What Would Satan Do – Read Now and Download Mobi

What Would Satan Do?

Anthony Miller

Copyright © 2011 Anthony Miller,
Brother Maynard Publishing

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 0615540023

ISBN-13: 978-0615540023

Dedication

To my partner for life and the three mini-mees.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my wife and partner, Meggie.  Thank you to my writer friends, Peazy, Kris, Heather, Jeb, Don, Elizabeth, Joan, Carol, and all the other Lessers.  Thank you to my encouragers and first readers, Bob, Beth, Ryan, Steve, Mom, Gary and Jaye.  Thank you to the person who said, “Go for it!” – Tina.

Chapter 1.                 The Apostles Were Dirty Cannibals

There are days when it is appropriate to stomp the hell out of a frog, and days when it is just better not to.  The trick is to know which is which. 

Satan shot an evil look at the creature on the sidewalk.  Fuck frogs, he thought, using the new vernacular he hadn’t quite got the hang of yet.  Fuck them to fucking Hell. 

He had on his favorite Italian shoes – made out of baby cats or something really nice he couldn’t remember – and they were no good for stomping much of anything, let alone juicy amphibians.  But the little bastards were everywhere, just begging to be obliterated and, in the case of a few particularly cheeky ones, having their innards ground into the pavement.

The frog croaked and Satan snapped – Italian shoes be damned, this frog was going to die. He raised his leg high, preparing to stomp down.  But then the clock tower tolled, and he realized he was late for class.  When he looked back, the frog had hopped away, thereby narrowly escaping stompy, cat-shoe death.

He heaved a weary sigh.  His shoulders slumped.  After a few strange looks from passersby, he also put his foot down and stalked off to class.

The day had started so well.  He wasn’t sure why – yesterday’s therapy session had, after all, been a complete waste of time.  The woman hadn’t told him anything helpful.  She’d been too busy screaming after he had set her on fire.  He’d liked her though – what was her name?  Dr. something or other.  Whatever.  He’d still felt pretty good when he’d woken up this morning.

He’d been having too many anger management episodes lately, too many things he’d had to explode, light on fire, or evaporate – the man on the street, that other man on the street, the lady standing next to the man on the street, the movie theater, all those people inside the movie theater, Pennsylvania Avenue between M and H Streets – the list was really longer than it ought to have been.  But then, this morning, he’d woken up feeling like this was it; like he was really going to be able to change this time. 

It hadn’t taken very long for his optimism to fade, though.  He’d only gone a few steps from the parking garage when he’d seen his first frog of the day.  And then he’d seen about fifty of that frog’s slimy, froggy friends, at which point the morning’s cool demeanor had checked out, leaving the Devil teetering on the edge. 

You might think that, of all God’s creatures, frogs probably wouldn’t be particularly high up on the list of what irked the Prince of Darkness, but each of us has his Kryptonite.  Of course, it wasn’t just the sliminess, croakiness, or hoppiness of the frogs that set him off.  It was what the frogs represented – or what they seemed to represent.  Maybe.  Hopefully not, but maybe. 

A bitch fuck ass shit fucker fucker bitch plague, thought Satan.

He practiced his anger-management respiration exercises as he clomped off toward the be-spired edifice of Healy Hall.  He wasn’t very good at it, but soldiered onward with gusto, and the other pedestrians gave him a wide berth on account of the horsey breathing sounds he was making. 

Healy Hall is a fancy place.  It has lots of pointy bits made of serious-looking gray stone that give it a slightly ominous, gothic appearance, and the whole thing should probably be in a museum.  But it isn’t.  Quite the opposite, in fact – its historied halls are instead used as the place where Georgetown students go to get their forms and papers stamped, and where they attend boring survey courses with titles like, “Intro to Whateversucks,” or the “History of the Kingdom of Whogivesacrap.”

Nowhere does this juxtaposition between timelessness and everyday mundanity stand in starker contrast than in the Gaston Auditorium.  This wood-paneled auditorium is fancy enough that it’s often used for things like presidential debates.  It was also, for one semester, the location of Satan’s weekly lectures in his History of Religion course.

The Devil burst in through the back door of the auditorium and found it packed with students.  They occupied every seat and even most of the space on the aisles that led down to the stage.  His stage.  A hush fell over the audience as he entered and threaded his way toward the front.  The first sound to break the silence was the tapping and scraping of a small piece of chalk as he scribbled “DIRTY CANNIBALS” on a portable chalkboard, underlining it twice for emphasis.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!”  He spun with a flourish.  “Who can tell me … why there is so little written in the Bible about what happened to the Apostles after the crucifixion?”

The students just sat, not bothering to look sheepish at their own silence.

Satan stood at attention as he scanned the room, a thin, well-dressed soldier standing tall for truth and justice.  “Well,” he continued, “you may recall, if you’ve studied your Bible – and I expect nothing less of students at this fabulous institution—”  He waved his hand at the general fabulousness of it all, which for some reason seemed to be located kind of up and to the left. 
“—that after Jesus died, they took him down and stuck his body in a tomb, and the next morning, according to the Gospel of Luke—”  There was a popping sound, and Satan produced a Bible, from which he began reading without having to flip or search, “‘[T]hey entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus.’”  The Book popped back out of existence, and Satan glanced up at his audience from underneath a lofty and benevolent brow.  “Well, isn’t it obvious?”

The auditorium stayed silent.  Nobody even blinked at Satan’s parlor trick with the Bible.   Magic, schmagic.

“Okay,” said Satan.  “I’ll tell you.”  He began to pace.  “The night before the crucifixion, Jesus went on and on about, ‘This is my body’ and ‘This is my blood.’  It was so tedious.”  He shook his head.  “But,” he pointed a finger, “as it turns out, the Apostles were actually listening very closely.”  He paused, pressed the finger to his lips, and then resumed pacing.

A lone croak reverberated through the auditorium.  Satan stopped mid-step and turned to face his audience, his eyes darting this way and that.  There was no sign of a frog anywhere. 

“Was that—?”

The students just continued to stare at their teacher, waiting.  Some of them tilted their heads, but none gave any sign of having borne witness to anything other than pearls of Satanic wisdom.  The frog, having apparently said its peace, stayed silent.

“Anyway.”  Satan nodded and turned on his heel to resume his pedantic stride.  “Jesus died, and after he died, and was dead, they—”  He paused to peer behind a stack of boxes piled on one side of the stage.  “They stuck his body in a tomb.  But you already knew all that.”  He peered behind the portable chalkboard and then turned again to face the students.  “What you didn’t know—”

The noise frogs make usually sounds a lot less like “ribbit” than children are led to believe.  Cats go “meow,” and ducks really do go “quack,” but frogs do not say “ribbit.”  Instead, they usually make a sound that is not entirely unlike the gastroesophageal event that follows a good root beer.  For Satan, that sound was like having a bunch of fire ants shoved in his ear, but only if those ants had just come from a crack and methamphetamine picnic, and were maybe armed with tiny, ant-sized pitchforks.  His face went all squinchy for a second, and when he opened his eyes, they glowed a little.

“Where the hell is it?” he asked, scouring the stage.  He shoved the lectern aside and was just about to fling the portable chalkboard when he was stopped by the sound of a small, female voice.

“Um, professor Astra—A—A—Astraval…?”

Satan spun around.  “Yes?  What?  What is it?”

It was the squirrely girl.  The one with frizzy hair who always interrupted with her stupid questions.  She had a mousey face, wore Beatnik glasses, and had on a shapeless brown bag of a dress that looked as if it had been made from a burlap sack, probably because it had, in fact, been made from a burlap sack.

“What’s the deal with all the frogs?” she asked.

“What?”  Satan squinted at the girl as if she’d just invited him to find the interloping amphibian and give it a good, ice-cream-worthy lick.  “How should I know?  What on Earth gave you the impression that I’m some kind of expert on slimy, disgusting things?”

“It’s just that—”

“What?  Spit it out!”

“It’s just that there’ve been, you know, a lot of weird things going on lately,” she said.  Like so many young people, she was incapable of uttering a simple declarative statement, and instead allowed everything she said to taper off as if it were a question.  “I mean, there was that crazy storm?  You know?”  A quiet murmur of agreement rose up in the auditorium.  She turned to look at a couple of other students, eliciting nods and, further back in the room, a quiet, “Yeah.”

Satan answered her question by ignoring it entirely.  “What you all did not know,” he said, “was that later that night, in a fit of apostolic fervor, some of those same attentive disciples snuck into the tomb and, taking the ‘this is my body’ tripe far too literally, went to town.”  He turned to the audience, his eyes wide.  “That’s right – they ate him, the dirty cannibals.” 

There were a couple of gasps, and one guy in the back harrumphed, gathered his stuff up, and stormed out.  But mostly the students were unmoved by this revelation.  This wasn’t their first rodeo with the Devil.

He continued in a quieter, more conspiratorial tone.  “Later, when Luke and Mark and all the other tossers wrote the Gospels, they invented the whole we-found-the-tomb-empty bit to cover up the cannibalistic nastiness.”  He struck a dignified, remorseful pose, and stared off into the distance.  “It was a shameful, inauspicious way for the Church to start, and I can hardly blame them for leaving it out.”

“Professor?”  It was the squirrely girl again.

“How many of you have heard of the Shroud of Turin?” asked Satan.  He scanned the audience for hands, pointedly ignoring the inquisitive student in a potato sack.

The girl pressed on.  “I … heard on the radio this morning … that these are all signs of the Apocalypse?”

“The Shroud of Turin was their tablecloth,” said Satan, holding his hands out wide like a showman.

“And all the frogs?” said the girl.  “Well, they called it—they called it ‘a plague’?”

Satan’s hands dropped.  He shifted his eyes—all glowy again—and locked them on the girl while the rest of him stayed perfectly still.  “What—?” he asked.

“Well, it’s just that it’s all a little —”

“—is your problem?”

“—too coincidental.”

The Devil thought about exploding her.  Right there.  In front of the whole class.  It would be so easy.  He stood perfectly still for a moment, picking at some invisible lint on the lapel of his pinstriped jacket as he imagined her head going “Pop!”  It would be so very easy.  But no.  He would maintain control.

“Nonsense,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  He beamed.  “Now, as I was saying.”

An earnest-looking student wearing an earnest-looking sweater raised his hand.  Satan turned to stare at the young man.  “Yes,” he said. “What is your problem?”

The student spoke with a slowness that was either the result of some neurological deficiency or having been raised in the South.  “Well, sir, I was also wondering whether you have any thoughts about the string of earthquakes and storms and floods, and all of that?”

“What has that got to do with what I’ve been talking about?” asked Satan.  “And anyway, what on Earth is a ‘strang’ of earthquakes?”

“Well,” said the young man, “it’s been all over the news.  There’s been a whole ton of earthquakes and floods and volcanoes and things – for months, I—even right here, in—in Washington.  Surely you’re aware—”

“What floods?  What earthquakes?  What on Earth are you talking about?”  Satan shooed his hands, as if he could wave away such utter nonsense.  He didn’t really care much for the news.  He’d found that he much preferred watching science fiction and adventure stories.

“Well—” said the student, gathering himself up.

Another student – who’d apparently grown up in a part of the country where folks talk faster – interrupted.  “What about those tornadoes last year – the one in New York and the one in England – on the same day even?  And all that weird stuff happening down in Texas?”

“Right, that’s what I’m talking about,” said the be-sweatered Southerner.  “Do you think it’s the end of the world as we know it?”  The other students started nodding and yeahing at each other.

Satan seethed for a moment, and then burst.  “I had nothing to do with any of that!” he screamed.  “Nothing!  And if I didn’t do it, it can’t be happening!  So it’s nothing!”  He paused, wide eyed, and scanned his stunned and silent audience.

One student was neither stunned nor silent.  She had on a burlap sack.  “But I thought—” she started to say, but didn’t finish on account of the fact that, at that instant, there was an abrupt step change in the amount of entropy in the room.  All of the atoms that had made up the stage at the front of Gaston Hall for the hundred or so years of its existence spontaneously rearranged themselves into a diffuse, unstructured array.  This they accomplished with the assistance of a great deal of heat, some flames, a lot of noise, and a shockwave that lifted the first few rows of students (along with their seats and various personal belongings) into the air, depositing them approximately fifteen feet backward in the auditorium.

The students’ reaction to the explosion was fairly normal, which is to say that there was a lot of screaming and hollering and falling over or lying very still under fiery debris. 

Satan stood, seething amidst clouds of swirling, settling dust, and muttered to himself. 

“Oh, God!” said one student.

The Devil’s head snapped up.  “Where?”

“I think she’s dead!” said another.  “Oh my God, she’s dead!”

The earnestly-sweatered Southerner lurched out from underneath a pile of debris.  He stood, wiped at a line of blood that trickled down his forehead, and surveyed the mayhem with wide eyes.  Fortunately, his sweater seemed to have escaped the blast unharmed.  “Professor?”

Satan didn’t notice.  He’d gone back to his ranting.  “How dare He?!  It’s my job!  Mine!  And if I choose not to do it…”  He turned, started to pace, stopped, and turned again. 

“Professor?”

“He can’t just start it without me!  That’s the whole reason I came here!”  The fancy paintings on the walls burst into flames, one-by-one.  He threw up his arms, and the glass in the windows shattered and sprayed into the room. 

There was some more screaming.  The student who’d been making startled statements about the deceased state of one of his fellow students encountered more fallen comrades, and lamented their passing as well. 

From out of nowhere, a frog zipped through the air and splattered against the wall.  Satan let slip a tiny smirk, and swept over to the young man in the sweater.  “It’s not happening,” he said.

“What?  What?”

“None of it,” said the Devil.  He shrugged and smiled. 

Sirens outside announced the arrival of one or more emergency vehicles.

“I—I don’t understand what—”

“This!”  Satan grabbed the student by the collar, and flung his free arm out to indicate all of this.  He smiled broadly, but then let go, jerking back at the sound of a distressed cry from the squirrely girl, whose hand he’d apparently been standing on.  He took a moment to kick her and turned back to face the student in the sweater. 

The young man made a confused, squinty face at the Devil. 

“Nope,” said Satan, surveying the damage he’d done.  “Not happening.”  He spun, his eyes wide and defiant, and grabbed the young man by the sweater again, this time with more enthusiasm.  “But what if it is?”

Chapter 2.                 Behold: Megachurch

Pastor William Earl Cadmon stood on the stage of his church and practiced smiling.  He’d just had veneers installed, and felt as if he were shining a spotlight every time he opened his mouth – kind of a toothy Bat Signal.  He flexed his jaw a couple of times and wriggled his lips, doing a pretty good Mr. Ed impression – he’d just have to get used to his new teeth before the service tomorrow.  He closed his lips, pursing them as he did so, turned his head slightly to the left, and made his eyes all action-hero squinty.  There were no cameras on him, but he found it was always best to practice as if there were. 

The old stadium seemed cozier now – replacing the metal railings and folding chairs with wood paneling and upholstered seats had helped – but it still didn’t seem all that churchy.  He’d have to fix that.  At some point.

He looked up at the rows and rows of empty seats, and thought about coming here with his Mom back when it was called the Pinnacle Arena to see his father perform with the circus.  It was hard to imagine trapeze artists, lions, and elephants where he now preached the Word of God^TM.  Down on the floor – in the “Corinthians” section, rows J, K, and L – was where it had happened.  He pictured the little red car, his dad, and the other clowns – those heartless bastards – and closed his eyes to say a quiet prayer. 

Bill Cadmon was the pastor of Austin’s Driftwood Fellowship, a non-denominational, evangelical Christian megachurch.  It was the biggest house of worship in the world, if you didn’t count those Korean jerks and their Yoshi-yosho-buttrado-Kung-Pao thing.  Cadmon sure didn’t.  After all, he ran a live, closed-circuit feed to a whole other campus every Sunday.  Plus, his television ministry reached out to over twenty million people in more than one hundred countries every week.  And anyway, they were friggin’ Koreans.  They could just go suck it.

He stepped down off the stage and walked the aisles, pausing here and there to thumb through stacks of promotional materials piled on the seats – like he did every week.  These days it was just a spot check, but when he’d started, he’d taken a sort of pride in making sure that everything was in order; that each and every person who came in had a copy of the week’s program.  But the church had grown – exploded really – so he’d long since had to delegate that task.  And nowadays, folks got way more than just a program.  They got glossy, full-color brochures advertising all kinds of interesting, faith-based services that the church now offered.  But he still liked to walk the aisles.

As he worked his way up the lower bowl of the arena, Cadmon thought about what an insane ride it had been over the last few years.  He’d begun expanding his business empire – “fellowship,” he reminded himself – with a line of books, taking the catchy phrase, “What would Jesus do?” and turning it into faith-based guidance for daily living.  His most recent book – How Would Jesus Lose Weight? – was at the top of the New York Times Best Seller List, and had been there for six weeks already. 

More recently, the fellowship had begun offering a variety of End Times-related services, the most successful of which was a planning business designed to help folks get their worldly affairs in order before Judgment Day hit.  A last will and testament is great if you actually die, but what is the legal effect of being among the Chosen – those the Lord takes up to Heaven during the Rapture, before all the really bad, fiery, end-of-the-world stuff happens?  Cadmon had experts standing by 24-7, ready to help figure that out.  Of course, that kind of service would really only work if you could convince people that the end of the world was near.  But he wasn’t worried about that.  He had inside information.

He stopped and sat down at the end of a row, leaning back and propping his boots up on the seat in front of him.  Things were good.  Real good.  And now he needed to do some thinking; to figure out his next step.

There is a strange kind of quiet that comes with being in a big, empty enclosed space like that.  It hits you in the pit of your stomach, almost like a touch of vertigo.  Cadmon took a deep breath.  What the Hell would Jesus do now?  Would he get the convertible?  Or would He just say, “Fuck it,” and go for the Turbo?

He’d just closed his eyes to ponder this weighty inquiry when the giant speakers that hung from the ceiling erupted with a furious sound – a robotic buzz saw that tore through the cavernous arena.  At the same time, every light ramped up to full brightness, flooding the building with brilliant light.  One exploded in a shower of sparks. 

The metallic racket worked its way down from a high-pitched static to a low rumble that shook the floor.  Cadmon jumped, startled by the blast of sound, and tried to stand, but his elephant-skin cowboy boot slid, and he fell awkwardly over the top of the chair, sprawling across the seats in the next row.  The noise was overwhelming, and he could barely think, but he had to get up and do something.  For a second Cadmon thought about Ray, the audio tech, wondering if the idiot was blasting his damned 80’s music again.  But then he realized that he recognized the sound.  Shit, he thought, disentangling himself.  It’s the middle of the day! 

Then it was gone.  The light and noise had quit just as quickly as they had started, leaving the arena in total darkness.  The change caught Cadmon by surprise, but he grabbed a handrail and managed to avoid falling on his face.  He crept slowly down the steps toward the main floor, his eyes locked on the scene before him.

