What Would Satan Do? (37 page)

“This is the one,” said Cadmon, pointing to Festus.  “The one I was telling you about.”

“What?” asked Whitford.

“The guy – I told you about – dressed like Jesus?”

Whitford raised an eyebrow – not too far – just enough to suggest that he had no clue what the hell Cadmon was prattling on about.

“I’ve been telling you about this for— never mind.”  Raju finally wandered around the corner and into view.  “Jesus Christ!  How fucking many of you are there?”  It was a shocking thing to hear a famous television preacher say, and there was a moment of awkward silence while everyone focused on walls, the floor, and pretty much everything other than Cadmon.  Even Dick Whitford grunted.

“Hi,” said Raju, with a cool head nod.  “‘Sup?”

“Hello,” said Cadmon, now the polite, telegenic preacher again.  Then he shook his head, presumably to get rid of the niceness.  He stepped forward and grabbed Festus’ cassock.  “What’s your name?”

“Uh, Festus?” 

Cadmon slapped him.  “What is your name?!”

“Ow!”  Festus rubbed his face.

Keeping the upper part of his body rigid and regarding the soldiers out of the corner of his eyes, Raju scooted surreptitiously over to Lola.  “Hey,” he whispered, “where’s my gun?”

Lola shooed him away.

“My name really is Fes—”  But before he could finish, Liam had torn Cadmon’s hand away and put the man in a headlock.  He snatched one of the soldiers’ guns, shoved Cadmon toward the wall, and pointed the weapon at Whitford’s face.

“Liam!” said Lola.

“Holy shit!” said Festus.

“Cool,” said Raju.

“Hi, Dick,” said Liam.  Cadmon mumbled something indecipherable and vowel-intensive.

“Shoot this man,” said Dick Whitford, sliding behind one of his soldiers. 

Liam looked directly at the soldiers.  The one standing in front raised his gun to shoot, but then seemed to forget what he was doing.  He dropped the gun and ran screaming from the room.  He was, no doubt, far more concerned with the fact that his whole head had just lit on fire.  It was either that, or the fact that he’d suddenly remembered he had somewhere important to be.  But that seems, on balance, to be the weaker of the two possible explanations, because it really doesn’t take into account the man’s cranial conflagration.

“The rest of you,” said Liam, “will put your guns down.  Right now.” 

The soldiers glanced at one another.  “Okay,” said one.  Another nodded, and they leaned over to set down their guns.

“Wow,” said Lola.

“Dude,” said Raju.

“Now,” said Liam, “I want each of you—”

Whitford looked at his soldiers, his eyes wide open and incredulous, but the uniformed men no longer seemed to be particularly inclined to do anything even remotely soldiery, let alone make use of their firearms against Liam or his compatriots.  In fact, they seemed to be pretty pleased with the state of the world in general.  They smiled.

“—to lay down on the floor, face down,” continued Liam.

“Fine!” said Whitford.  He lurched forward, shoving a soldier aside, which wasn’t really necessary because the soldier wasn’t actually in his way.  In fact, it was just kind of mean, but that’s just how Whitford rolled.  “I’ll do it myself,” he said, scooping up one of the soldiers’ guns with surprising dexterity and far less wheezing than might be expected of a man of his girth.  He raised the gun and stopped, distracted by the sound of an explosion.

A distinguished looking gentleman in a pinstriped suit came around the corner, followed by several old men in engineer’s coveralls.  He had, in his hand, a shotgun.  It was on fire.

“Please allow me to introduce myself,” said the Devil.

Chapter 48.
          
Whitford Flambé with Lemon

Satan stood, silhouetted in the light from the far end of the broad hallway.  He wore a dark, pin-striped suit that, on anyone else, would have clashed horribly with his flaming shotgun, but he made it work.  Behind him two grizzled, slightly dispirited-looking old men stood hunched over in their red coveralls and sighed in the weary, resigned way that old men sometimes do. 

“I,” Satan began, but then he stopped.  He turned and ran his eyes up and down the length of Lola’s figure, pausing at the curvier parts.  “Hello,” he said, drawing out the ‘o’ as he reached for her hand.

Lola regarded the Devil with a wary eye, and attempted to pull her hand back.  The Devil’s dainty grip, however, was surprisingly strong.  “Hi,” she said, in as uninviting a manner as it is possible to speak a greeting.  The word thudded to the ground with a splat, like a brick tossed into a mud pit.

