy move.  Festus – also not a ninja, but perfectly able to see that the slap had been completely lame and more than a little girly – didn’t even bother saying, “Ow.”  But that’s not to say it wasn’t a scarring event.  Getting kidnapped by the Unabomber’s cousins had been bad enough.  Having one of them actually slap him on the leg – the upper thigh really – was borderline shocking.

“Damnit, Jimmy,” said Wayne.  Festus couldn’t tell if Wayne was about to rant about whatever had been pissing him off before, or was just preparing to pass judgment on the ineffectual, slightly bi-curious beating Jimmy had attempted to deliver.

“What?”

Wayne crossed his arms and huffed.  “I ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.”

“But you just said somethin’.  Just now, when you – when you talked.  You can’t say you’re not sayin’ nothin’ when you just said somethin’.  That don’t make no sense.”

Wayne shook his head and shifted his butt around on the seat twice before finally speaking again.  “He’s the wrong one, ‘s all I’m sayin’.”

“He’s weird, ain’t he?  He prob’ly knows everything,” said Jimmy, pointing a thumb in Festus’ direction.

“Who?  Me?  What do I know?” asked Festus.

Jimmy glared at Festus for a second.  “Project Barfonit.” 

“Baphomet?”

Jimmy gave a curt nod.

“Actually, I really don’t.  I only heard about it for the first time this morning.” 

This revelation did not improve the mood in the truck.  The three men sat in silence.  Well, not silence really.  The knobby monster truck tires made a shockingly loud roaring sound as they rolled down the highway.  But that didn’t really help to dispel the awkward quiet inside the truck. 

“Well,” said Festus, helpfully, “I take that back.  I do know that a lot of sheep died for their country.”

“What?”

“It’s true.  Lots of sheep.  And a horse, apparently.”  He smiled to himself.

“What on Earth are you talking about?” said Jimmy.

“Shit.  He don’t know nothin’,” said Wayne.  “He’s a weirdo, but he’s the
wrong
weirdo.”

“What?  No, he ain’t.  He knows.”  Jimmy waved his free hand at Festus in kind of a Captain-Picard, make-it-so gesture.

“Sorry, I really don’t know anything more than what I just told you.”

“See?” said Wayne.  “I
told
you.  You screwed up!  Now we got nothin’ but a damned hippie.”

Festus jerked his head around to look at Wayne.  “Hey—”

“Damnit!  We’re soldiers of God, man.  Soldiers of God!”  Jimmy pounded the steering wheel.  “The Lord wants us to kick ass.  He
needs
us to kick ass.”

“Uh,” said Festus, “that doesn’t really address the point that Wayne’s making.”

“Shut up.”

“And,” said Wayne, “the Lord don’t like it when you hit people in the head with frying pans.”  He gave a satisfied nod, signaling that if Jimmy had ever had any kind of rhetorical ground on which to stand, it was now sunk.

“Actually,” said Festus, making sure he had no allies in the truck, “God likes that sort of thing quite a bit.”

“What?  You need to shut up.  Right now,” said Jimmy.

“God—the Lord—
loves
violence.  The Bible is full of people maiming and killing for God.”

Jimmy and Wayne both turned to stare at Festus.  That continued for rather longer than Festus thought was really wise.  It was actually only a few seconds, but one of the guys doing the staring was supposed to be driving the truck, which was now veering across the center line into the path of a military Humvee, and so the few seconds seemed to take kind of a long time.

Festus pointed out the imminent disaster with a panicked but articulate, “Na-na-na!” which he augmented with some hand waving in the general direction of the oncoming Hummer.

“Sheeyat!” said Jimmy (superlative form of “shit” in Texan), giving the steering wheel a violent jerk.  He immediately turned his attention back to Festus, however, and it looked like he wasn’t going to stop staring (and resume driving) unless Festus explained, so that’s what Festus did. 

“Okay, so in Deuteronomy, God says that you should stone your brother to death if he suggests switching to another religion.  Or, in Jeremiah – I think it’s chapter 9 – God said ‘And I will cause them to eat the flesh of their sons and the flesh of their daughters.’  And, of course,” said Festus, ticking the instances off on his fingers, “let’s not forget the bit in the Book of Samuel where King Saul gave his daughter to David for 200 Philistine – uh – bits and pieces.”  He nodded.  “God is a violence junkie!”

The two other men in the truck just stared at Festus.

“Um, you seem to know the Bible pretty good,” said Wayne. 

“No he don’t, you dumbass.  He’s makin’ that shit up.”

“You got a copy of the Bible on you?” asked Festus.  “I’ll show you.”

“No,” said Jimmy.  He turned to stare at the road.

“God even engaged in some of the violence himself.”

“No, really?” asked Wayne, now fully out of his sullen-teenager shell.

“Yes.  Ever heard of Passover?  It celebrates the time that God killed the first born son of every Egyptian.  And Noah’s flood?  Sodom and Gomorrah?  Or the bit in Numbers where he sets some of the Israelites on fire for complaining?” 

“Shut up, asshole!”  For a man who was apparently predisposed to violence, Jimmy seemed to be taking Festus’ news kind of hard. 

“And then,” said Festus, “there’s my personal favorite where God threatens to spread poop on the faces of some priests.”

“What?”

“The Book of Malachi, chapter two, verse three: ‘Behold, I will corrupt your seed, and spread dung upon your faces.’” 

“You’re just making that up,” said Jimmy.

“I’m really not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“No, really, I’m not.”

“Shut up.”

“You know, I’m just telling you what the great big book of God says.  It’s not my fault that, according to God, the best way to win a wife is to hand her father 200 dongs that you stole from their presumably uncooperative Philistine owners.”

“Man, if you don’t shut up right now, I’m gonna—” Jimmy paused, apparently mulling over just exactly what really bad thing he was going to do to Festus.  “I’m gonna do somethin’ real bad.”

And so, for fear of having something real bad done to him, Festus spent the rest of the ride in silence. 

They drove for another twenty minutes, exited the freeway, and headed just south of downtown.  The truck bumped heavily as Jimmy pulled onto the elongated drive of the old coliseum without bothering to use his brakes.  Festus saw the sign that said, “Driftwood Fellowship,” and decided to give talking another try.  “We going to church?” he said.

“Shut up.”

Jimmy piloted the truck up a driveway and around a bend, and nearly crashed into a couple of Humvees that some soldiers had left parked at odd angles on the drive.  The soldiers hadn’t gone far, apparently, and when they heard the sound of the truck’s tires skidding to a halt, came out to look and point their guns at Wayne, Jimmy, and Festus. 

“Crap,” said Jimmy.  He patted each shirt pocket, and then lifted his hips to dig around in the pockets of his jeans.

“Here,” said Wayne.  “Use mine.”  He reached across Festus to hand a badge of some sort to Jimmy. 

Jimmy rolled down the window, held out the badge, and began a kind of jaw-clenching match against the soldier.  They stared at each other for a few seconds, squinting and scowling, until finally the soldier spoke. 

“Go ahead.”  He tossed the badge thing into the window and walked away.

“Asshole,” said Jimmy.  He gunned the monster truck’s engine and drove around the Humvees, taking out some expensive-looking shrubberies as he went.