Down on the stage, a glowing, white-orange light appeared, bobbing and hovering three feet off the floor.  In the center of the orb, Cadmon could see shapes and shadows moving as if through a window.  The light grew brighter and taller, and as the preacher arrived at the foot of the stage, the shadows resolved themselves into the shape of a very tall man.  The man stepped forward, and the light seemed to shrink and close behind him. 

His eyes were shut and his hands clasped in front of him.  At last he looked up, letting his hands fall by his sides.  “William Cadmon,” the angel said, “I am Ezekiel.”

Cadmon stopped, frozen – he couldn’t help it.  He shook the feeling off, and stormed up the steps to the stage, ready to tear the angel a new one. 

“Yes, hello again, Ezekiel.”  The angel always introduced himself as if it were the first time.  What an idiot, thought the preacher.  The novelty of meeting someone who’d spent time face-to-face with God had worn off.  “Can’t you just come in the door or something?” He threw his arms up in exasperation.  “Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost me to fix all those lights and speakers again?”

The angel turned his head slowly, looking down at the little human.  He glowed with a light that pulsed and ebbed, making him look like he’d just spent some quality time inside a nuclear reactor.  His eyes narrowed and seemed to Cadmon just a little bit fiery.  “You have made a lot of money since I started visiting,” he said.  “You can afford it.”

“Yeah, okay.  So that’s true,” Cadmon admitted.  And it was.  The angel had told him that if he wrote the books, they would sell, and they’d sold.  The angel had told him to start up the automated, computer-based prayer service, and now that was raking in millions.  Perhaps the most important information that the angel had shared, however, was a warning about a series of natural disasters that had struck over the last eighteen months – earthquakes, floods, volcanoes, and plagues of gross things.  And that, more than anything else, was what had allowed Cadmon to grow his empire.

The preacher had started by sprinkling a few relatively benign statements about the coming Day of Judgment into his sermons.  After the first earthquake had struck Paris, he’d started a two-month series on Judgment Day and the Book of Revelation.  He was two weeks into that when the first swarm of locusts had showed up.  A week later, two tornadoes ripped through Manhattan and central London almost simultaneously.  He’d got a call that night from a producer on CNN, asking if he was available for some on air commentary.  And so he’d begun his rise to national prominence.

The angel cleared his throat and Cadmon snapped out of his daydream.  The slight smile faded from the preacher’s face, replaced by an expression that was either pain or constipation.  He gritted his teeth and glanced around to see if any of the staff was watching. 

“You shouldn’t be here now,” he said.  “It’s the middle of the goddamned day!  Someone is going to see you!”  Cadmon ran his eyes up and down the angel.  He was, thought Cadmon, searching for the right word, crusty.  Apart from the whole glowing thing, he hardly appeared angelic or heavenly at all.  And the glow really only made him look like a Chernobyl victim.  His clothing looked like a rough bed sheet or maybe a curtain.  At least he’s got wings, thought Cadmon.

“There is a storm coming,” said Ezekiel.

“Yeah, yeah, end of the world.  We’ve been over this.  I’m doing what I can.  I already told you—”

“No, I speak of an actual storm,” Ezekiel said, staring off into the unknown void.  “A very large storm.  One that will breach the shores of this state and those of your neighbor.  Many will perish.”

“Oh,” said Cadmon, surprised.  The angel had never before warned him about anything like that.  At least, not in Texas.  Usually, the things that happened here were relatively benign.  Fucking annoying, sure, but nobody was getting hurt by a bunch of stupid bugs or toads.  The really bad stuff struck far away, and earthquakes or floods wiping out brown people in some far-off country somewhere didn’t bother him.  In fact, he found it helpful.  A frightened flock was a good thing.  A dead flock, on the other hand, wasn’t going to keep the lights on.  A scary thought occurred to him.  “I’m not going to perish, am I?”

The angel whipped his head around.  “No,” he said.

Cadmon rubbed his chin.  “So,” he said, trying to remember the weather report he’d seen, “you’re talking about that storm in the Caribbean.”  He tilted his head and regarded Ezekiel through squinty, skeptical eyes.  “The tropical storm?  You know where it’s going to hit?”

“Yes,” said Ezekiel, “and now it is time for us to begin.”

Chapter 3.                 Enorma Was Round, Like Sputnik

Explosions always just seem to make people go crazy.  It’s weird.  And the students at Georgetown University were not the unique and individual snowflakes they’d have you believe.  No, when Gaston Hall blew up, they went nuts and started freaking out just like people always do.

The Prince of Darkness paused and turned back to watch as students and staff ran around screaming, shouting, and snapping photos with their mobile phones.  He wondered for a moment if he should try to look inconspicuous, but with no mobile phone of his own, wasn’t sure he could pull it off.  In the end, he just decided not to worry about it – his usual approach to dealing with problems these days – and ambled off toward the parking garage where he’d left his beloved automobile.

The chaos soothed him.  Or it should have.  Mayhem usually did.  It always had, even before the whole misunderstanding with that big, galactically-stupid, lunkheaded asswiper Michael and all those other angelic fuckwits.  But today?  Not so much. 

The problem, of course, was the frogs.  Well, no, it wasn’t the frogs.  It was what they represented – or might represent.  He saw one and regretted his choice of shoes for the second time that day.

What if it really were ending?  What if?  Was that even possible?  If he wasn’t doing it – and he wasn’t – then there was no way any of this could be happening.  Without him, there would be no end; no final showdown between good and evil.  He was the necessary ingredient; the catalyst.  He was the special sauce in God’s divinely-constructed, cosmologically-huge hamburger, and now he’d taken his evil ball and gone home. 

It wasn’t that he cared particularly for the world.  Except for Lamborghinis.  And Star Wars – well, Darth Vader anyway.  And ice cream.  But the rest of the world could go take a flying leap up into a goat’s butt for all he cared.  No, he’d come here to avoid being a pawn. 

It had all started with an admission.  He finally, after all of the years of waiting and time-biding and grudge-holding, had admitted the one thing he’d never even allowed himself to consider:  He was going to lose, and there was no way around it.  The Day of Judgment was coming, and though he was supposed to have kind of a leading role, things weren’t going to turn out very well for him in the end.  After all, that God jerk had planned the whole thing.  In fact, there was a whole book in the Bible that set it all out: He’d start things up, have a bit of fun, and then, in the end, have his ass handed to him by that Great Big Dick in the Sky. 

And so Satan had quit.  He’d just walked right out of Hell.

“I—uh—I think I’ll go for a bit of a walk about.  You know, check things out,” he’d said.

The minions looked at each other.  Satan hadn’t gone topside in two millennia. 

He looked at them, his evil eyebrows raised expectantly.  They stared right back, waiting.

“Okay then,” he said.  “Be back soon.”

He’d been a little impetuous about it, sure.  But how do you tell a legion of angelic bad guys who you’ve led into Hell that you’ve changed your mind?  Satan could just see it.  “So, you know that the whole End Times, Let’s-go-kick-God’s-ass thing we had planned?  Yeah … we’re going to have to go ahead and cancel that.  Budget cuts – you know how it is.” 

He wrung his new human hands and sighed.  Even without the plague of frogs, things hadn’t exactly turned out as he’d expected.  He’d known living as a human was going to be different, of course, but he’d expected it to be different in the, “Wow, this is new and cool and exciting!” sense, rather than the, “Holy crap this really sucks a lot!” sense.  He just had not anticipated so many things – traffic jams, old, slow people, Muzak – but then, that’s the problem with moving to a place you haven’t been in 2,000 years.  Entire continents get discovered, civilizations rise and fall, paradigms shift, indoor plumbing becomes popular – and it was all a little overwhelming.

Of course, there were good things.  He had, for example, spent almost an hour flushing things down the toilet in his first apartment.  And when he’d run out of stuff to flush – his pet fish, his car keys, a toupee he’d stolen – he’d run out and bought fifteen pet rodents of varying size.  He flushed seven of them before number eight – some kind of fidgety thing with odd hair – had got stuck and put an end to the evening’s adventure. 

There were other technological marvels that appealed to Satan’s inner twelve-year-old.  First among these – after toilets, of course – were exotic sports cars.  Italian ones were particularly nice.  He recalled, back in the 1960s, when one of his minions had come in to tell him about this new project.

“Sire, I have developed something new.  Something that will distract countless minds and separate souls from The Almighty.”  It was Azriel.  Kind of a boner, but earnest and a hard worker, so, you know, tolerable.

“What?  Yeah, okay, swell.”  Satan had by this time already become almost completely overwhelmed by the sheer monotony and predictability of it all.  He waved Azriel on and tried not to collapse in a fit of boredom.

Azriel had then produced a tedious parade of mind-numbing charts and graphs and other un-fun things that described the super car in glowing terms like, “the ultimate expression of pointless excess” and “a giant penis suit that people can wear.”

“Yeah...” said Satan, exploring just how far he could mash the side of his face with his palm.

“Men will spend their lives lusting after these.  They will prioritize acquiring these cars over all else.  They will have mid-life crises.  They will wear gold chains.  And most importantly, they will forget Him.”

“Sounds cool,” he said thinking, Whatever. 

But now that he was here and had actually managed to procure one for himself, he finally understood.  These things – in his case a Lamborghini – were truly manifestations of the sublime.  Just thinking of being behind the wheel sent chills up his human spine – the sound of ten cylinders and forty valves, all working together in absolute harmony; a perfectly-orchestrated symphony that, as you pressed the accelerator, spun faster and faster, working to a feverish, howling crescendo.  And then, just when you and the engine couldn’t take any more, you shifted into the next gear, and got to start all over.  It was exhausting just to think about it.

His Lamborghini – a white Gallardo LP570-4 Superleggera with a bright red, go-faster stripe and extra shiny wheels – was parked on the lowest underground level of Georgetown’s enormous main parking garage, where he’d managed to find three empty spaces in a row so that he could park sideways.  That meant, however, that he’d have to take the dreaded elevator.

It wasn’t a particularly bad elevator.  In fact, it was perfectly nice, with almost none of the urine smell or stains that one so often encounters in parking garages.  But it was slow.  Hellishly slow.  It made him want to smash his head into the wall – except that he knew better than to try that again.

He trotted around the corner into the parking garage and nearly tripped when he saw an extremely heavy woman waiting in front of the elevators.  He was about to say something, but then remembered that he was supposed to try to find the positive in any situation.  The positive here, he thought – just as the elevator bonged and the down arrow lit up – was probably the fact that she’d already pressed the button and done all the waiting for him.  He swept past her just as the doors opened, spun, and stabbed the “CLOSE DOOR” button.  She stood perfectly still, a look of shock on her face.  But then, just as the doors were coming together, she stuck out a meaty arm and forced them back open.  The rotund woman stepped into the elevator and smiled at the sartorially resplendent Lord of the Underworld. 

Yuck, he thought.  There weren’t so many fatties around last time he’d made the trip up.  He made a show of looking nervously back and forth between her gargantuan caboose and the elevator weight capacity sign.  She harrumphed and turned to the task of selecting a floor.

This, it turns out, was kind of tricky.

She pressed the button for the fourth floor, hesitated, and then also selected the fifth floor. 

Satan raised his eyebrows.  No, he thought, she wouldn’t.  He tried to imagine what was going through her mind, but drew a blank.  He decided that was probably right.

His cellmate pondered for another moment, and decided apparently, that she also ought to press “3.”  And so she did. 

Satan’s jaw slowly made its way toward the floor.  The cow had pressed three different floors!  Sure, there was a lot of her, but he couldn’t see any way that she was going to manage more than one stop.  He fought off the urge to stab her in the ear with a pencil, but only because he didn’t have a pencil.  He seethed.

Enorma stepped away from the button panel, but still looked pensive.  She took a tiny step forward, but stopped again, apparently still trying to remember which floor she actually needed. 

No.  Fucking.  Way, he thought.  He searched the elevator frantically.  He felt trapped, which wasn’t really all that shocking, since he was, in fact, trapped inside a metal box with a giant woman who seemed intent on prolonging their time together.

The woman squinted, squared her jaw, and threw her shoulders back as she stepped up, once more, to the panel of backlit buttons.  Her previous forays into the field of floor selection had all been in error.  Just practice, perhaps.  But now she knew, apparently.  She saw the light.  She was on the true path.  She reached out triumphantly for button number two, but before she touched it, launched up though the top of the elevator, up the shaft, through the atmosphere, and into low-Earth orbit. 

“Shit,” said Satan.  “Not again.”  He wedged the doors open and climbed out of the elevator to go find the stairs.

Chapter 4.                 Holy Land Coffee

Liam McEwen’s path was similar to Satan’s.  Except that he didn’t start out as an archangel.  Or lead legions of other angels in a direct, militant uprising against God.  Or bring about the fall of man by manifesting as a reptile and passing out fruit.  Or, you know, rule Hell.  So saying that they were “similar” might be putting it a little strongly.  But their careers were precisely the same in one important respect:  Both had simply walked away one day.

Liam had left his job with the CIA’s Special Activities Division five years before.  He’d done well there – worked his way up the ranks, shot some bad guys, snuck in and out of foreign countries – just normal stuff.  But the stress and the politics had ultimately gotten to be too much.  At least, that was what he told people.  In fact, he’d actually quite liked it.  A lot.  After all, not everybody gets paid to kick the crap out of bad guys.  Most folks have to develop hobbies or drinking problems to help them cope with the daily grind, but Liam got to exorcise his demons while he was on the clock.  All good things, however, either have to end or start sucking eventually.

Liam’s departure from the CIA had been precipitated by an unfortunate incident involving former Vice President Dick Whitford, a hot-rodded golf cart, and fourteen gallons of lemon pudding.  This, of course, had come on the heels of a series strange of episodes that, in that rarified, secret-agent air, might otherwise have merited little more than an entry in some top secret report and an endearing nickname among the other sociopaths he called co-workers.  But that was not to be.  Instead, the episode with the VP bumped him up from a necessary evil to a full-fledged problem, and so Liam had been encouraged to fuck off. 

He’d left that life behind, and today a much less lethal Liam stood in line for coffee, just like he did pretty much every morning.  Ahead of him, a queue of students waited to order beverages of absurd complexity.  They wore Gucci and Prada and jaded expressions, and they made waiting in line look cool.  In his old khaki shorts and tattered T-shirt, Liam actually looked more like a student than pretty much anyone else there in the coffee house.

Holy Land Coffee was located just a couple of blocks from the campus of the 50,000-student University of Texas.  It was also next door to the guitar shop Liam had started when he’d returned home.  He loved his guitar shop, if only because running it meant that he tended to encounter far fewer smelly, unfriendly terrorists who were up to no good and needed to be shot.  Or vice presidents, for that matter. 

He sighed.  His life these days was relaxed, comfortable, and mostly fire-arm free – and so he should have felt pretty good.  But something was not right – something he couldn’t put his finger on.  It nagged at him.  He felt like something was missing; like he was waiting for something to happen.  Liam had no idea what, though, because like most men, he was unable to wrap his head around tricky things like “feelings.”  And so, as usual, he just dismissed the whole thing. 

A few spots ahead in line, a young woman who was either a coed or a Hollywood starlet stepped up to the counter.  Her expensive-looking sunglasses had gaudy, gold lettering on the sides and giant, bug-eye lenses that made her look a little like a platinum-haired insect – an insect who probably would’ve looked spectacular in a bikini.  She was on the phone, and didn’t pause to place her order so much as redirect the stream of her conversation from her handset to the barista.

“Um, hi, yes, I’d like grande half-caff, extra hot, soy latte with extra foam, half a squirt of sugar-free vanilla and half a squirt of sugar-free cinnamon, two packets of Splenda, and please put it in a venti cup, ‘kay?  And,” she tilted her head and clasped her hands together in faux prayer, “can I please get a teensy bit of sugar-free caramel sauce drizzled on top?  ‘Kay, thanks.”  Her order placed, she snapped her phone back to her ear and picked up right where she left off without slowing down or even, apparently, breathing in.  “And oh my god she was like, so drunk.  I know, right?  What a bitch.  Yeah, I know, the whole night, and did you see those shoes she was wearing?  So last summer, right?  Oh.  My.  God!”  She shoved past Liam and wandered off to take up space down at the end of the counter.

Liam was, generally speaking, an unflappable guy, partly because he’d seen and done stuff that would have flapped most people.  He’d shot guys and been shot at.  He’d visited the homes and hideouts of notorious terrorists at hours when polite folks wouldn’t dream of calling.  He’d flown in helicopters while failing to keep his arms and legs in the vehicle at all times.  He’d even been bitten by a lemur.  Twice.  And so he usually confronted the would-be Paris Hilton acolytes of his favorite coffee house with the oblivious looseness and the ever-present, lightly-ironic smile of a man who has seen and done horrible stuff and therefore refuses to get worked up about the everyday bullshit of life.  Usually, anyway.  He stared after the coed for a second, shrugged, and then returned his attention to the business of standing in line.

That was when he noticed the weirdo staring at him.  The man was, as Liam’s Irish grandma would have said, “a wee bit husky” – not all the way fat, but definitely well-endowed in the man-breast department.  He was also short, and had a largish nose and brilliantly-hued, electric blue hair, which he wore in a severe bowl cut, making him look kind of like a Smurfy Beatle. 

Maybe, thought Liam, the guy recognized him from television.  That was probably it.  He’d been on the news a bunch lately.  It was completely random, but then it just kept happening.  It would start raining blood or a bunch of frogs would come out of nowhere, and television crews would show up, see him, and suddenly he’d be on camera, giving his account of whatever weird shit had gone down.  He didn’t particularly care about being on TV, and he certainly didn’t know any more about the frogs and locusts than anyone else.  He just seemed to have a knack for being around whenever weird stuff happened.  So that was probably why the dude was looking at him.

Liam caught himself staring at the guy’s haircut, and looked away quickly.  He glanced here and there, trying to act naturally as he fixed his gaze on a series of random spots in the coffee shop.  When he looked back, Ringo Smurf was still staring.  And then the man winked.

This sent Liam into a bit of a panic.  Like most straight guys, he professed to being cool with homosexuality.  In fact, he was generally able to resist the typical hetero male urge to offer an unsolicited clarification of the fact that he would never, ever, under any circumstances, touch another man’s penis – or that, if such an extraordinary thing were to happen, he wouldn’t enjoy it.  But here?  Now?  With this blue-haired weirdo actually making eyes at him?  Liam lost his cool.

Weren’t gay guys usually pretty good at figuring out whether other guys were gay?  And weren’t they usually pretty weight conscious?  He tried to avoid the gaze of the world’s only non-manorexic homosexual with broken gaydar by looking around immediately for a chick to ogle conspicuously.  But all of the hot coeds seemed to have disappeared to that alternate dimension where keys and matching socks get off to, and all Liam saw were two grandmas and what looked like a dugong in a floral dress.  It was no use.  He was stuck, and ended up giving the guy kind of a half-smile, half-constipated look.