The Devil posed – his head held high, his shoulders back, and one foot forward – in the foppish, prancy manner of a fencer who preens and struts before dispatching his opponent with ruthless – yet artful – efficiency.  “It is a pleasure, madam, to make your acquaintance.”  He bowed with a flourish, swooshing the flaming shotgun backward in an elegant arc as he bent forward to kiss her hand.  There he lingered for a moment, breathing in as if he were trying to inhale her fingers. 

“I’m not sure you actually made my acquaintance,” said Lola, finally wrenching her hand free.  She wiped her fingers on her pants. 

Liam, Festus, and Raju made suspicious faces as they peered over and around Lola at her Satanic suitor.  Raju rested one hand on her hip, but only for a second.

Satan stood and stepped back, resuming his dramatic – though somewhat effete – Conquistador pose.  He had a wry look on his face.  “Oh,” he said, “I already know who you are.”  They locked eyes for a moment.  The Devil’s chest heaved – ever so slightly – and he seemed to drink Lola in with his eyes, like a telenovela actor staring down a busty mamacita, or a really fat guy eyeing a Twinkie.  The Governor made a volcanic throat-clearing sound, and Satan’s eyelids drooped to half mast as he took one last, dramatic breath before whirling around to face the phlegmatic politician.

“Who the hell are you?” asked Whitford, his jowls flapping somewhat less indignantly than they might if there had been, say, less weird shit going on that day.

“I am the Devil.”  Satan bowed a polite bow. 

Behind them, Raju attempted to bend the fingers of the hand that had been on Lola’s hip.

“Wait a second.”  Festus stepped forward, his head tilted and eyes squinty.  “Who are you?”

Satan spun around and did a double take as he saw Festus.  “I just said—” he said.  “Why are you – dressed up like that damned – like the Son?” 

There was a lot of murmuring and nodding.  This was apparently a sore point among other folks there in the hallway.  In fact, if he’d been facing a mob armed with pitchforks and other garden implements, Festus might have been in real trouble.  Fortunately, it was just the Prince of Darkness, an evil Governor, a corrupt preacher, and a bunch of guys with guns, and so Festus ignored the question.  “It’s just that I’m not sure I ever read it prophesied anywhere that the Devil was going to show up with a flaming shotgun.  This doesn’t seem right to me,” he said, half to himself.  He scratched his beard and looked the Devil in the eye.  “I thought you were supposed to have scales.  Be a giant snake or something.”

There have been, throughout history, times when the poor, the meek, and the stupid have overcome and crossed the vast gulfs of economic and social circumstance (or the electrified fences) that hold them back, and come face to face with their betters.  In these moments, there is always a fleeting instant of openness – the tiniest of tiny pauses – during which the would-be oppressor is thrown off by the sheer, unexpected absurdity of encountering a fool who does not know or recognize his authority (usually born, of course, of inherent superiority).  And in that instant, when the face of the Very Important Person falls, shedding its usual protective façade of bemusement and/or disdain, it is possible to see the VIP as he truly is.  Satan slumped a little and curled his upper lip in the expression that, everywhere in the known universe, stands for “Huh?”

Festus stared into the weary eyes of the man – or being – in front of him.  His own eyes grew so wide that they looked as if they might pop out of his skull.  “Tell me, please,” he whispered.  “What is your
real
name?”

Satan regarded his bearded inquisitor for another half instant before regaining his composure.  He nodded, took a step back, and unfurled his hangdog posture to stand erect, swinging his arms out to his sides.  The flames from the Shotgun of Divine Justice made shwooshy, flapping sounds like a flag buffeted by a gusty wind.  He drew a deep, long breath.  “I,” he boomed, “am that which results from the cause of causes; the tenth and last emanation.  My name is in him.”  The walls and floor shuddered and then were silent.

Festus did not move.  Whether this is because he was pretending to be a statue, or was adopting the tactic of rabbits and deer who don’t want to be eaten, or just felt like this was a good time to pause and reflect on things for a bit is not certain.  The only part of him that provided any hint that he was not made of wax was his face, which moved in slow motion as it rearranged itself into an expression conveying alarm, distress, and general not-wellness.

“You’re the Devil,” he said.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” asked Satan.

“Yes,” said Festus, in the awestruck manner of someone who has just converted a perfectly good corn field into a baseball diamond and is now watching dead guys in pinstriped pants warm up, “you did.”  He continued to stand very still.