Of course, all of this took place in a matter of just a few seconds, but, as Einstein proved, time is relative, varying inversely with the awkwardness or uncomfortableness of a particular social situation.  For Liam, time had slowed almost to a dead stop.

Fortunately, time hadn’t actually stopped, and it was finally his turn to order.  He turned to address the barista – Mr. Dao Tiêntri Duong – the craggy, weather-beaten Vietnamese proprietor of Holy Land Coffee, who looked as if he should be off guarding the ancient secrets of the Wu Lan Mountain, and whose sparkly, black eyes barely peered over the counter. 

“I’d like,” Liam started, but before he could finish, he realized that he was already holding a hot beverage. 

The tiny barista had already swiped Liam’s credit card and was completing the sale.  “Freeoooww!” he said.

Mr. Duong often did weird shit like this.  The soundtrack was a new addition, however. 

“What’s with the sound effects?”  Liam took his credit card and receipt.  “And what if I had wanted to pay with cash?” 

“You,” said the barista, “need to figure out who you are and what you want.” 

Liam glanced at the coffee in his one hand and the credit card receipt in the other.  “I think you already did that.” 

“You’re lacking in focus, my friend,” said the little man.  He squinted at Liam with hard, wizened eyes.  “You don’t want to run out of time.”

“What?”

Mr. Duong, however, had moved on to the next customer.

Liam took his coffee and turned to leave, only to find himself face-to-face with His Smurfiness. 

“Hi,” said Ringo.

Liam stared, wide eyed.  “Oh…” he said.  The rest of the words dallied in his parietal lobe, but then he was granted a second reprieve. 

“Uh ... excuse me!” said the insectoid hottie. 

Liam glanced around for a second before realizing that she was talking to him.  He was apparently blocking her path to the shop’s supply of straws, napkins, and pre-packaged petroleum by-product sweeteners.  He reveled for a moment in the mild irony of a plasticky, bitchy young woman yatching her way over to a rack of artificial sweeteners, but then she stamped her foot to show she meant business.

“Uh!” she said, shooing him with her phone.  “Get out of the way!”  He stepped back, and she strode past him, muttering a not-at-all-quiet and very distinct, “Freak!” as she passed.

There was a popping sound, and the woman yelped and jumped back as she tossed her now-flaming phone to the ground.  She did not drop her beverage, however, opting instead to demonstrate why it is inadvisable to engage in acrobatic activities or otherwise leap about with hot coffee in hand.  Most of the contents of her cup slopped down the front of her tank top.  This might have elicited a few murmurs of appreciation from the members of the young male demographic present in the coffee shop, but there wasn’t time.  The young woman had hardly finished spilling coffee all over herself when she slipped on the small amount of liquid she hadn’t actually managed to pour on her shirt, and toppled over backward on to the floor. 

“Huh,” said Liam, regarding the woman with a kind of distant, academic interest. 

He and the rest of the patrons watched as she tried a couple of times to stand, but slipped repeatedly, unable to find any solid footing among the puddles of expensive and complex beverage.  Nobody moved to help her, and it seemed like a week passed before she finally stopped flopping all over the place and was finally able to pick her coffee- and dust-bunny-covered self up off the floor.

She stood for a moment, fuming, her fists balled.  “Hmmph!” she said, and stormed out of the coffee shop. 

“Huh,” said Liam again, leaning over to pick up the phone, which was still flaming merrily to itself.  He held it up and looked at it, and the flame went out.  “Huh,” he said, one more time – for good measure.  He glanced around to demonstrate that he was just as surprised by this as everyone else.  Nobody seemed very interested though, so he tossed the phone into a waste bin.

He glanced around a final time, took his coffee, and left.

Chapter 5.                 Where You Can Stick that Parking Permit

The Devil ranted and muttered to himself as he stomped his way down the stairs, cursing the stupid, indecisive lady for making him shoot her into space. 

There it was.  His car.  A breathtaking jewel that glittered among the exposed pipes, the steamy underground air, and the dank smells of the garage.  He clicked the little beeper thingy to unlock it, slithered into the seat, and stabbed a finger at the button labeled, “Start.” 

Ordinary engines start up by turning over once or twice, and come to life with a little bit of a wheeze that turns into a throat-clearing that eventually settles into a quiet hum.  The engine of a Lamborghini, however, is not ordinary.  It’s more like an enraged bull – an enraged bull who’s been poked, prodded, and generally tormented by a matador, and then fed amphetamines and stuffed into a small box.  Even the Devil felt a little shiver as the car came to life.

Satan backed out of the spot, put the car in gear, and mashed the accelerator.  He cackled as he struggled to control the car – or at least, to keep it pointed generally in the direction he hoped to go –  as he tore up the ramps that led to the exit with the sort of artistic flair and panache that would have humbled and shamed Olympic ice dancers.  He worked his way up the ramps at speeds well in excess of the posted five-miles-per-hour limit, never managing to align the front of the car and his intended direction for more than a second or two at a time.  The tires squealed and smoked and the car lurched and slid as rubber and concrete came to terms about how best to apply 500 horsepower and 400 lb-ft of torque in the face of the wholly-inadequate friction coefficient of slimy, underground concrete.  The fun, however, came to an abrupt halt as he approached the garage exit.

There in the middle of the exit lane, like a speed bump turned on end, stood a short man in a green, FunParc shirt – Satan’s parking garage nemesis.  This wasn’t his first run in with the parking guy.  He remembered thinking that Jesus was a gigantic pain in the ass, but this guy?  He was on his way to earning his very own circle of Hell.

Satan eased the raging bull forward, goosing the throttle to make the engine emit a demonic snort, and rolled down the window.  He stared straight ahead, ignoring the man until the window finished gliding all the way down into the door.  Then, slowly, he turned a disdainful eye on the FunParc man.

The garage attendant did not react to the Devil’s television-worthy greeting.  Instead, he waddled up, and with a sigh, squatted awkwardly beside the car.  He squinted as he peered in at Satan.

“You must have parking pass,” he said in a foreign accent that revealed little about his origins other than that he should probably try to get back to them.  “You don’t park here without pass.”

The Prince of Darkness tried to remain calm as he pointed to where he’d duct-taped his parking pass to his windshield earlier – the result of his last run in with this extraordinarily dense asshat.  “It’s right there, on the windshield, exactly where you told me to put it.”

“No, very sorry sir.  You must hang pass from mirror.  It must hang from mirror.”  He made a twisting gesture with his hand, as if the problem had maybe just been that the Dark Lord of the Underworld hadn’t been able to figure out how to attach his parking pass to his mirror.

“You moronic twit, you are the one who told me that you couldn’t see it when I hung it from the mirror.”  He paused to take a deep breath.  “Tell me, please, are we going to have to do this every time I come through?”

“The parking pass must hang from mirror to show you have contract to park here.  If we can’t see pass, we think you don’t have contract.  We have you towed.”

Satan decided to try another tack.  “Listen, how many other $250,000 Italian sports cars do you see here?” 

“I’m sorry, sir?”  The attendant made a face as if he’d just been told his mother and his favorite goat were having an affair.

“Look around, you knob.  Do you now see – or have you ever seen – any other cars that look anything like this one?  At some point, shouldn’t you start to think, ‘Ah yes, here comes that odd-looking white car!’”  The Dark Lord omitted to point out the red “go faster” stripe he’d had painted down the center of the car, making it unique, even among Italian exotics. 

This argument appeared to confuse the attendant, who simply returned to what he knew.  “Eh ... your parking pass ... it must be in visible spot.”  The pronouncement thus pronounced, the attendant stood back on his heels, folded his arms, and raised his eyebrows with finality.  “Or we tow car.”

“It’s taped to the fucking windshield!  How is that not a ... ?”  Satan stopped, deflated. There was no point trying to convince this moron.  “You don’t have any idea what I’m saying, do you?” he said.  “Okay, then.”  He put his car in gear and drove off.

The parking attendant spent the next two and a half hours on fire. 

The fire department showed up and tried to put him out, but the firefighters found that their usual tools were completely ineffective.  They started with water, but the flames actually seemed to get bigger.  So they sprayed him with fire extinguishers, and while they found that mildly entertaining, it really wasn’t any better.  They tried smothering him in flame-retardant blankets, but that just made it impossible for the man to breathe – oddly the blaze itself hadn’t given him any trouble – and then the blankets themselves started to burn. 

Ultimately, they weren’t really sure what to do with the fiery parking attendant, and since the guy didn’t seem to be about to die or anything, the firemen pronounced it to be, in their professional opinions, “some kind of Goddamn, fucked-up, super fire,” and just let him burn. 

* * *

A late-model Ford careened across an athletic field, bumped and lurched over a sidewalk, and skidded to a halt in front of Georgetown’s main parking garage, scattering the crowd of students who’d managed to wrench themselves away from watching the conflagration at Healy Hall.  The driver misjudged the distance though, and the car didn’t actually come to a stop until one wheel bounced up on top of the curb.

Agent Bob Robertson stepped out onto the sidewalk and scanned his environment over the top of his car door, taking in every detail, every mote of dust.  It was a while though, before his eyes finally settled on the group of firefighters who stood in a circle, talking to the guy who was on fire.  That kind of crap just didn’t surprise him anymore.  He tweaked the lapels of his jacket, rolled his neck, and strode over to the newest group of weirdos.

The burning man appeared to have just said something funny, because most of the firemen were doubled over laughing, trying to catch their breath.  Robertson paused to let the moment pass.  He didn’t do funny.

“Detective?” Robertson said.

Detective Dan Schmidt turned from the fire show just in time to see an uptight-looking man in a ill-fitting suit bearing down on him.  “Can I help you?” he said, putting his hands up.  There were enough people from enough departments standing around already – and nobody was accomplishing much of anything.

“I’m agent Bob Robertson, FBI,” the stiff man said, holding up a badge. 

“You guys investigate weird shit now too?” said Schmidt.

“That’s correct.  Whaddya got?”  He nodded at the burning man.

Schmidt paused for a moment, wondering if he’d missed something, but Robertson just stood and stared.  “Well,” he said, “we got a guy,” he pointed to the parking attendant, who at that moment appeared to be imitating a bird, much to the amusement of the firefighters, “and he’s on fire.”  Schmidt waved his hands up and down quickly in kind of a “he’s-on-fire” gesture.

“I see,” said Robertson.  “How did this happen?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Robertson leveled a serious look at the detective. 

Schmidt took the cue.  “So, he said he was having an argument with some guy who’d managed to park here without a permit or something.  Said the guy drove off in a huff and then all the sudden he’s on fire.”

“Odd,” said Robertson.  “He doesn’t seem to be in much pain.”  He pointed to the parking attendant who, for a guy on fire, seemed to be having a pretty good time.

“Well, he was kind of screaming and stuff when we showed up.  And after we couldn’t put him out, the paramedics tossed him a handful of heavy-duty painkillers.  He’s apparently not feelin’ too much right now,” he said, waving his elbow at Robertson in a conspiratorial-chicken-wing, “You know what I mean?” way.  Robertson just stared.  Schmidt cleared his throat and put his chicken wing away before continuing.  “And anyway, you look real close, you can see his skin ain’t burnin’ or nothin’, so I don’t know, you know?  It’s just ... weird.”

“Hmmm...”  Robertson edged closer to the flames.  This wasn’t the first incident recently where he’d been called in to investigate weird stuff involving fire.  Not even close.  Some kind of sick, pyromaniac fuck was definitely on the loose in Washington, D.C. 

“Oh,” said Schmidt, “and apparently one of the elevators is all fucked up.  Like really fucked up.  Big hole in the ceiling.  Not sure if that’s connected, though.”

“Tell me, was he able to provide an identity?”

“An identity?  For who?”

“For ‘whom’,’” corrected Robertson.  “I want to know who he was talking to just before he got set on fire.”

The cop shot Robertson a look that, if spoken, probably would have involved the F-word.  “Said he drove a white car.  Maybe a sedan.  But that’s pretty much all he knew.”  He looked back over at the flaming parking attendant and sighed.  One of the firefighters was tearing open a package of marshmallows.  “They got video, if you want it.  Tape’s over there in the office.  Apparently, most people park here under contract, but I doubt it’s any of them that did it.  I guess we could try to run the plates.  You know, if you want.”

“I want,” said Robertson.  “Get me the tape.”

Chapter 6.     Magic Queso from Heaven

The little bell on the door of the guitar shop jingled as Raju Singh came in for his afternoon shift.  “Dude,” he called to Liam, who was sitting on a couch in the back office, watching T.V., “your chakras are all fucked up.  I am telling you this all the way from here.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” said Liam, without looking up from an assortment of take-out containers filled with chicken and various ancillary fajita-making materials.  “I’ve been meaning to have them un-fucked, but haven’t had the time.  You know how it is.”  He pulled the lid off a container of queso. 

“No problem.  But you should remember to un-fuck them soon, or you’ll be in some serious shit.” 

Raju was practicing to become a self-help guru.  He didn’t have any applicable knowledge or formal training per se, or even much of a clue really.  In fact, all he knew about spirituality was what he’d garnered from a couple of evenings spent surfing the Internet, alternating between hits from a search engine and hits from his industrial-grade bong.  Even so, he was supremely confident that he was The One.  He was going to change the world.  Or at least make a lot of money and be surrounded by hot chicks.

“Liam, I am thinking that maybe the time is ripe for me that I should be sharing my spiritual wisdom with the customers.  What do you think of this plan?” 

“Raju, shut up.”  Liam saw no reason to indulge Raju’s spiritual pretense, or his affected Indian accent for that matter, if only because Raju hadn’t had either when Liam had hired him.  And the fact was, Raju already spouted his B.S. at the shop’s patrons every chance he got.  Of course, it didn’t really matter.  The kind of musicians who came to Liam’s store weren’t about to stop coming in just because of a wacko, pothead clerk who saw himself as the next non-denominational spiritual guru.  “You want some fajitas?  I got guacamole this time.”

“Shit, yeah,” said Raju, forgetting to use his accent.

The bell rang again and Raju hurried back out to man the counter.

“Hellooo?” called a voice.  It was Festus – Festus P. Bongwater – a bearded seminary dropout who represented the wild-eyed, I’ve-just-spent-five-years-on-a-desert-island-and-these-are-my-coconut-friends demographic among the employees at Liam’s guitar shop.

He pulled what looked like a very large grasshopper off his shirt and threw it back out the open door.  “Damned locusts again,” he said. 

Another swarm of the giant bugs had arrived the week before – on the same day that someone tried to hold up the shop.  It had been a disaster – the locusts, dealing with the cops, the cops mistaking Festus for a perpetrator of some sort and arresting him – but they’d got it all worked out eventually.  There were still a few straggler bugs, however, who had not managed to fly off with the rest of the sky-darkening swarm.

Raju looked up, spreading his hands over the countertop territorially.  “Dude, you’re not supposed to be here.  This is my shift.  You need to fuck off.  Right now.”

Festus waved him off and leaned over the counter, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial.  “Hey, man,” he said.  “I need to ask you a favor.”

“What is up, my friend?”  Raju glanced over his shoulder, to make sure Liam wasn’t within earshot.  Raju’s vague antipathy toward Festus took a backseat to any opportunity to conspire or otherwise be sneaky.

Festus looked toward the back too.  Liam was busy downing tortilla chips and yelling at the television.  “Is he watching the news again?” asked Festus.

Raju turned to regard his boss.  “Yeah, I know.  What the hell, right?”

They shook their heads, and then leaned back over the counter in their conspiratorial huddle.

“Listen,” said Festus, “I really need you to drive me somewhere tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Raju, “when?”

“Eight o’clock.”

Raju stood and slapped the counter.  “This will not be a problem for me, my friend.” 

Festus took a deep breath, preparing to lay out his case, and then stopped.  “Really?” 

“Most definitely.  Not.  Most definitely not.  Not a problem.”

“Well, okay.  I’ll meet you here first thing tomorrow morning!”

“Okay,” said Raju.  “Wait, what?”

“You’d rather come pick me up?  That’s fine.  You know, whatever.”

“No, no, no,” said Raju, pressing his fingers to his temples as he tried to wrap his brain around the incomprehensible, absurd notion of being up as early as eight in the morning.  On a Sunday even.  “There is no way I can help you.  It is not possible.  This is much too early.”

“Well … can I borrow your car?” asked Festus.

Raju became apoplectic.  “Can I borrow your car?  Can I borrow your car?  What kind of question is this?” 

“Hey, mmrph,” said Liam.  His hand, apparently unaware that he was trying to speak, stuffed another bite of fajita into his mouth.  “Look at this bullshit!”  He pointed to the TV.

Festus and Raju stepped into the back office.  The television showed Texas Governor Dick Whitford giving a speech.  “That guy is the fucking anti-Christ,” said Festus.

“Didn’t he die?  I thought he was dead,” said Raju. 

“No, not dead.  Undead maybe,” said Liam, pointing to the screen that showed a very not-dead Governor.

Raju’s eyes grew wide.  “You mean he’s a zombie?”

Reasoning that spending too much time answering the questions of a complete idiot can lower one’s IQ, Liam had long ago made it a rule simply to ignore most of Raju’s queries.  He kept watching the news as he tried to liberate the last of the queso from the prison of its Styrofoam container.

“Are you sure he’s a zombie?  I mean, I guess he looks pretty dead, but still, you know?” Raju reached for the empty bowl.  “Man, we’re out of queso,” he said.  He held the bowl up to the light and scraped at the bottom with a chip.  “Dude!” said Raju, dropping his accent again in order to set out his first employee-relations dispute of the day.  “I wanted some of that, you queso-hogging fuck.” 

Liam pointed the remote at the TV, and cranked the volume.  The television distracted Raju for a second, but then he turned back to berate Liam some more over the cheese sauce. 

“Oh hey!” he said, snatching up a fresh container of queso.  “You got more.” 

“I,” said Liam, “use my powers for good, not evil.” 

Raju stared at Liam for a moment, trying to figure out just what the heck his boss was talking about.  But then he just shrugged and scooped up some more queso. 

They watched in silence as Governor Whitford disappeared off the screen and an anchor woman came on.  With shockingly white teeth and an oddly motionless helmet of blonde hair, she explained that the government of the State of Texas was stepping up, and stepping in, to fill a void left in the Louisiana state government in the wake of Hurricane John.

“Oil,” said Liam. 

“No, no, no.  Queso,” said Raju.

Liam either ignored Raju or he just didn’t hear him.  “This ... this is just...”

Festus looked at Liam.  “What?” 

“Whitford’s a total dirt bag.  A real piece of shit.”

Raju and Festus exchanged surprised looks.  Liam seemed to be taking this personally.  He seemed to be getting upset about a lot of things lately.  Usually it was over stupid, little things, like Raju frightening off customers with the six-foot “super bong” he’d constructed.  But this was different – this was some random political dude – and who the hell cared about that?

Liam glanced at his employee and his friend, and seeing the looks on their faces, explained.  “I had to deal with that dirt bag on more than one occasion,” he said, but then stopped, offering nothing further. 

“You sold guitars to the vice president?  That’s amazing!  Does he even play guitar?  I bet he sucks,” said Raju.

“Liam used to be in the military,” explained Festus.

“Oh.  Well, maybe that’s what’s wrong with him,” said Raju.  “Post-traumatic stress disorder or ... what’s that other one?  Rickets or something?”

“Scurvy?” said Festus.

“Yeah, scurvy.”  He pointed the barrel of a pretend handgun at Festus and winked.  “Liam,” he said, “we’re pretty sure you have scurvy.”

Liam didn’t respond.  He was too busy making angry faces at the TV.  On the screen, the anchor’s disembodied voice spoke over images of soldiers with little Texas flags on their shoulders passing out blankets and food, remarking about how odd it was that the Louisiana governor, lieutenant governor, and secretary of state had all been missing since the storm, along with most of the state legislature.

“What the fuck is the governor of Texas doing running Louisiana?”

“Looks like he’s just helping fix things after that big hurricane,” said Festus.

“Wait a minute,” said Raju.  “There was a hurricane?”

“Where the hell have you been for the last week?” asked Festus.  He shook his head with the special kind of condescension that comes from knowing more about current events than someone else, and turned his attention back to Liam.  “I really think they’re just helping…”

“No, there’s an entire federal agency that’s responsible for this sort of thing.  How the hell did he even pull this off?  Where is FEMA in all this?  Where is the National Guard?”  Liam was really starting to get agitated.

“Maybe FEMA needed some help?” volunteered Festus.

“Well, I’m sure they did, but that doesn’t mean they’re just going to hand over the whole operation to the ass-headed governor of Texas.”

“What was the hurricane called?  Where did it hit?” asked Raju.  Nobody answered, so he unleashed another barrage of questions.  “Why are you so pissed about this?  Who cares about Louisiana?” he asked.  “I went there once.  It sucked.  Though Bourbon Street was pretty cool.  There was this blues singer.  He was maybe five hundred pounds, and he sang this cool song about wanting to ‘be your backdoor man.’”

Now it was Festus’ turn.  “Seriously Liam, why are you so angry about this?”

“I don’t know.  Because it’s screwed up.  And wrong,” said Liam.  “And I’d be willing to bet that it has absolutely nothing to do with helping those folks get back on their feet.”

“Why?” asked Festus.

Liam looked up at them as if he were debating whether to bother explaining.  He sighed.  “A ridiculous proportion of the country’s refining capacity – something like 25 or maybe even as high as 30% – is there in Louisiana,” he said.  “Add in Texas, and you’ve got just over half of the country’s total capacity.  Also, there are four major oil pipeline entry points in the United States.  Two are in Texas.  One is just north of New Orleans.  Almost two-thirds of the country’s petroleum reserves are tucked away in salt domes in Louisiana.”

“And there’s more than that.  Texas ranks second only to California in terms of military bases.  Group Louisiana and Texas together, and suddenly California is a distant second.  This guy,” Liam shook his head, “now has the most powerful country on the planet by the balls.”

“Dude,” said Raju, sitting down on the arm of the couch, “how do you know all this stuff?”  This was the most serious conversation he’d had in years – at least since he’d started working at the guitar shop.

Liam returned from Angry Land for a second to stare at Raju.  “I used to do some work for the CIA.  You know that,” he said.

“I thought you were in the military,” said Festus.  “I just told Raju—”

Liam glanced over at Festus.  “Right,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  He slumped back on the couch, ranting quietly to himself.

Festus and Raju just stood there, looking around, not sure what to make of Liam’s sudden weirdness.  He was usually the sane one in the guitar shop. 

“That man,” said Liam, pointing at the screen, “is a bad man.  And now he’s put himself in a position—”

“What?  Position to do what?”

“I’m not sure.  Whatever it is, it’s not good.”

They watched in silence for a moment. 

“Wouldn’t it be cool,” asked Raju, “if there was one of those locust clouds right now, and they ate the president?”

“What?” asked Liam.

“Who?” asked Festus.

“Locusts!  The president!”  Raju pointed to the screen.  “They eat him up.”  He put his fingers to the sides of his mouth to demonstrate locust mastication.

“He’s the governor,” said Liam.

“Whatever,” said Raju.  “It would be cool, and you know it.”

“Yeah,” said Festus.  “Or maybe some frogs.  That would be so—” 

Raju jumped off the couch and levitated, Scooby-Doo style as he pointed to the screen.  “Holy shit, dude!  It’s bugs!”

On the screen, the picture of Dick Whitford cut away to the hair-helmet woman.  She expressed some uncertainty as to the exact nature of what was transpiring at the Governor’s press conference.  Over her shoulder, the little screen-within-a-screen showed the Governor flailing and waving his hands wildly, and then being ushered off the stage.

“It’s bugs!” said Raju.  “They’re there.  Right now!  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”

“Calm down,” said Festus.  “It’s not bugs.”  He leaned in for a closer look.  “It’s not—”  He squinted, leaned even closer, and then touched the television screen as if that would help.  “Wait a minute.  I think it might be…”  He turned to look at Liam, but Liam had stood up and was headed out of the room.

“Liam?” said Festus.  Raju turned to see what the hell was wrong with Liam that he didn’t want to stay and watch the Governor get eaten by a swarm of locusts.

“I’ll be up front,” said Liam.  “Got some … guitar stuff to take care of.”

Chapter 7.                 Shirley Is a Merciless, Automaton Whore

Washington, D.C. is a crappy place to live.  Sure, the monuments and museums are nice, and the idea of tooling around a city that occupies the top spot on Russia’s list of “Cities to Pulverize and Obliterate with Nuclear Weapons” is cool, but actually living (or trying to live) in the Nation’s Capital sucks.  One of the main problems is the climate. 

For most of the United States, climatologists use labels like “temperate” or “subtropical,” but for D.C., they had to carve out a special and unique zone called “Ass.”  The problem is that the Founding Fathers decided that the best place to build the capital was a swamp, which in terms of city planning is just one, small step away from actually building a city under water.  All that moisture in the air acts like a multiplier for temperature, except that it somehow works both ways.  When it’s hot, the humidity makes it hotter.  When it’s cold, the humidity makes it ass-tastically cold – hence the climatologists’ nomenclature.

The Devil was in a foul mood.  He held the telephone at arm’s length.  “Do you understand that I am, at this very moment, freezing to death?!”

Shirley — the telephone representative for Washington Gas — may have understood, but she was not at all sympathetic to the Devil’s plight, which is to say that she was acting like an unfeeling, robot bitch as she followed a diagrammatic flow chart of scripted answers with about as much empathy for his misery and discomfort as a washing machine has for clothing as it cycles from soak to agitate to rinse to spin.

No, Shirley didn’t seem to care anymore than his thermostat did.  And yelling at her wasn’t helping any more than it had with that.  Satan had screamed at and berated the little box on the wall off and on for two days before his neighbor had knocked on the door, wondering what all the fuss was about.  The neighbor had explained the mysteries of climate control, and had eventually helped Satan to figure out that the gas wasn’t working.  So now here he was, on the phone with this merciless, automaton whore.

“I’m sorry, sir, but if you want to place a service order, you need to call us three days in advance,” she said.  This was the fifth time she had advised the Devil of Washington Gas’ three-day notice requirement.  Of course, Shirley had no idea that she was speaking with Satan.  She heard his accent and figured he was just another one of those diplomats from England or Gondor or wherever. 

“You keep reciting that as if it were some kind of mystical incantation that will make me go away.  Do you really think that I didn’t hear you the first five times you said it?  Or that I was somehow unable to understand?  Oh wait, I’m sorry.  Are you, perchance, a complete fucking idiot?  Is that the problem?” 

“You’re just being rude,” she said.  Shirley didn’t like these snooty foreign guys.

“Yes, but you see, you madam, are a moron.  And I am having to cope simultaneously with freezing my backside off and your profound stupidity.  My rudeness is therefore excused.  I am afraid, however, that your stupidity is not.  It is, in fact, inexcusable.  So I must insist that you cease your idiotic prattling and TURN ON MY FUCKING HEAT ALREADY!”  Satan sat down and crossed his legs.  He felt calm and in control.

“Hold, please.”  Some light jazz came on as Shirley put the Prince of Darkness on hold.

He stood up and began pacing.  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.  The Dark Lord of the Underworld did not look good in sweaters.  Not frumpy brown ones anyway. 

The phone continued to play hold music at him while he waited.  He held the handset out at arm’s length again, glaring at it with an evil eye, and was just about to fling it at the wall when he remembered the last time he’d been put on hold.  He glanced over to where his old telephone was still embedded in the sheetrock and sighed.  The ingenuity and deviousness of humans was astounding – hold music was like a cheese grater for the soul.  Forget all the fire and brimstone, they really needed to start piping this stuff in down in Hell. 

He sighed again.  Was it worth this?  Was eternal damnation really any worse than sitting on hold, listening to Muzak? 

I should just go back, he thought. 

It was an odd thing, this nagging sense that he should be back in Hell.  He’d been there in rebellion after all.  The original and most profound rebellion.  And it was strange and uncomfortable to think of rebelling as something he had to do.  But then, he’d felt compelled to rebel against God.  Driven.  Like it was something he couldn’t not do.  And it took him a while to understand, but by giving in and succumbing to that compulsion, he was actually serving a purpose set out for him – and for which he’d been designed and created – by God.  So, the reality of the situation was that he wasn’t a rebel at all.  He was a pawn in God’s big plan.  God needed a patsy, a chump – someone to set up as a straw man in His weird, self-serving battle between good and evil. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the deck hadn’t been stacked; if it had been set up as a fair fight; if he were something more than a pawn in the Lord Almighty’s ineffable f’ed up, dumbass plan.  God had created Satan to fulfill a role – to rebel and then get his Satanic ass kicked on Judgment Day.  It was such a stupid plan, and yet, it was a nut that Satan couldn’t crack.

He’d always assumed that an idea would come to him; that, when the time came, he’d figure out some way to emerge victorious.  The minions had asked him about it constantly, the nagging, incessant shits that they were.

“Master, how will we defeat Him, when it is written that … uh … we will not … uh … defeat … Him?” Belial had asked.

And Satan always responded the same way.  “I cannot speak of these things, for He is always listening, but rest assured, I have a plan.”

But he hadn’t.  He had no friggin’ idea what he was going to do.  And as the time drew closer; as the Day of Judgment crept up, he began to realize that a plan wasn’t going to arrive in his miraculous brain.  He’d never figure it out.

And then, one day, he realized, That was the bloody point.  It was God’s perfect plan.  A plan in which Satan and his followers, his entire army of fallen angels, were all just pawns.  It was totally, blindingly obvious, but his rebellion – the Fall – it was all planned, intended, part of His great scheme.  He wasn’t the Lord of Hell.  He was God’s scapegoat and, worse, a foregone conclusion.  He hated that. 

Even the labels sucked.  “Prince of Darkness?”  Whatever.  He wasn’t evil.  No, he preferred to group his particular combination of proclivities together under the heading “Fun.”  But fun wasn’t part of The Plan.

And that, of course, was why he was now here, on Earth, wearing a human-body costume and second guessing his decision to trade everything he’d known for a cold apartment, a frumpy sweater, and this robot bitch on the phone who wouldn’t turn on his damned gas.

He thumbed his copy of the collector’s edition of the Star Wars Trilogy that had just arrived, and felt just a tiny bit better.  For the past week he’d holed himself up, staying out of trouble and watching a hell of a lot of television.  And in that time he’d discovered the awesome saga of Luke and Leia and Darth Vader.

Oh, Darth.  Darthy, Darth, Darth, Darth.

There were a lot of things that he loved about Star Wars.  The Death Star kicked ass, and seeing the fuzzy little Ewoks get killed had been highly satisfactory.  And, of course, he saw Darth Vader as a kindred spirit, both in terms of general outlook and his heavy reliance on what Satan figured must be anger-management breathing.  Mostly though, it was the mythology of the movies that struck him.  It was, he thought, kind of an allegory for his own struggle and rebellion against God.  He just wasn’t sure whether he was Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader.  And the whole dark vs. light sides of the force thing was confusing.  God was easy enough – He was the emperor.  Satan had some ideas for where the story should go next, and had decided that he was just going to have to go to Hollywood and meet the man behind the films.

Shirley came back on the line and went straight back into her mantra: “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to call us three days in adv—” but she didn’t finish, due to the fact that, at that very instant, the entire headquarters of Washington Gas exploded in an enormous fireball. 

On Satan’s end, the line went dead.  There wasn’t even any hold music. 

“Hello?” he said.  “Are you there?”  But this was just denial.  He knew that Shirley was no longer on the line.  And he knew it was his fault.

The phone started making that rapid beeping sound phones make when left off the hook.

He punched the OFF button and took a deep breath, letting the phone fall by his side. 

“Shit,” he said.  No gas.  No heat.  And he’d risked exposure.  Again.  What he really needed was something to help him stay focused; some kind of motivational tool.  Maybe one of those calendars like they have in factories.  Only instead of saying: “Fifty-nine days since last on-the-job accident,” his would have to say something like, “Three days since last accidental use of supernatural Satanic powers to blow shit up.”

* * *

FBI Agent Bob Robertson was put in charge of the investigation of the explosion of the Washington Gas headquarters.  His mandate, broadly speaking, was to answer two questions:  First, just what in God’s name happened?  (It was a poorly-worded mandate.)  Second, how was it that, with the entire headquarters exploding in a giant fireball, all but one of the Washington Gas employees escaped completely unharmed? 

Robertson hadn’t a clue.  And the forensics guys had been no help at all, concluding only that it looked like there had been an “explosion of some type.”

As for the one Washington Gas employee who had been affected, it wasn’t clear how exactly her condition related to the incident, or if it was even related at all.  Her name was Shirley Strickland, and really she was perfectly fine, except for the fact that she seemed to be completely incapable of saying anything other than, “I’m sorry, but if you want to place a service order, you have to call three days in advance.”  Robertson had no clue about that either. 

He did have one lead, at least – space heaters – for whatever that was worth.

A lot of people in and around Washington, D.C. heat their homes using oil, so the destruction of Washington Gas’ headquarters didn’t cause the kind of panic that might have occurred had the entire D.C. Metroplex suddenly found itself without heating oil in a cool November.  Still, there are enough folks there who do rely on natural gas for heat, especially downtown in the apartments and condominiums occupied by the zillions of interns and young professionals.  Pretty much all them went out that day and bought space heaters. 

Most of the stores in town ran out of space heaters within hours of the explosion.  One store, however, sold its entire supply – it had nine on hand – in just thirty minutes.  And every single one of the space heaters, it turns out, was purchased by the same person – an individual using a credit card registered in the name of Mr. B. L. Tod, which was the same name the guy in the white Lamborghini had used in signing up for his parking space. 

The street address associated with the credit card had been a fake.  Fortunately, one of the agents had thought to check the address on the Internet, so the FBI was spared the embarrassment of sending an assault squad to the National Cathedral.

Now, Robertson was back at the office, taking care of some paperwork that had been piling up while he’d been out failing to solve the Washington Gas fiasco.  His team was still investigating, but he wasn’t particularly hopeful.

“Bob?  Bob!  I think I’ve found him!”  One of his younger agents stood, leaning halfway over her desk as she continued clicking her mouse.  After a few more clicks, she grabbed a couple of sheets of paper off the printer, and headed over to Robertson’s desk.

“Danvers, right?” he said, looking over the pages she’d handed him.  Robertson knew Danvers’ name perfectly well, and her perfectly-shaped bottom even better.  He studied the page.  It looked like – well, he couldn’t tell what it was.  He handed it back.  “What is this?”

“It’s from an Internet forum,” she said.  “Someone has been posting using the handle Bacon, Lettuce, and Death.  And apparently he’s a big Star Wars fan.”  She nodded and smiled as she said this, apparently thinking that it explained everything.

“Bacon, lettuce, and what?”

“Bacon, Lettuce, and Death,” she said.  But Robertson still wore a confused expression.  “‘Tod’ means ‘death’ in German.  B.L. Tod.  B.L.T.  Bacon Lettuce and Death.  Simple really.”

Robertson shook his head.  “Great,” he said, stretching the word out like a sardonic, cynical version of the cereal-chomping tiger.  “Danvers, have you been smoking the dope?”

Danvers turned to him and smiled, apparently taking Robertson’s statement as a joke.  “Look here.”  She flipped the pages.  “I contacted the ISP, and I asked for the IP address.”  She ran a finger along the side of her head, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear.

It took a second for Robertson to remember where he was.  “What?”

“I got Mr. BLT’s IP address.”  Robertson gave her a blank look, so she continued, “It’s a unique identifier – an address – and every computer connected to the Internet has one.”

“Do we need a warrant for that?”  Robertson wasn’t up on all this computer mumbo jumbo.

She gave him a sly smile.

“Okay…” he said.

“Anyway, it didn’t tell me much.  Just that he’s been posting from a computer here in Washington.”

“That kind of seems like a lot to me.”

“Well,” she said, “yeah.  I guess so.”  She paused, giving him a look he recognized and remembered as the same look he used to get from girls in high school.  And college.  She nodded emphatic nods and spoke slowly, as if that would help the information penetrate.  “It just … won’t actually … allow us … to find him,” she said.

Robertson squinted, so Danvers soldiered on, flipping pages.  “There’s a big party for a senator tonight,” she said.  “A fundraiser.  Here in town.  And apparently one of the Star Wars producers is going to be there.  Tod keeps asking ‘Are you sure?’ and ‘How do you know?’”  She smiled triumphantly.

Robertson just kept staring at her with an intense but confused look on his face.

“I think he might be planning to go to a fundraiser here in town,” she said.

No change, other than a slight twitch of his mustache.

“Tonight!” she said.

Robertson looked skeptical.  “How can we be sure it’s him?”

She put her hand on her hip, tilted her head, and just generally imbued her whole body with you-ain’t-all-that attitude.  “We can’t,” she said.  “But have you got any better leads?”

Robertson eyed the young woman skeptically, careful not to stare or linger too long or do anything that might be interpreted the wrong way.  Which is to say that Robertson’s gaze slid down the length of her body and then settled on a random point in space, precisely one foot to the left of Ms. Danvers, and definitely not anywhere near her perky breasts. 

“Well,” he said to the air, “let’s get a team together and go get this guy.”

Chapter 8.                 Asthmatic Dugong

Governor Dick Whitford grunted as he finished his breakfast.  He took a moment to extract a bit of something tasty from his teeth, let out an ear-splitting belch, and dabbed at his mouth with an embroidered linen napkin before subsiding back into his enormous leather chair.  Then he reached out a pale and pudgy hand to press a button on his phone.

“Withers,” he croaked.

A moment later a woman worthy of the name “Withers” bustled in and began clearing Whitford’s breakfast mess off of his desk.  She was powerfully-built and efficient – all business – but then there were a couple of stray wisps of graying hair that dangled from an otherwise severe bun. 