Though effective, pretending to be a lamp post was not the favored reaction of all those present.  There was a smattering of holy cows, holy craps, and holy shits behind Satan as the soldiers hurried and huddled and ran in circles trying to figure out what to do with themselves.  Whitford and Cadmon were slightly less vocal or Brownian in their motion as they realized, apparently, that they had other places to be.  They both turned and attempted to go to those places, but Satan did the ground-rumbling, building-shaking, amplified super-voice thing again. 

“Stop!”  The lights flickered, and more little clouds of plastery stuff drifted to the floor. 

All the soldiers, governors, and other jerks who hadn’t already hoofed it around the corner stopped immediately, for Satan had not merely said the word – he’d spoken it (past tense: spake).  And he had not just spoken it
to
the soldiers – he’d spoken
unto
them.  So they hadn’t really had any choice about it.  It is, after all, well known that when the Devil incarnate speakest unto thou, thou oughtest to listen the fuck up.

“Do not move!” spake he.  But then he turned unto Festus, and, his earthquaking complete, resumed a much less astral aspect.  “That okay with you?”

“Uh, them?  Stopping?  Pssh …  Sure.”  Festus waved it off, as if he’d planned to stop them too.

“No, you twit.  My name.”

“Oh, yeah.  Cool,” said Festus, nodding and feeling not very cool at all.  “Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Satan.  He winked.

“Dude,” whispered Raju, sidling up beside Festus, “that was totally badass.”  Festus nodded – the badassedness of it could not be denied.  Raju held his hand out, securing a surreptitious five. 

Lola rolled her eyes.  “Where did Cadmon go?” she asked.  But nobody seemed interested.

“So,” said Whitford, holding up his meaty palms.  “Can we get on with whatever this,” he waved at all of this, “is?”

The Devil spun slowly on his heel to face the Governor.  He glanced at each of the soldiers.  “You, you, you, and you,” he said, “kindly fuck off.”

The soldiers looked at one another and then around at the walls and floor.  Where should they fuck off to?  There were a couple of popping sounds, and suddenly, where before there had been several confused soldiers, there were now several equally uncertain ferrets.  One decided, apparently, that he should fuck off in Satan’s direction.  Satan indicated that this conclusion was incorrect by kicking it.  It went flying down the hall, and the others scampered after it.

Whitford didn’t even blink.  “So…?” he said, grimacing.

“So.”  Satan flicked his wrist, waving the fiery shotgun around. 

The shotgun exploded.

“Damnit!” said Satan.  “Why does that keep happening?”  He put a singed finger in his mouth and then spun to hurl the remnants of the shotgun at one of the old guys. 

The old guy ducked out of the way.  Satan held out his hand, wiggling it impatiently.  “Give me yours.”

The old man stood up from the crouch he’d adopted to avoid flying bits of exploded, flaming shotgun.  His face was hard, his eyes slitty and mean.  He stepped forward and thrust his weapon at the Devil.

“Don’t give me that look,” said Satan, taking the gun.  He leaned to the side to peer at the other old man.  “You either.” 

Neither of the old men said a word.  Each just stared with hard, glinty eyes at Satan, but that only lasted for a second.

Satan turned back to deal with Whitford, ignoring the chorus of horrified gasps of those who’d watched the old men poof into clouds of dust that were now slowly streaming – like magical, used-to-be-an-old-guy fairy dust – toward the floor.  “I know what you’ve been—”  He stopped when he realized that the Governor was now lying on the ground, gasping and gacking and bleeding all over the place, presumably on account of the large, jagged chunk of flaming shotgun barrel that had lodged itself in his neck in kind of an impromptu tracheotomy.

The Devil stepped over for a closer look and scrunched up his face.  “Stop making that disgusting sound,” he said, delivering a good kick to the side of Whitford’s head. 

The kick did not have the intended effect – unless, of course, it was intended as a purely punitive measure, in which case it was wildly successful.  Whitford continued his writhing and gurgling, though perhaps with somewhat more enthusiasm than before. 

Satan administered another kick, which was as unsuccessful (or successful) as the first.  Whitford responded by blowing a bunch of bloody bubbles out of his nose. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Lola.

Festus piped up.  “Wait, this makes you sick, but Raju exploding that guy’s dong, you could handle?”  He didn’t wait for an answer, because he was distracted by the sounds of shock and dismay uttered by his companions.  The Devil had apparently evaporated Whitford.