Whitford waited for her to finish with a vaguely impatient, almost sarcastic look on his face. 

“Send them in,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“And check the thermostat,” he said, “it feels warm in here.”

“It’s not warm, sir,” she said.  “It’s 64 degrees.”  Ms. Withers was one of the few people who could contradict Dick Whitford without fear of being declared an enemy of the state and shipped off to a Caribbean summer camp for insurgents.  “And 50 degrees outside.”

“It’s warm, goddamnit.  Fix it.”

Ms. Withers made a show of pulling up the collar of her sweater as she bustled out.

There were a lot of people who thought that the former Vice President of the United States was Satan, and that, after two terms, a couple of minor Constitutional “transgressions,” and a handful of cardiac episodes, Dick Whitford would make his way back to one of the inner circles of Hell.  But he hadn’t.  Instead, he’d gone home to Texas, which, in some ways isn’t all that different.

Texas has many things going for it, but unless you’re the kind of person who enjoys vacationing on the surface of the sun or inside a blast furnace, summer is not one of them.  Native Texans often refer to the warm season, which generally runs from February to November, in loving, dulcet tones and using phrases such as “Oh holy fuck, will it never end?!”

Whitford hated the heat.  But he hated Liberals and Communists even more, so he had no choice but to live in Texas.  And so he did whatever it took to shield himself against the infernal Lone Star climate, such as having two entire backup cooling systems installed in any building where he was likely to spend much time.  After all, why would any God-fearing Texan settle for just one monster-truck-sized air conditioning unit when he could install two, or even three, thereby flipping the Lone Finger at the idea of “centralized” climate control?  Well, he wouldn’t.  Because that would be un-American, you dirty Communist.  Which is why Whitford had multiple air-conditioning units lined up in nice, environmentally friendly rows outside each of his houses. 

The governor didn’t spend much time at any of his houses though.  He preferred to spend his days – and his nights – lurking within the dark, frigid confines of his office, which he kept at a hypothermia-inducing fifty-nine degrees.  Which is why members of his staff usually scoffed at the idea of their boss being the Prince of Darkness.  They had all decided that the idea that Satan would come to Earth and sequester himself in a freezer just seemed preposterous.  Which of course, only shows that they had actually given the question serious consideration.

The icy temperatures had, in fact, led those who worked under Whitford (or near rather – any unfortunate soul who worked under Whitford would not do so for long) to come up with an entirely different set of theories.  First among these was the idea that Whitford was a cyborg; that the frigid temperatures were essential to maintain the proper function of the super-conducting microprocessors in Whitford’s robot components.  The guy had, after all, survived a string of heart attacks that would have killed all but the most robotic overlord.

Nobody was really sure how many heart attacks he’d had.  In his second term as vice president, his trips up Connecticut Avenue to the National Naval Medical Center had become so frequent that CNN stopped covering them.  After his last visit to the hospital he trudged out, hunched over, with a look of grim determination on his face, and glared with a cynical eye at the few newspaper reporters who’d showed up. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and he stalked off to get into a waiting town car.

Whitford’s last heart attack had been a very anxious time in the underworld.  In Hell, several of the higher-up demons sighed with relief.  Their job had been to prevent the Vice President’s arrival at all costs, and they had succeeded – again – in putting it off for another day. 

A nervous demon had approached Satan.

“My Lord,” the demon said, “I thought you might like to know that the Vice President of the United States is scheduled to arrive today.”  He handed the Dark Lord a parchment scroll.

There was a long-standing policy in Hell:  Any time a despot, dictator, tyrant, or genocidal maniac was on his way down, Satan himself was to be informed.  He unfurled the scroll and began reading.  It was covered in a tiny, handwritten script, written in blood (which Satan thought was disgusting, but it seemed to make his minions happy, so he went with it). 

Under normal circumstances, a welcoming committee of high-ranking demons would be convened, and the new soul would be led off to endure a uniquely tailored program of ironic torture. 

“You must get up there and stop this,” he said, his eyes wide.  Satan, by this time, already had some inkling that he might not be sticking around.  Leaving Hell unmanned was one thing.  Leaving it unmanned, with a guy like Whitford running around, well, that was another matter entirely.

“My lord?”

“Er... This one is not meant for us,” he said, handing back the scroll.  “Go and intervene.  He cannot come here.  Go.” 

“Yes,” said the demon.  He crept off to do his master’s bidding.

And so, after his eighth or twelfth or fifteenth heart attack – the one that really, definitely should have killed him – Whitford had spent almost a week recuperating, and then had returned to work.  Six months later, he and his cadre of support staff (rumored to be technicians) removed themselves to his ranch just outside of Austin. 

Their sojourn there, however, was a short one.  For just a few weeks after Whitford returned to Texas, the Governor and the Lieutenant Governor – both of whom had far less going for them in the bionic parts department than Whitford – departed this mortal sphere.  And through a series of maneuvers that will be puzzled over by government professors at the University of Texas for decades to come, Whitford stepped in as the Governor of Texas, sworn in by his long-time friend and spiritual advisor Bill Cadmon.

There was tiny, almost inaudible squeak as the giant, oak door to Whitford’s cold, dark office swung open.  Two men entered.  Their names were Clyde Parker and Sam Harris.  Both had worked for the Governor since before he’d left Washington.  Parker had been with Whitford since before he went to Washington in the first place.

Parker ambled in.  Harris’ entrance fell more toward the frenetic end of the spectrum.

Parker wore cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat, and a poncho for warmth.  He walked slow and talked slow, and he and Whitford had known each other since back around the time Lincoln was President.  He was Whitford’s general problem solver and the guy who dealt with whatever nastiness needed to be dealt with.

Harris, on the other hand, had on a shirt and tie underneath a tasteful grey sweater and horn-rimmed glasses and talked through his nose.  He did a lot annoying stuff that made people want to punch him in the face, like always being right about everything and insisting that people call him “Samuel” instead of “Sam” or “fuckwad.”  Even the unflappable First Lady of Texas had commented to the Governor that she had felt the urge to smack Harris on more than one occasion.

But Harris was smart.  Off-the-charts smart.  And so Whitford ignored the complaints – he didn’t give a crap about Harris’ assheadedness himself – and kept the kid around.

“So,” said Whitford, “what did you boys find for me?”

Parker nodded at Harris.  Harris turned and held one of the massive wooden doors open for an aide who rolled in a television.  He searched around for a plug, reminding himself, as he always did, to address Whitford as “sir” or “governor” and not, as he was tempted to call him, “Master Jabba.”  When he finally got the television set he turned to face the governor.

“Well, sir,” he began.

“You know I don’t like TV,” interrupted Whitford.  He was always saying things like that – pointless crap to put people off their games.  He smiled suddenly and lurched in his chair like an asthmatic dugong in an ill-fitting suit.  His leather seat squeaked flatulently as he shifted.  “Unless it’s another torture video from the base in Cuba.  I like those.” 

“Well, sir, you’re going to want to see this.”  Harris dropped the disc in the player, turned the set to face the governor, and stood back.  “Just watch,” he said.  “Please.”

The screen showed a slight, disheveled man, dressed in what looked like hospital scrubs.  He sat alone in an empty, institutional room, and muttered to himself as he stared at the floor, rocking back and forth, as if he were in some kind of trance.  “No, no, no, no, no, no...” he droned.

“What the hell is this?” asked Whitford.

“Just keep watching.” 

Clyde Parker watched Harris in very much the same way that a Doberman Pinscher might watch its owner’s pet bunny.

On the screen the man’s droning rant grew louder.  “No, no, no, no, no, no...”  Suddenly he stood up, grabbing the sides of his head, moaning and turning in circles with increasing violence.  “No! No! No! No! No! ...” 

“Harris?”

“Just ... please ... wait, sir.”

Clyde Parker and the former VP glanced at each other. 

The man on the screen grabbed the chair and flung it toward the camera.  The picture flashed and flickered and pointed at the ceiling while the man’s moaning rant turned to violent, irregular screams.  “No! No!! Nooo! No! Nooo! No!!”  There was a thudding sound – the sound of the man hitting something with his hands maybe? – and then another, and another, punctuating the man’s screams.  His screaming turned into incoherent howling.  And then it stopped. 

Whitford glanced at Harris and then at Parker and then back at the screen.  Parker leaned over, as if the edge of the television set were blocking his view and he thought he would be able to see what was really going on if he could only see around it.

“What the hell is this?” asked the Governor. 

Samuel Harris didn’t respond, but pressed a button on the remote, skipping ahead slightly to where someone finally repositioned the camera in the movie.  The man was gone.  The chair was gone.  There was a red stain splattered on the wall.

Whitford scowled.  This was interesting – whatever it was – but it wasn’t as good as an angel.  Cadmon had one – Parker had actually seen it – and Whitford wanted one too.  But looked more and more like he was going to have to settle for something else.  “What happened to the laser?” he asked.  “I thought you were bringing me some kind of laser.  A laser might actually be useful.”

“We couldn’t get that, sir,” said Harris.  “But this is better.”  He fumbled with the remote, pressing various buttons and kind of waving it at the television, as if that might imbue the infrared signals with a little more oomph.  He finally set the remote down and crouched in front of the machine to fumble with those buttons instead.  The image on the screen froze.  “The CIA had a program,” he said, standing back up.  “They called it Project Baphomet.”

“Sounds stupid,” croaked Whitford.

“Yes sir, it was a dumb-sounding name, and it was even a dumb idea – I’ll grant you that.  But what they did – that was not dumb.”  He looked at the Governor and Parker, beaming.

Parker and the Governor waited, but Harris kept smiling his smug grin.  So Parker took a swaggery step in his direction, and cranked up the Texan in his voice.  “You gonna explain what the hell you’re talking about?  Or you just gonna sit there all day with that shit-eatin’ grin on your face?” he asked.

Harris’ smile disappeared.  “It was mind control,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his suddenly sweaty nose.  “The program was set up to figure out a way to get people to do what they didn’t want to do.”  He started to roll up his sleeves, but then stopped.  He wiped sweat from his forehead.

“What does mind control have to do with ... that?”  Whitford pointed a pale, undead finger at the image of a blood stain frozen on the screen.

Harris stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back.  “Well, we don’t know a lot of details.  Frankly, all we really know for sure is that the project existed, and that it had to do with mind control.” 

“You’re right.  That’s not a lot of details.”

“Well, what you saw in that video – nobody touched that man.”

“So you’re saying they controlled his mind?  Made him hurt himself?”  The governor leaned forward, the glazed-over eyes suddenly piercing.

“Supposedly.”  Harris suppressed a smirk.

Whitford ruminated.  “What happened to the program?”

“They shut it down in the 1980’s, but there are still people alive who participated, people who know about it.  And there are files that ... could be had.” 

“This is the best thing you could find?  Better than the laser?”

“Yes, sir.  Better.”

Whitford looked at Parker, and Parker shrugged.

“What about your source?” asked the Governor.

“Reliable,” said Harris.

“And you think this is worthwhile?”

“It’s the best thing we’ve got.”

Whitford stared at the screen and then looked back over to Parker again.  Parker looked his boss in the eye.  They’d worked together a lot of years.  Nobody knew Dick Whitford better than Clyde Parker, not even Jane Whitford, that inhuman (though very smiley), debutante bitch.  He trusted the man, confided in him.  And Parker knew where all of Whitford’s skeletons were hidden.  In fact, he knew their names, and always made sure to ask after their wives or kids.

Whitford stuck out his lower lip, like he always did when he made big decisions.  “Okay,” he said.  “Get it.”

That was all Clyde Parker needed to hear.

Chapter 9.                 Liam Has Chick Issues

“Lola?  Dude, that name is hot,” said Raju.  “H-O-T, hot!”

Festus joined in the fun.  “Lowwww-lahhhhh,” he said, rolling the sound around in his mouth.

Liam grimaced.  He’d just made the mistake of revealing the name of his latest blind date to the two idiots.  It was bad enough that he’d agreed to spend an evening trying not to look bored, but being harangued by a would-be spiritual guru and a guy who looked like Jesus in a People’s Liberation Army hat was too much.

“You,” he jabbed a finger at Raju, “shut up.  And Festus?”

Festus looked at Liam expectantly.

“You’re not allowed to give me any shit about women.”

“But—”

“No,” said Liam.  “You’re not in any position to say a thing.”

It was true.  Women avoided Festus in much the same way that people in an emergency room waiting area tend to choose seats far away the guy coughing blood into a handkerchief.

Raju snickered.  “He’s got all these dates, but he doesn’t care.  You,” he pointed to Festus, “you got noooo dates.”  He kind of sang the word “no.”

“I have an excuse,” said Festus.  “I was in seminary school.”

Liam cast a skeptical look in Festus’ direction.  “How long ago was it that you dropped out?”

“Yeah man, you got like a force field around you or something,” said Raju.  “Or you been sprayed with chick repellant.”

“Shut up.”

“Raju, I’m off.”  Liam leaned over to look at his reflection in the glass countertop and ran a hand through his hair.  He tried to care.

“Dude,” said Raju, “you gotta put more effort into looking good than that.”

Liam glanced up at Raju, a look of disgust on his face.  “Bite me.”  He grabbed his bag and headed for the door.  “Make sure you lock up.  And no toking the Buddha while I’m gone.”

People – other than Festus, of course – were always trying to set him up with women.  And every couple of months or so, Liam relented.  But it never amounted to anything.  There was nothing wrong with the women.  They were always nice, smart, attractive – whatever.  He just never felt anything.  Not even a blip.  In fact, he wasn’t even sure it was possible for him – not any more, at least.  It was as if he were immune. 

Liam’s women problems had started back in college, with Anna. 

Anna was tall and willowy, with long, white-blonde hair that always made her look like she’d just come off the set of a shampoo commercial.  She had a way of making Liam’s serious thoughts seem pointless and boring, and was always coming up with brilliant suggestions like, “You should become an Inuit studies major!” or, “We should kidnap Daniel Day Lewis and demand jobs as caretakers for his shoes!”  And when she said these things, they seemed so logical; so right.  He often found himself wondering, Why didn’t I think of that?

Liam’s inability to recognize Anna’s insanity was, of course, the result of a chemical imbalance in his cerebral cortex.  Whenever he saw Anna, the deep, lizardy bits of his brain released wave after wave of peptide neurotransmitters and endorphins that supplanted and screwed with the acetylcholine that usually kept the synapses in his parietal lobe on the straight and narrow.  In other words, Liam was in love.

“You should skip your biochem final so you can help us,” said Anna one day.  “The circus is in town and we’re going to go protest!”

“Hmm,” he said.  “Skipping a final seems like kind of a bad idea.  And anyway, I’m not sure I want to go protest the inhumane treatment of animals with someone who’s going to be wearing a fur coat.”  He gestured toward the bed, where she’d set down her politically incorrect, but very hip jacket.

“Animals?” said Anna.  “Who cares about a bunch of stinky animals?”  She put her hand on her hip.  “I mean, an elephant in the circus probably gets better food and is less likely to get shot by a hunter, right?  So … screw the animals.” 

Yeah, screw the animals, he thought, wondering how Anna was always so convincing.  Maybe it was her intoxicating smile, or her long, well-toned legs.  Or it might have been her sundress, which seemed just a little too short.  He wasn’t sure.

He noticed that Anna was still talking, and blinked his eyes as he tried to focus on whatever it was she was saying.

“We’re going to protest the humiliating and demeaning exploitation of those poor, overworked and under-respected souls.”

“Who?” he asked.  “What are we talking about?”

“The clowns, Liam.  They’re exploited, and we’re going to protest.”

“The clowns?”  He scrunched up his face, mystified, as he attempted to grapple with the absurdity of what Anna had just told him.  He opened and closed his mouth like a fish as he tried and failed repeatedly to find a toe hold from which to build a logical response.  But there was nothing.  You just can’t argue logic with someone who is completely unhinged.  Batshit is immune to logic.

“Come on!”  Anna shut his book and lifted his chin so that their eyes met.  “This is important,” she said.

She stood up tall and smiled a mischievous, radiant smile that washed over him like the first, warm buzz of what was going to be a long night of drinking.  Then the girl who’d spent years in ballet class gracefully lifted her toe into the air, swung it over, and placed it on the other side of his legs so that she was standing over him.  She clasped her hands behind his neck and sat down.  Slowly.  The tiny blue flowers on her sun dress inched up her thighs as she settled onto his lap.  She leaned forward, letting the front of her dress gape as she nibbled his ear. 

“Please,” she said.

Liam experienced a complete cognitive breakdown.  The outer, thinking portions of his brain ceased to function, and those same lizardy bits at the base took over.  They told him to forget studying, get it on with Anna, and go protest the hell out of whatever it was she wanted to protest.

At this point, the narrative will turn its focus elsewhere in the interest of providing Liam and Anna with a bit of privacy.  Should the reader feel disappointment at the lack of description of turgidity, chiseled bits of anatomy, or things that are pulsing or quivering, well, this just isn’t that kind of story.  Sorry.

Even with Anna’s constant stream of fantastical schemes, Liam managed to put together an impressive record in college.  In his third year he applied for and won a Rhodes Scholarship, which he planned to use to study in London.  This, of course, seemed too pragmatic to Anna and was a bit of a source of tension between them.

After three years of struggling to bridge the gulf between his relatively regimented, practical world and Anna’s patchouli-scented, boat-on-a-river-and-looking-glass-eyes lifestyle, Anna announced that she was leaving for a semester in Spain.  She told him that it would give them both time to figure things out.

“I’m leaving for a semester abroad in Spain,” she said.  “That’ll give us both some time to figure things out.”

Over the next couple months, the combination of college-student budget and high long-distance rates, coupled with busy schedules and a seven-hour time difference, meant that he and Anna didn’t talk much.  Liam received the occasional post card from Anna, telling him that she was off with a band of gypsies, or had joined a mime troupe.  In her most recent missive, she’d announced her intention to join a group of neo-revolutionaries led by a charismatic fellow named Alejandro.  She’d signed off with a simple “¡VIVA!”

So Liam hunkered down and came to some decisions in those few months alone.  He decided that although he didn’t particularly care for Inuits, Daniel Day Lewis, or the plight of circus clowns, Anna was probably his soul mate.  He determined that he was going to spend the rest of his life with her, even if it meant he had to live in a yurt.  So he called up the Rhodes Scholarship people, thanked them kindly, and declined their generous offer.  Then he finished up his now seemingly pointless exams and rushed to the airport to pickup Anna.

As he waited outside of customs in the international terminal at Logan airport, he thought about how much nicer the terminal was than the domestic terminals, how much bigger the crowds were, and how awesome this was going to be.  Then he saw Anna stride through the walkway with her easy, carefree grace – she was beautiful.  She seemed to glide up to him. 

“Welcome back!” he said.

“Oh, hey!  Hi!”  Anna seemed surprised to find him waiting there for her.  They hugged, but their embrace was awkward.

“I got these for you,” he said, handing her some flowers he’d picked up on the way to the airport.  He’d never bought her flowers before, and she regarded them with a wary eye, as if there might be zombie rodents hiding between the snapdragons and baby’s breath.

“Thanks,” she said, tucking them into the gaping maw of her fashionable handbag.  After a pause and more awkwardness, she said, “I’ve got big news!”  She held up her hand, displaying a gaudy engagement ring.

“Whoa, a ring!  Holy crap, would you look at that!”

“That’s my news!  I got engaged!”  She clapped a tiny, hyperactive golf clap.

There are very few moments in life where you actually feel like the world is spinning; when the floor seems to forget for a second that it’s supposed to stay down on the bottom and starts dancing around all crazy.  This, for Liam, was one of those moments.  His face felt hot, and it seemed like somebody cranked up the volume of all the conversations and background noise in the terminal.  The carpet pitched and swayed, apparently getting down to some old Motown track.

“Damned floor,” he muttered, lunging for a nearby railing.

“What?” she said.

He looked at the crazy, crazy blonde woman in front of him.  The psychotic bitch.  Where she was once tall and willowy, she now seemed all knees and elbows; almost exo-skeletal even.  She reminded him of a gigantic, stupid, evil praying mantis.  For an instant he imagined her chomping the head of her future husband.  Wasn’t that what praying mantises did?  Have sex and then eat their mates?  He shook his head to erase the image of her post-coital cranial snacking.  There had to be some mistake.  Maybe he’d heard wrong.

“Did you say that you...?”  He trailed off, his attention drawn back to the misbehaving floor and the fact that his breakfast seemed to want to come back up for a visit.

“I got engaged!” she said, as if it were the best news ever.

“Yeah, I guess I heard you right.”  He stared at the floor, and when he couldn’t find any answers there, turned his gaze up at Anna.  “What in the hell...?” 

Anna made a pouty face.  “Are you okay?”

He turned, put his hands behind his head.  “I can’t—”  He leaned over, moving his hands to his knees.

“Liam?  Are you okay?”

Liam stood, pulling the ring he’d brought with him out of his pocket.  “Stupid, stupid.”  He put it right back in.  “Stupid!”  He’d thrown away everything he’d achieved for this?

“Liam?” she said.  “You’re starting to scare—”

The floor started dancing again, only this time it wasn’t just Liam.  The floor was actually dancing – something between a strident Paso Doble and a methamphetamine-fueled Quickstep.  A nearby sign toppled to the ground, and a few panicked screams punctuated the general murmur of alarm that rose up.  There was a loud pop, and the overhead sprinklers came on.  Anna let out a yelp as she toppled over backward onto the floor.

Liam clenched his fists and fumed as he stared at nothing in particular.  All around him, people shuffled and staggered.  A few cried.  The floor continued its dance.  He took a deep breath, rolled his neck, and looked up, calm again.  The shaking subsided a couple of seconds later.

Anna sat on the floor, legs splayed, hair tousled and sticking out to one side as if she were recovering from an amorous encounter.  “What just happened?  Was it a terrorist attack?”  She glanced around, searching for terrorists in much the same way that non-mechanically-inclined folks open the hood of a broken-down car hoping to find a wire or hose that has come unplugged.

“I—” said Liam, suddenly aware of the destruction all around him.  “I gotta go.”  He left the airport, unsure of what had just happened, but with enough wits about him to know that he should walk slowly and not do anything to garner undue attention. 

A week later, Liam was clearing out his dorm room, still wondering what the heck had happened, and afraid to go anywhere for fear it might happen again.  A man knocked on the frame of his open door. 

“Liam?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Cas Boehner.  I’m with the CIA, Special Activities Division.  Mind if I come in for a minute?”

They had a nice talk.  And then Liam spent the next ten years in far-off, exotic locations – the kinds of places where you have to dump sand out of your shoes every night and have a thick enough skin not to mind being called things like, “American devil” or “Capitalist Pigdog.”  And in all that time, he’d had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to bother with relationships.  In fact, his companions christened him, “The Monk.” 

It wasn’t until he returned to the States, to friends and neighbors who constantly pressured him to find a woman, that he’d even considered the possibility.  And still, with every woman he met on all the blind dates he’d been on, he’d felt absolutely nothing.

Liam was supposed to meet Lola for drinks at a restaurant just off Lake Austin Boulevard.  He’d been told to look for the blonde who looked not entirely unlike the movie actress Scarlett Johannson.  Unlike 99.999% of the male population, he’d actually had to consult the Internet to figure out what Ms. Johannson looked like. 

There was a jazz trio playing on the restaurant’s porch when he arrived.  An under-nourished trumpeter was doing his best Miles Davis impression on “‘Round Midnight.”  The sunlight was fading, and the deck was lit by colored lanterns strung up in the trees and a couple of torches.  There was an easy breeze blowing here and there, carrying the scents of the burning torches and spicy Mexican food. 

Liam threaded his way through the worn wooden benches scattered about the ambling deck, scanning the faces of the few folks sitting outside.  He was just about to go inside when he spotted her – off to the side, a woman with lazy blonde curls, reclined on a bench, propped casually back on her elbows, her back against the table top as she watched the musicians.  She wore old blue jeans and a loose, red sweater with the sleeves pushed up.

He stopped.  “Well, God damn.”  His stomach felt as if it had suddenly been granted a vacation from gravity, and it took him a second to realize that he’d stopped mid-step and was staring at her.  He willed himself to move forward.

“Lola?”  He felt his throat tighten as he said the name, as if he needed to cough or choke or – he wasn’t sure what. 

She tilted her head, looking at Liam out of the corner of her eye.  Her lips were pursed and there was just a hint of a wry smile in her eyes.  “Yeah?” 

“I’m ... Liam,” he managed to choke out.  His eyes watered.

She leaned forward, offering her hand and an easy smile.  “Lola Ford,” she said.

He shook her hand, wondering what the heck was going on; why he was feeling so out of sorts.  Sure, blind dates were supposed to be uncomfortable, but this wasn’t his first.  And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen his fair share of stressful situations before.  Like the time he’d walked in to find a terrorist under a dog pile of prostitutes dressed in cheerleader uniforms – all of whom had turned out to be decidedly un-cheery when he’d had to shoot the guy.  But the combination of the lights, the breeze, her full lips – it was all enough to make a shy, bald Buddhist reflect and maybe rethink his life.  Liam’s head spun, and he suddenly felt like he’d dressed too warmly.

“You want to get a drink?” he said, trying to pull himself together.

She looked up at him, her pale blue eyes bright with intelligence.  Her whole demeanor was cool and languid as she held up a bottle.  “I’ll wait for you here.” 

He found himself standing and staring again, unsure of what to do next.  “Um, okay.  I’ll be right back.”  He trotted off toward the bar, feeling – he didn’t know quite what he was feeling.  Renewed, or something. 

A few minutes later he returned with his own beer and a fresh one for her.  “Did you see this crap with Governor Whitford?” he asked.  It was a terrible opener, but he’d just blurted it out.  He scowled, angry at himself for being such a clod, and then for caring that he was being a clod. 

Lola stared up at him for a second, a slight, ironic smile on her lips.  “Yeah,” she said, nodding slowly.  “I saw that.”

“Pisses me off,” he said. 

Lola’s eyes narrowed.  “Wh—?”  She stared at him some more, her eyes shifting from sparkly to intense.  “Why?” she asked.  “What’s it to you?”

“Oh,” he said, sensing the shift in her attitude.  He smiled and shrugged.  “No reason.  Just making conversation.”  He looked away, feigning a sudden interest in a nearby bench.

Lola continued to stare.  “Did someone put you up to this?”

“What?”  He turned back from the riveting wooden seat.  “Well... yeah.  It’s a blind date.  I mean, you must know Mrs. Lynd is …”  He shrugged.

She sat forward.  “That’s not what I meant.” 

“Then, I’m not sure what you’re—” he said, but then he stopped.  She seemed pissed now.  “No, no one put me up to anything.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said, and stood up.

“What?  Where are you going?  Wait a second!”

But she didn’t wait, and the first woman Liam had found even remotely attractive in ten years was gone.

Chapter 10.           Death Star and Swanky Hotel with Goldfish, Go!

A shitload of cars was crammed into the street in front of an expensive hotel.  Politicians and celebrities milled about, casting surreptitious glances at one another to gauge who looked the most important or fabulous, and headed toward the hotel’s dramatic entryway.  Cameras flashed and sparkly dresses sparkled amid sounds of fake laughter and self-congratulatory bullshit, while a small army of young men in cheap-looking red jackets scrambled here and there, trying to clear out the vehicular congestion.  It was just another, ordinary fundraiser in Washington, DC.

And then a Lamborghini screeched to a halt immediately in front of the hotel, having somehow weaved its way through the automotive throng.  An instant later, the door popped open and a distinguished-looking gentleman in a pinstriped suit climbed out.  He scowled at the glitterati, flung his keys at the head of one of the valet kids (who responded by bending over and clutching his face), and strode off into the building.

Immediately inside, the entryway opened up into an enormous ballroom.  A million tiny lights hung from the ceiling, sparkling and twinkling and shimmering like a starry nighttime sky.  The regular lighting had been turned off, replaced by moodier illumination that painted the walls with deep hues of purple and blue.  The fancy people gasped and giggled and pointed as they entered.  Satan did not.  His last trip to Earth had been before the Industrial Revolution, and he’d actually seen the night sky back before the air had been filled with burnt dinosaur juice and flooded with artificial light. 

He shoved past the tuxedoed and ball-gowned herd as it oohed and ahhed its way into the ballroom, unimpressed by the array of high-ranking politicians, celebrities, and Hollywood powerbrokers who had crammed themselves into the building.  He’d seen plenty of those in Hell, and when you’ve corrupted Eve, tempted Jesus, tortured countless Popes, and even turned your back on God (in person), who cares about a few Senators and a Supreme Court Justice or two?  He threaded his way through the crowd, scanning the faces and muttering to himself about the bovine nature of the slow-moving party goers.

He carved an erratic path through the crowd, and finally made his way toward a large, graceful staircase that curved up toward a landing – an excellent vantage point.  He hopped up on the lower steps, but then turned impatiently to have a look.  Somewhere, out there in the crowd, was his quarry:  George Lucas – the man behind Star Wars.

Satan thought of him as “The Creator,” feeling that it was a good title and far more apt for the man he sought than it was for that arrogant wanker who usually claimed it.  One had only to watch the movies to know, to understand, nay, to feel that this was a man who knew exactly how to communicate myth.  This was a man who understood.  And besides, Satan – whose own supernatural capabilities had imbued him with a certain open-mindedness and concomitant inability to distinguish between science fiction shows and, say, news broadcasts – thought the Creator might know how to get a hold of a Death Star.

Lucas was apparently a big fan of the Senator for whom this party had been thrown, and he was, if Satan understood correctly, scheduled to make an appearance.  The idea was to use his celebrity to help draw out other supporters.  Satan suspected that he was not among those whom the Senator had hoped to attract.  But whatever.

Satan scoured the room.  Where in the hell was he?  Patience, he told himself.  He took a deep breath and scanned the room again, more slowly this time, searching for The Creator’s unmatched pilatory bouffancy.  There!  There he was.  The silvery helmet of hair, so perfectly coiffed.  The beard.  It was definitely him.  Satan stepped down off the steps, adjusting his cuff links as he strode triumphantly toward the Hollywood icon, shoving aside a couple of old ladies as he went.

A very large, very serious looking man next to Mr. Lucas turned and, noticing Satan’s speed and trajectory, immediately positioned himself between the two of them.  The Devil considered his options, wondering how best to incinerate the man without causing a major scene, and didn’t notice when another, smaller man stepped into his path.  Unfortunately, the smaller man was much closer – too close for Satan to be able to react before they collided. 

“You fool!” Satan hissed.  “How dare you!”  He brushed frantically to get rid of the cooties and imaginary dirt on his pin-striped suit.  With a little growl of frustration, he grabbed the man by the lapels and lifted him up off the floor.  “Are you incapable of watching where you’re going?”

The party got very quiet.  None of the Hollywood types were strangers to tough negotiations or other dramatic tomfoolery, but even they were excited by the sight of a thin, distinguished-looking gentleman in an expensive suit ranting at another man while holding him suspended three inches off the ground.  The political crowd was less enthusiastic.

In any room full of politicians there will be a certain (i.e., large) number of individuals who secretly spend their free time collecting child pornography, visiting airport restrooms in Minnesota for anonymous gay sex, or even just, you know, murdering people.  Those same politicians however, generally do not like to mingle with the hoi polloi, especially when the unwashed masses do something like – gasp! – raise their voices in public.  Satan’s noisy interruption was awful.  Just perfectly awful.  The elderly wife of some ambassador or other nearly fainted.

Agent Bob Robertson did not faint.  Instead, he stared right into the eyes of the man holding him in the air.  “You are under arrest, and you should put me down,” he said.  “Right now.” 

Satan finally noticed that all of the politicians and Hollywood hacks had gone into silent mode.  He felt their eyes on him and looked around, realizing that becoming unhinged right here, in the middle of the party, probably wasn’t going to help his chances of meeting The Creator.  He set the man down and patted his lapel.  “Nice to see you!” he said, as he tried to step around the impertinent little speed bump.

Robertson took a step back and pulled out a pistol, holding it low and close to his body.  “I’m Agent Bob Robertson, FBI,” he said.  “And you are under arrest for the bombing of the Washington Gas Company.  And a movie theater.  And a hotdog stand.  And for setting a man on fire.” 

“What are you talking about?” asked Satan.

“The parking attendant,” said Robertson.  He glanced to one side, then to the other, nodding to each.  Then he looked back to Satan.  “Lie down on the ground.  Now.”  Men in black suits began to converge, threading their way through the crowd toward Satan and Robertson. 

Satan exhaled.  He wasn’t going to get a Death Star, and that was pretty damned disappointing.  It wasn’t as if he really needed one, of course.  He had no intention of blowing up the Earth.  The moon, maybe, but that wasn’t really the point.  It was really just the idea of the thing.  Now, however, he needed to focus.  There were several burly men in tacky windbreakers headed his way. 

He grabbed Robertson, spun, and started backing toward the exit, away from the men.  Old ladies and men in tuxedos yelped as he shoved his way backward.  The men in windbreakers suddenly produced hand guns, and the crowd went into a panic.

Satan gave Robertson’s ear a hard yank and then whispered in the man’s ear.  “You will tell your men to back off,” he said, “or I will tear your ear from your head.  And then I will incinerate everything and everyone in this room.  You’ve seen my handiwork, have you not?”

“Go fuck yourself, you freak,” said Robertson.

“Wrong answer,” said Satan.  He moved faster now as the crowd streamed out of the ballroom, but the men with guns were closing in.  One of Robertson’s agents screamed as he burst into flames.  Another shot up into the air, sailing across the room before smashing into a wall.  He made a chirping sound as he hit and the air rushed out of his lungs.  His limp body slid partway down the wall, and then flopped forward onto the ground. 

Robertson’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wide as he watched yet another of his agents go flying across the room.  Satan yanked his ear, hard enough that the man let out a yelp of pain. 

“Shall I ask again?” asked Satan, still scrambling backward through the crowd, dragging his hostage.  Robertson lost his footing and started to slide toward the floor  The Devil adjusted his grip and pulled him back up.  They were almost to the front entryway, but the crowd had dispersed, doing a lot of unnecessary screaming and arm-waving on the way out.

Satan couldn’t believe it had to come to this.  One second he was going to spend some quality time with The Creator.  And now?  Now he was having to deal with this FBI tosser.  And a bunch of other tossers.  Damn it! he thought.  Why did everything always seem to find a way to go wrong?  The humans, he had learned, had a name for it: Murphy’s Law.  But he knew better.  This wasn’t the work of some guy named Murphy.  No, it was God, the devious twat.  Had to be.  God and his sick, twisted sense of humor.  The bastard.

The room was almost empty now, and he could see clearly that there were five agents heading toward him with their guns drawn.  How was he going to do this?  How was he going to get away?  He was starting to worry that he might have to change; to shed his human body.  Part of him wanted to do it, to change into his full angelic form right here.  He’d tear them all new ones, the bastards.  But then, that would be like putting up a neon sign to attract his minions, who were surely wondering where the hell he was by now.  He’d have to rely on just his wits and the fiery parlor tricks that seemed to get these humans so excited. 

That was something he just didn’t understand.  Why did they care so much?  It was a mystery.  What was clear was that these wankers – like this soon-to-be-dead-and-writhing-in-eternal-agony Agent Robertson – were intent on giving him crap for every stupid parking attendant he set on fire.  Well, we’ll see about that, he thought as he set two of the agents on fire. 

Another agent burst into flames as Satan continued his scramble backwards.  He picked up Robertson and threw him at the two remaining agents and then ran for the door, setting everything he saw – the walls, the rugs, the stairs, an annoying, squawking parrot, and a stupid looking fountain full of water (just because he could) – on fire as he left.

His car was parked right out in the front, but some stupid bastards had parked their giant black SUVs all over the place, trapping him in.  He set them on fire, not because it accomplished anything, but because they deserved it.  The fuckers.  He hurried down the drive, shoving tuxedoed and be-jeweled party goers out of the way as he scrambled up the block to hail a cab.

“Fifteenth and Massachusetts, please,” said Satan, tossing a couple of bills of larger denominations at the driver.  “Drive quickly, or I’ll set your pants on fire.”

What a mess, he thought as he slumped into the back seat.  No car.  Way too much fire.  No, scratch that.  The fire was okay.  It was just that the ratio of fire to famous Hollywood producers had been all wrong. 

He needed to get a grip.  Things were starting to get out of hand.

He sat up as he realized: They know who I am.  Well, they didn’t really know who he was.  He flopped back in the seat.  At least, he didn’t think they did.  But they had known where he was going to be tonight.  He sat forward again.  How the hell had they done that?  What else did they know?  Did they know where he lived?  If they hadn’t known already, he’d left his car behind and—  They had known!  They’d known it was his car – they’d known enough to surround it with their giant, shitheaded SUVs. 

The cab driver glanced in his mirror at the weirdo who was making angry faces and gesturing like he was having a conversation with himself.

Satan didn’t notice.  He was staring wide-eyed kind of off and to the left.  He glanced up at the driver.

“You are being very good, sir?” asked the driver.

“Faster!  Go!”  He smacked the Plexiglas separator.  The driver jumped in his seat.

The Devil forgot about his troubles for a minute as he tried to figure out how the cab driver had managed to jump using only his bottom.  There were still so many things about his human body that he needed to explore.  He flexed his glutes, but nothing happened.  He flexed again, with more enthusiasm this time, but then forgot about trying to jump with his butt because he had to brace himself as the car skidded through a turn.  The tires, carrying the heavy weight of the cab, sounded an extended “urrrrr-r-r-r-p” in protest.

Why couldn’t they leave him alone?  He fumed.  He’d had enough of these pestering, pain-in-the-arse humans with their rules and regulations and their law enforcement.  He needed to get these buggerers off his back. 

Going home wouldn’t help that.  In fact, home was probably the last place he should go.

“Change of plans,” he said.  “What’s the swankiest hotel in town?”

The cab driver, whose name was Faruq, had only learned English after he’d immigrated to the United States.  In fact, “learned” was putting it too strongly, and the superlative form of the word “swanky” was entirely lost on him.  But he knew that he had a fare who had come from a building that was on fire, who had tossed a lot of money at him, and who was now asking him for something that was probably illegal or, at least, very strange.  He had heard of one hotel where they would provide you with a pet goldfish for the evening that you could keep in your room.  That seemed weird, and it was either that or one of the seedier hotels with all the hookers.  He pointed his finger skyward and announced, “Hotel Monaco!” 

“Excellent.  Take me there immediately.”

And so, off they went. 

Satan sat back again and started to think about what he was going to do now.  He had to get rid of this stupid human, this nuisance, this FBI agent.  And he’d have to be proactive about it.

If the FBI was so interested in him, he’d just have to pay them a visit. 

Chapter 11.           The Devil Went Down to Pennsylvania Avenue

The next morning was bright and sunny.  Clyde Parker moseyed down Pennsylvania Avenue, a cowboy Terminator made out of barbed wire, bullets, and the more dangerous parts of a rattle snake.  He’d left his Stetson back at the hotel so as not to stand out too much.  It wasn’t a particularly effective disguise though, given his too-tight cowboy jeans, expensive, ostrich-skin boots, and the steely-eyed look that he wielded at the suited professionals and fanny-pack tourists with whom he shared the sidewalk. 

Parker hated D.C.  Considered it to be a Godless pit for Liberals, queers, and communists.  He’d survived eight years here, working for the VP, and all he wanted to do was to get whatever the hell this damned Project Baphomet thing was and get back to Texas – God’s Country.

It should have been a straightforward job.  After all, bribing and threatening folks to get a hold of some classified files wasn’t exactly rocket science.  At least, not usually.  But this time things weren’t working out; weren’t falling into place.  Every source, every contact, every lead – they’d all been dead ends.  He was beginning to wonder whether Baphomet was real.  He’d been here for over a week and had jack shit to show for it.  That wasn’t how things usually went for Clyde Parker, and he found it irksome.  In fact, it irked the hell out of him. 

He stopped on the northwest corner of Pennsylvania and 10th, surveying the scene like an old-West gunslinger preparing for a showdown – you never knew when you might have to take down some uppity K-Street lawyer.  Ahead of him loomed the malaise-era architectural nightmare that is the J. Edgar Hoover building – the national headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Parker sneered at the building and the bureaucrats it housed, but then didn’t give either any further thought.  He was a serious Texan who devoted his mental energy to serious thoughts like: Where the hell was the goddamned kid he was supposed to meet?  He pulled out the tourist guide he’d grabbed on the way out of the hotel, and tried to look inconspicuous. 

He was roused from his nonchalant map reading just a couple of seconds later by what sounded like a T-rex and a jet fighter having a heated argument with some uncooperative and screechy automobile tires.  He looked up and saw an orange Lamborghini skid sideways across the intersection, its tires squealing and smoking.  It slid to a stop just short of the massive planters installed to prevent terrorists from driving truckloads of bombs into the building.  The driver door popped open and a tall man in a well-fitted pinstriped suit emerged.  His dark hair was swept back from his thin, handsome face, and he stood with the perfect posture and debonair aspect of a classically-trained actor.  He glanced around for a brief moment, surveying the scene, and then glared up at the FBI building.

A kid in a baseball cap ran up to the driver.  “Whoa!  Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay, you halfwit!”  Satan smacked the kid on the top of the head and stalked off to find Agent Robertson.

Two security guards ran up from a guard stand on the side of the building with their guns drawn.  Satan did not break stride, and instead merely waved a dismissive hand in their direction.  The two men shot off into the air as if fired from a cannon.  Another guard peeked his head out from the stand, thought about it, and then ran off in the other direction.  It was too late though.  His head caught on fire as he ran.  The Prince of Darkness strode to the main entrance, opened the door, and walked inside the FBI headquarters.

Clyde Parker had done and seen some crazy stuff, what with working for the VP and all, but he couldn’t recall ever having seen someone kick ass with what pretty much looked like magic.  He stood there for a moment, regarding the scene through squinty, skeptical cowboy eyes, until a largish family waddled by, screaming in terror, waking him from his reverie. 

“Shit!” he said, shaking his head.  “To Hell with Baphomet.” 

He had to figure out who this guy was.  But how?  He looked around, as if he expected to find some handy, Who-the-Hell-Was-That? tool lying around, and then paused, wondering whether there was even any point.  Wasn’t it suicide, marching into the damned FBI building like that?  With no gun?  Just … well, he didn’t know what it was.  Parker sure as hell wasn’t going to march in after him.

So what then?  Wait until the guy came out?  If he came out?  Well, he was sure to come out.  It just might be in a body bag, was all.  Then again, after what he’d just seen the man in the pinstriped suit do, a body bag didn’t seem all that likely.  No, that man was going to come out, climb back into that sports car, and skedaddle.  And that meant Parker was going to need to find some kind of transportation.  Fast.  He should probably also call the Governor.

He struggled for a minute, trying to extract his cell phone from the pocket of his extra-tight cowboy jeans.  After some straining and a bit of hopping on one leg, he got it out, opened it and dialed a number.

“This is Parker.  Get me the VP – the governor,” he said, as he stalked off to find a cab.

Satan strode through the lobby of the FBI building, setting fires here and there, and paused for information at the security desk. 

The attendant wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and a shiny badge.  He looked at Satan and trembled very slightly. 

“Um, yes, hello,” said Satan, glancing around casually.  “Can you help me find Agent Bob Robertson?”  He smiled as if it were perfectly normal for visitors to the Hoover building to set half the building on fire.

The man pulled his trembling hand back toward the revolver holstered on his belt.  He unbuttoned the holster, fumbling with the snap.

Satan finally turned his attention to the man, raising his eyebrows as he noticed the gun.  “Oh dear,” he said.  “I’d be very careful with that.”  The security guard froze.  Satan smiled, and watched the man’s hand move back from the holster to a nice, comfortable spot on the counter.

“Elevators’re over there,” he said, nodding.  “Sixth floor.”

“Thank you.”  Satan turned and strolled toward the elevator bank. 

The elevator dinged, and a gruff voice called out as Satan stepped onto the elevator.  “You there!  Stop!”  Satan peeked out of the elevator and saw a group of heavily-armed men with helmets and bulky vests fan out, guns drawn.  He stepped back into the elevator and pressed the “6” just as the doors came together.

As he ascended, the tiniest hint of doubt crept into Satan’s mind.  There were an awful lot of agents running around, and no doubt more were on the way.  Some of the group that had tried to stop him as he’d got on the elevator had had rather large, unpleasant-looking weapons.  Having fought God tended to give one a lot of confidence when it came to charging into situations like this, but he was here as a human, and he wasn’t completely sure about how he was going to deal with hordes of heavily be-weaponed government agents.

It would be easier, of course, if he could just ditch the human body for a little while.  Sure, he could do lots of neat things with fire, and the body hadn’t slowed him down or turned him into a complete weakling.  But the damage he could do as a human was nothing compared to the destruction he could wreak in just a few seconds as the archangel Lucifer.

He really didn’t want to resort to that though, because he’d just end up attracting attention from a truckload of nosy and annoying minions.  He preferred to maintain his anonymity.  Indeed, that was the whole fucking point.  So he’d just have to stick it out for now, and find a way to make it work.  He’d done it before.  Sort of.

He giggled to himself, remembering Eve.  He’d only donned the snake suit as a way to sneak into Eden, fully expecting to change into his beautiful angelic form when the time came.  It’s hard as shit to think when your thoughts are being processed through a brain roughly the size of an almond, and he’d figured there was no way he was going to be able to convince her of anything as a snake.  But poor Eve was dumb as a post and naïve to boot, and he’d been able to get the job done notwithstanding the limitations imposed by the snake suit.

He’d made it work then, and he’d do it again now.  Had to.

The elevator dinged and Satan stepped out onto the twelfth floor into a semi-circle of twenty agents armed with automatic weapons, all of which were pointed directly into the elevator.  Agent Robertson stood behind the other agents, his hands on his hips.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Chapter 12.           Grandma Was Secretly a Velociraptor

It was sunny, breezy, and fairly cool as Festus P. Bongwater stood outside the enormous church doors of St. Crispin’s Catholic Church.  The monstrous old building looked like a holdover from back in the days before Texas had won its independence – when vaqueros, empresarios, and Spanish missions abounded. 

It sat on Guadalupe Street – “the Drag” – on the western border of the University of Texas, and its three-story, whitewashed walls were utterly devoid of windows or other decorative frivolity.  The plainness of the edifice stood in stark contrast to the graffiti-strewn record shops, whimsical toy stores, and hip clothing vendors frequented by students, and yet, for most people, the building somehow managed to blend into the background. 

Festus shot surreptitious glances up and down the sidewalk, checking for cops and other ne’er-do-wells.  His long hair, unkempt beard, and overcoat, however, actually worked to his benefit for once.  The other pedestrians gave him a wide berth and avoided making eye contact, just as they did with all the other weirdos on the drag who looked like they might ask for spare change or start ranting about hellfire. 

Festus had planned a dramatic entry, but found that the doors were much too heavy for him just to burst in.  The huge doors were as imposing as the rest of the façade, and appeared to have been hewn from some sturdy old tree or six.  The wood was studded at intervals with huge metal rivets that might have been stripped from an ironclad during the War of Northern Aggression.  He put all of his weight into it, and one of the doors creaked open.

The congregation was lined up in the center aisle, where the priest had just started handing out the communion wafers.  They appeared not to notice Festus’ entry.  He took a deep breath, and pulled an over-sized water gun from the folds of his coat. 

“Step aside, fiends!  I’m here for Jesus!”

The music stopped, and fifty horrified parishioners turned to face the intruder.

The water gun was a high-tech model, with dual-pump action and a two-liter reservoir.  He held it up above his head.  Shock and awe, he thought.  Shock and awe.  “Put.  The Jesus crackers.  Down,” he said.

Nobody moved.  The congregation was silent.  Festus scanned the crowd, surprised that they weren’t putting up any kind of fight at all.  The last time he’d done something like this he’d had to squirt a mean old lady.  But these parishioners just looked confused and hurt, with their knitted eyebrows and trembling lips.  It was disconcerting.

Festus faltered.  This was turning out to be much more difficult than he’d anticipated.  These people were supposed to be angry and irrational.  He didn’t want to steal Jesus crackers from sad little grandmas.

He didn’t notice, up at the altar, the slight smirk that crossed the priest’s face.  Or see the altar boy’s lip curl in disgust as he stole a glance toward Festus.  He definitely didn’t pick up on the priest nodding to a parishioner who was standing off to the side of the pews.

They didn’t show it, but the congregation was prepared for idiots like Festus.  They’d heard about that kid in Florida who had absconded with the host without swallowing, and a few of them had even seen the communion-cracker-desecration videos on the Internet.  And as close as they were to the University, they knew it was only a matter of time until one of the goddamned hippie kids showed up and pulled a stunt like this.  So they’d prayed, and then they’d planned, and then they’d drilled.  They’d drilled until each of the congregation elders knew his or her part cold.  And then they’d drilled some more.  They were ready.

Festus took a deep breath.  “I’m here to rescue Jesus, you dirty cannibals.”

The priest set the bowl of Jesus down, and stepped out from behind the altar, locking eyes with Festus.  “Son, I understand what you’re saying.” 

Festus responded by pointing the water gun at the man and moved toward the altar.  The priest held his hands out.  “At least do me the favor of hearing me out,” he said.

As Festus made his way up the aisle, an older man slipped behind him and quietly turned the lock on the doors at the rear of the church.  Two old ladies crept toward Festus from either side, keeping just outside his peripheral vision.  They walked on their tiptoes and bobbed their heads, holding their gnarled, old-lady fingers out in front of them, looking very much like velociraptors dressed in their Sunday best.

Festus took a deep breath, preparing to dive in.  He’d practiced his speech.  “In the Bible, Jesus—”

“Son—” the priest’s voice boomed.  Festus stopped, mouth agape.  People usually ignored him, though he never knew whether it was because they regarded him as a harmless weirdo, or because they thought he was crusty.  “This is serious business,” the priest said, “This isn’t just snack food we’re talking about here.”  He glanced at the predatory old ladies moving ever closer toward their prey.  He still had a little bit of time to kill.  “Tell me son,” he said.  “Have you ever heard of the Doctrine of Transubstantiation?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Festus, shaking his head.  “I’ve heard all that, and you know what?  It’s crap.  Total crap.  They made it up.  You know it, I know it, so please shut up, okay?”  Festus lifted the water gun back up from where he’d let it hang down and waved at the congregation.  The old priest took a step back, gathering up his vestments. 

Festus knew these people.  He’d spent years with them – among them.  Back then his name was Daniel – a good, Biblical name.  And while he’d never had much in the way of faith or been much of a fan of what he considered the “mystical” side of the church, he’d understood that there was far more to it than that.  He understood the role it played in people’s lives.  And like so many people, he’d felt that he was a ship without a keel or a rudder or whatever.  But maybe he shouldn’t have let it bother him so much.  He was, after all, never really in to sailing.  Or any sports or outdoor activity of any kind really.

After high school, when people he knew went off to the military or college or jail, he’d enrolled in the seminary program of a small Catholic university.  He’d spent the next six years studying theology, getting first a bachelor’s and then a master’s degree, always thinking that maybe he’d catch some spark of faith somewhere along the way.  But he never did.  In fact, the further he went, the more skeptical he became.  Then, one day the Pope denounced a nine-year-old rape victim for having an abortion and proclaimed that condoms actually increased the likelihood of the spread of HIV.  Daniel decided right then that he’d had enough; that he needed a change.  And so he’d left.

A year later, he was back.  With a beard, a new name, a water gun, and something that was almost, but not entirely unlike a plan. 

“Bring me Jesus,” he said, but before the priest spoke the old ladies pounced.  The water gun skidded across the floor and under a pew.  The retirement-age velociraptors slid their claws through Festus’ arms, and started dragging him back toward the doors.  At ninety pounds apiece, these grannies should have been no match for their quarry, but they had surprise on their side.  Nobody ever expects to be attacked by a grandma, let alone two of them.

“What the fuck?!”  Festus tried to wrench his arms free from the vice-like grip of the diminutive septuagenarian killing machine in a floral dress on his right, but it was no use.  Knitting apparently helped build incredible arm strength.  He consoled himself for a moment by telling himself it wasn’t right to fight old ladies, even batty old dinosaur grandmas with claws of steel.  There was also the fact that it really didn’t seem to matter whether he fought back.  And so he did what any red-blooded beta male would do in his situation.  He flailed wildly and screamed like a little girl.

A few of the men in the audience had actually been enjoying church for the first time in a long time.  After all, although the priest usually strung together a good homily, his sermons rarely involved intruders armed with water guns.  But nobody liked to see a grown man cry like a that.  One leaned over the back of the pew where he was sitting, and looking at Festus with disgust, called out, “Get a grip, man!”  Another man picked up the water gun and began shooting Festus.

Festus’ howls bumped up an octave.

“Stop screaming, damnit!”

The absurdity of the situation was beginning to take its toll on Festus.  Of course, being pinned down by psycho-killer attack grandmas while being shot in the face with a high-caliber water bazooka probably would have been rough even for a man like Gregor Samsa, let alone a powder puff like Festus.  The pressing issue, however, was not the grandmas or the water guns.  It was the fact that he’d come in to this church as the weirdo troublemaker.  And somehow he’d stumbled upon what might have been the most screwed up, psychotic congregation in Texas.  He saw no option other than to howl like a maniac.

One of the parishioners came up and tore the water gun out of the first man’s hands.  “Stop it!” he said.  “He’s never going to shut up if you keep spraying him in the face.”

Festus spluttered and caught his breath, and looked up just in time to see the priest stride up, tearing off his vestments as he walked, leaving only a severe, black cassock.  His face was dominated (and actually preceded) by a large, angular protrusion that he, presumably, regarded as a nose, but that looked more like a beak than anything else.  Between his freakish nose and his black, man dress – which flowed and billowed behind him – the priest looked like a giant crow. 

Two old men in leather pants and black T-shirts fell in beside him as he walked.  One of the old men had the word “Mother” tattooed on his arm.  The other had leather wristbands adorned with half-inch metal spikes.  Festus noticed that the parishioners were streaming out the side doors of the chapel.  In fact, most had already left. 

“You’ve got no idea who you’re messing with, boy,” said the priest.

“The Catholic Church?”

The priest’s Village-People cohorts laughed.  He held his hand up to silence them.

“Young man, what you’ve done here today is an awful, awful thing.  And you are going to pay for your sins.”  He turned to the priest.  “Bring me the host.”

It was at this point that Festus went into full-on batshit comic-book-character mode.  His eyes turned to slits, and he set his beard-covered jaw to give his best steely look.  “Do your worst,” he said.

Chapter 13.           Friggin’ FBI Agents Everywhere

Satan raised his hands slowly.  Fifteen FBI agents stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a semicircle facing the open elevator, pointing guns of various sizes and shapes at him.  Some of the weapons were very large and very unpleasant looking.  His FBI nemesis, agent Bob Robertson, stood in the dead center of the group. 

“Lie down on the floor,” said Robertson.  “Now.”

Satan stared at Robertson.  He lowered his hands and, leaning over, put them on his knees.  He slid one leg back, as if he were about to lie down, and scanned the eyes of the men with all the guns.  They were just men, he thought.  Just men.

The elevator lobby exploded with light.

A few seconds later, Robertson sat up and looked around.  His agents lay sprawled all over the floor.  Satan’s body sat in an awkward heap near the elevator door.  One of those “EXIT” signs with the red, illuminated letters dangled precariously from the ceiling and then fell, smashing to bits on the floor. 

Robertson turned to look up at the point on the ceiling from where the sign had fallen, but stopped as he spotted a very large, very well-lit man standing in front of the elevator.  The man had wings.  Really big wings, which seemed to stretch from one end of the lobby to the other.  He was the most beautiful thing Robertson had ever seen. 

Satan rolled his neck and sighed.  It was good to stretch his wings, even if it was only for a moment.  He felt light and unencumbered.  His mind raced, free of the thought-inhibiting sludge that slowed and muddied his thoughts as a human.  He opened his eyes and stared down at Robertson, who was still on the floor, looking a little shocked.

“What—?”

The Devil pressed a finger to his lips.  “Shhhh,” he said, and turned to lift his human body and place it just inside the open elevator.  The door chime bonged as the door tried to shut, thwarted by the body of one of the agents.  He turned back to Robertson with a kindly smile.  “Relax, my friend.”

A warm breeze began to blow there, in front of the elevators, and Robertson suddenly felt very calm and a little sleepy.  He closed his eyes, feeling the warm air on his face, and let his head drift back, as if he were settling into a bath. 

After just a moment, however, the breeze picked up, swirling and scattering papers and other garbage from the offices nearby.  The temperature began to rise.  The comfortable warmth on Robertson’s face faded, replaced by the sensation of having been out in the sun a little too long. 

The wind blew faster and began to make a faint, whistling sound that grew to an insistent howl.  The small trashcan in front of the elevator suddenly burst into flames.  One of the slumbering agents began to stir, apparently awakened as his clothes started to smolder.  Robertson reached for his gun but immediately dropped it, yelling out in pain as he clutched his now burnt hand to his chest. 

The walls began to smoke; the paint blistered and bubbled and, after a few seconds, fell in ashy chunks to the floor.  Flames burst out from the holes in the paint and spread across the walls.  An alarm sounded and sprinkler heads dropped from the ceiling, but the nozzles sprayed no water – only steam.

Satan stood over the scene with the beatific countenance of a priest at a wedding.  He glanced over at Robertson, who was standing now and looking down at his shoes, the soles of which had melted to the floor.  He glanced up from his liquefying footwear, meeting Satan’s eyes. 

“My home is here now,” said Satan.  He smiled again – a warm, comforting smile – and watched as Robertson’s flesh evaporated, leaving just a pile of bones and ash.

Satan stooped down to scoop up his own lifeless human body and stepped back into the elevator, pausing only to kick the smoldering remains of an agent out of the way.  He waited for a good thirty seconds as alarms sounded and the elevator doors failed to close.  Finally he peeked his head back out of the elevator, and strode off to find some stairs.

Outside, sitting in a cab on Pennsylvania Avenue, Clyde Parker waited.  The wad of twenties he’d handed to the cab driver had not, at first, been enough to persuade the man to stay put in the face of all of the fiery unpleasantness happening back at the Hoover Building.  The man had driven almost a block before Parker had managed to extract a small revolver from his boot.  Now Parker peered through the rear window of the car, watching as a handful of conspicuously non-descript cars roared up, surrounding the orange Lamborghini, and a phalanx of uniformed and plain-clothes men, all carrying firearms, formed a perimeter.  He watched as the men pointed and waved their hands and talked into walkie-talkies as more government cars arrived.  Finally, an extraordinarily tall man came out of the building’s main entrance.

“Would you look at that?” whispered Parker.  “Another goddamned angel!” 

That angel, who appeared to be carrying a sack of some sort, paused just outside the entryway with his enormous wings fanned out, and surveyed the scene. 

Parker saw one of the angel’s wings shudder and recoil an instant before he heard the loud popping noise that he recognized as the sound of a revolver.  He didn’t see what happened next because there was a blinding explosion of light, like a flashbulb on steroids.  He turned away involuntarily, shielding his face.

When he opened his eyes again, everyone had disappeared.  There had been, he estimated, at least twenty agents.  He scanned the scene, but they were all gone.  All of them.  And the cars were toppled all over the place like toys tossed by a giant toddler.  Except for the orange Lamborghini.  The angel was gone, too.

He watched as a man – he looked like the same man in the suit from before – climbed in to the brightly-hued automobile.  Seconds later, he heard the furious sound of the car’s engine howling and screaming its way back to life.  The car lurched, its rear end drifting slightly to the side as its tires smoked and screamed before finally catching and catapulting the vehicle forward.

“There!” he said.  He waved his gun at the rapidly-receding sports car.  “Turn the car around!”  He smacked the cab driver.  “Go!  Now!  Follow him!”  The cab driver turned the car, hitting the curb before tearing down Pennsylvania Avenue after the Lamborghini. 

Chapter 14.           Wanted: Antichrist

Bill Cadmon sat in his office in the bowels of the Driftwood Fellowship Church and worried.  It was an unpleasant sensation – one he usually dispensed with by assuring himself that God would simply work things out.  But that approach wasn’t available this time.  In fact, that was the problem.  God was relying on him to handle the situation.  Technically, it was Ezekiel – the weirdo dumbass angel – who had asked Cadmon to find an antichrist, but then he supposed that the angel was doing God’s work.

It was a strange deal.  Cadmon liked to talk about doing God’s work on Earth, but now he felt like he’d been asked to do God’s job.  It was like a parent calling up their college student and saying, “We need you to send us rent money this month.”  It made his brain hurt.

He leaned back in his over-priced ergonomic chair and sighed at his three-panel computer display.  Three screens is a lot when you need your secretary’s help just to turn the computer on, but Cadmon had the money, and he liked nice things. 

He let out a quiet groan, and then turned, calling out to his secretary over his shoulder.  “Janie!”

He’d hired Janie because she was a good Christian girl and because she knew exactly how to turn on his computer.  It had absolutely nothing to do with the numbers 36-26-36 or Janie’s habit of wearing short skirts.  The same was true of Laura, who handled the mail room.  And Stephanie, who did all his PR.  And Danielle, the girl who backed up Janie when the computer turning on got tough.  Cadmon couldn’t help it if the most talented candidates always seemed to look like supermodels.  The Lord works in mysterious ways. 

Janie came in, and Cadmon said a little prayer of thanks for nice bottoms, but then sat forward, all business.  “I need to cancel my massage.  And the tailor – just tell her to drop by tomorrow.  And call over to Dick Whitford’s office and see if I can get some time to meet with him today.”

Janie stuck out her lower lip and made puppy dog eyes over the cancellation, pouting on Cadmon’s behalf.  “Aw!  No massage?”

“Say it’s urgent.  It’s extremely important that I talk to him,” he said.  “Today.”  He’d been trying to get some time with the bastard for almost a week.

“Okay, boss,” she said.

Janie left, and Cadmon turned back to his screens.  Each showed footage of Dick Whitford, the governor of Texas, and, as of a few days ago, Louisiana.  There were images of Whitford mumbling into a microphone; Whitford shooting dirty looks at reporters; Whitford flailing his arms against a swarm of bugs and being ushered off the stage.  It was an unmitigated disaster.  Cadmon shook his head slowly as he clicked the mouse.

He’d known Whitford for years – ever since they were fraternity brothers at the University of Texas.  And Whitford had been a cold-hearted, ambitious jerk even then.  The years since – particularly the ones Whitford spent as the vice president – only served to prove that he was an indefatigable penis.  And even though he’d only been the Vice President, Whitford had appeared to run the administration as a kind of imperial puppet master, which suggested that the man had developed a megalomaniacal streak.  That had made him an ideal candidate for the role Cadmon had been looking to fill.  Or so Cadmon had thought.

They’d argued when Cadmon had first approached Whitford with the opportunity. 

“Louisiana already has a governor,” Whitford had said. 

“They’re going to need a replacement.”

“Well, that’s what they’ve got a lieutenant governor for,” Whitford said.  “Wait, is that what they call it?  They’re Cajun, you know.  Got goddamned weird words and laws and all kinds of strange shit.  What do they call their lieutenant governor?  What’s the French word for honcho?”

“They call him the ‘lieutenant governor,’” said Cadmon, wondering if Whitford had forgotten to take his meds.

“No, no.  It’s got to be French.  Wait, Lieutenant… that is French, isn’t it?”  He pressed a button on his phone.  “Withers, what’s the French word for governor?”

Without hesitating, Ms. Withers’ voice replied though the speaker.  “Gouverneur, sir.”

“Goo-ver-nuhr?”  He pronounced each syllable as if, well, as if he were a Texan trying to speak French.

“Yes, sir.  Gouverneur.”

Whitford had muttered to himself as he clicked off the intercom.  “Goddamn surrender monkeys, stealing our language before we even thought to use it.”  He looked up at Cadmon.  “The phrase is Lieutenant Goovernuhr.  Although they probably screwed up the word order and put the damned adjective last.  So it’s Goo-ver-nuhr Lieutenant.” 

“Look,” said Cadmon, “they’re—”

“So what about the Goo-ver-nuhr Lieutenant?”  He dropped the ‘t’ off of ‘Lieutenant,’ replacing it with a curled lip and zesty Continental head shake.  “He can just step right in.  Although he probably wouldn’t step, would he?  He’d probably do some kind of queer French sashay.”

Cadmon breathed deep, slow breaths, calming himself.  “No,” he said finally.  “The Lieutenant Governor is going to be dead.”

At first, Whitford seemed not to notice that Cadmon had spoken.  “And even if he weren’t available, the next person in line is – wait a minute.  What did you say?”  Whitford leaned forward in his chair, his narrowed eyes boring into Cadmon.

“They’re all going to die,” said Cadmon.  “Everyone in line.  All dead.”

Whitford sat back in his chair, regarding Cadmon for a moment.  He tilted his head, giving Cadmon a sideways glance, his eyes suddenly piercing.  “Son,” he said, “what in the hell are you talking about?” 

Cadmon told him about the storm, and how it would destroy the State of Louisiana, putting the country’s oil reserves, refining, and pipelines at risk.  Said he’d had a vision and prayed and that he was confident enough that he’d stake his fortune.  In the end though, he’d had to sell the idea to Whitford as a money-making scheme.  That should have set off alarm bells, of course, but Cadmon figured that, once Whitford got a taste of the power, he would be amenable to the more ambitious aspects of the plan.  In fact, he’d really hoped that Whitford, in a fit of unbridled ambition, would just take the ball and run with it.  So he’d talked about the enormous amounts of money that were at stake.  Whitford’s eyes had grown bright, the man practically salivating as he contemplated the staggering sums of money he could make for himself and his oil-company friends.

The other major hurdle, of course, had been getting the Governor to buy into the idea that Cadmon could predict the future.  Whitford might be a psychopathic turd of a man, but he was a pragmatic turd, and he wasn’t willing to accept on faith Cadmon’s promise of a giant, devastating storm.  He’d wanted proof.  And Cadmon hadn’t been able to say, “Well, this angel came down and he told me.”  Whitford had demanded that Cadmon make good on his statement that he’d stake his personal fortune on the scheme, and had required the preacher to pony up the cash necessary to buy cots, portable housing, and food stuffs that would make it look like Whitford was actually trying to help the storm-struck citizens of Louisiana.  All Whitford had to do was show up after the storm, give a press conference, and – hopefully – take it from there.

But that wasn’t how it had worked out.  Whitford had shown up, but then the bugs had attacked and he’d run away.  He hadn’t looked like a leader or a savior.  No, he’d looked like an idiot.  And now he was back in his cave here in Texas. 

You’d think that carrying out God’s plan with the direct, personal assistance of an angel would go a little more smoothly.  Cadmon sometimes wondered if this wasn’t the blind leading the blind.

Cadmon clicked the mouse some more and turned up the volume to listen to the brief press conference Whitford had given before being driven away by the locusts.  On the screen, Whitford grumbled and glowered and sneered.  The Governor reminded Cadmon of something he’d seen in a movie once – that giant, green slug guy.  What was his name?  Java or something?  He watched the way Whitford had hefted his weight back and forth, grunting his answers, and it reminded Cadmon of a nature program he’d watched about giant male seals croaking their angry-sounding mating calls to seal cows.  He shook his head to try to get rid of the image. 

No, choosing Whitford was turning out to be a complete disaster, and the Louisiana catastrophe was only part of it.  The angel had instructed Cadmon to get started on the next step, and had pointed out that Whitford would be very helpful with that.  The preacher had done as he was asked, and dutifully (and casually) asked whether Whitford knew how to get a hold of some sarin gas.  But in the weeks since, the Governor hadn’t said a word about it.  In fact, as far as he knew, Whitford had forgotten entirely.  But then, he didn’t really know at all.  He couldn’t even get the bastard on the phone to ask.

The angel was going to be pissed.  That – not whether Whitford actually managed to do anything – was what made Cadmon nervous.  Ezekiel was, when you got right down to it, a little scary.  Cadmon needed to somehow get Whitford back on track.  But how the hell was he going to do that?  He couldn’t exactly reveal what was really going on.  “Hey, guess what Dick – you’re the bad guy!” 

It was so unfair.  It wasn’t as if he could post an ad: “Wanted: Antichrist.”  Cadmon didn’t know any real dictator types, and traipsing through some South American jungle to get in touch with whatever military junta didn’t really seem like an appealing prospect.  He’d been tempted to ask himself:  What would Jesus do?  How would Jesus find an antichrist?  But he’d dismissed the idea, thinking that this problem was just too far afield for Jesus to be able to weigh in.  Ironically, the man who’d authored a series of books with titles like How Would Jesus Invest? had been unable to wrap his mind around the notion that the most famous political revolutionary in history might have had something to say about the situation.

The lights flickered and dimmed, and he heard a familiar buzz-saw sound.

“Shit,” he said.  It was too late.  The angel was here.  Now. 

He got up and scrambled out of his office.  “Stay here!” he yelled to Janie.

He could see the white-orange light fading as he ran up the hall toward the main auditorium.  He started to sprint and bounded up the small set of stairs that led toward the back of the stage.  The light had faded completely, and the angel was scanning back and forth, searching, by the time Cadmon reached him. 

He turned and saw Cadmon.  “William Cadmon,” he said, “I am Ezekiel.”

Cadmon said nothing.  He was doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“There is a problem,” said Ezekiel.

Cadmon held his hands up.  “I know, I know.  He’s just…”  He stood there, shaking his head, searching for the words.  “He’s just an asshole.”  He shrugged.

“Who is an asshole?” asked the angel.

“Whitford.”

Ezekiel looked confused.  “Whitford?  Why is Whitford an asshole?  I do not understand why you’re bringing this up now.”

“Well,” said Cadmon, “because—”

Ezekiel waved his giant angel hands dismissively.  “Never mind that,” he said.  “We have a problem.”

“I know,” said Cadmon.  “That’s why I was—”

“There has been a disturbance,” said Ezekiel.

“What?”

“Someone – something – is coming.  And we must stop him.”

Cadmon shook his head, unable to follow.  “What?”

“We will need your friend’s army.”

“My friend?  Who?  What?”  Cadmon put up his hands.  “Wait a second!  What the hell are you talking about?”

Ezekiel grimaced.  “There is someone coming,” he said.  “Someone who would interfere with our plan.”

“Our plan?”

“God’s plan,” said the angel.  “And he’s on the way here.  Right now.”

“Wait, do you mean—?”

“We will go to meet your Governor friend together.  We will need his army.”

“Wait,” said Cadmon.  He didn’t like the sound of that.  Never mind how hard all of this was, he didn’t want to have to share the angel with anyone.  They’d chosen him, not Whitford.  And he wanted it to stay that way.  “I have an army.”

Not it was Ezekiel’s turn to be confused.  “What?”

“It’s true,” Cadmon lied.  It wasn’t an army, per se.  More of a rabble, really.  What he had was a good and zealous friend who was one of the leaders of the idiots who ran around pretending to be resistance fighters for the Republic of Texas.  They thought of themselves as an army, but a ragtag group of heterogeneously-armed, secessionist nutcases fond of professing their allegiance to the logically problematic hierarchy of “God,” “The Second Amendment,” and “The Republic of Texas,” was never going to merit that label.  Even so, Cadmon had started recruiting the group of self-proclaimed “militia men” shortly after the angel had first appeared, thrilled and amused by the ease with which they’d flocked to him when he’d talked about his plans.  Of course, he’d had to substitute the phrase “mighty, independent nation” for “Kingdom of Heaven on Earth,” but this was just a minor detail. 

Cadmon explained his “army” to Ezekiel, and Ezekiel just stared back at him.

“No,” said Ezekiel.

The preacher waited for the angel to continue, but “No” was apparently all he had to say on the matter.  “No?”

“No,” said Ezekiel.  “We will go talk to your friend.  Tomorrow.  Make it happen.”

Chapter 15.           Clyde Parker Clogs Satan’s Commode

Someone once said, “Move to New York if you like money; Move to D.C. if you like power.”  Power, schmower – that someone was a gigantic dumbass.  Unless you’ve been sent to the Nation’s Capital by voters or lobbyists or cronies or whoever it is that sends the Mr. Smiths of the world off to run things, you’re not going to get anything other than ridiculous traffic, an absurdly high cost of living, and long list of other things that suck.  You definitely won’t get anything that resembles power.  You probably won’t even see it, unless you get stuck at one of the road blocks police put up to let its motorcade go by. 

If you do move to Washington, D.C., you’ll need somewhere to lay your powerless head, which means you’ll pay an exorbitant rent to live in a space that is probably less comfortable and considerably smaller than the average jail cell.  But unlike a prison inmate, you’ll have to leave every day, trudging out into the miserable, humid Hell that was built on donated swamp land so that you can go to work to earn some money to pay the absurd rent on that crappy space.

Clyde Parker, in the years he’d spent in the capital, had occasion to visit many of these miserable apartments.  They were all, in his opinion, uniformly bad.  Horrible fluorescent lighting.  Cheap, industrial-grade carpeting or even linoleum.  And the apartments themselves were miniscule.  Microscopic even.  It wasn’t how they did things back in Texas, and it was, in Parker’s opinion, just plain immoral.  This building, however, was different. 

Parker’s heart raced as he made his way down the warmly-lit hallway, treading on thick, plush carpet that seemed to swallow sounds whole.  There’d been a security guard downstairs, and he had just managed to keep his cool as he followed two women who were completely immersed in their own conversation.  When the guard started to speak, he’d leaned over with a big, cowboy grin and said, “It’s all right, son.  They’re both with me.” 

He reached his destination – apartment 18 – and noticed the doorbell.  Another fancy touch.  Parker looked up and down the hall and saw that all of the doors had them.  Money, he thought.  He took a deep breath and put on his tough guy face as he touched his finger to the button.

The man who opened the door was the same one he’d seen at the FBI building, except that he was holding a glass of scotch and wearing a black, full-length cape. 

“Hello,” he said to the Devil.  “My name is Clyde Parker.”  He fingered the pearly handle of his large silver revolver.

Satan smiled politely.  “Hello, Mr. Parker.  How may I be of assistance?”  He didn’t bother to glance down at the gun.

“I’m here on behalf of Dick Whitford.”

Their eyes met, and for an instant, the smile disappeared from Satan’s face.  But then the moment passed. 

“Won’t you come in?” said the Devil, smiling once again.  He turned, leaving Parker standing at the door.

Parker glanced around suspiciously, and then took a tentative step, leaning into the apartment.  Nothing happened, so he went the rest of the way in.  Satan had gone into a kitchen that was just off the entryway.  Parker looked around, eyeing the immaculate and well-decorated room with a sneer.  It seemed all wrong.  There weren’t nearly enough dead things mounted on the wall.  In fact, there were none.  And not a scrap of cowhide anywhere.  Parker tried to use bits of cow in all of his decorating.

He noticed a painting in an expensive-looking frame leaned up against a large, metal box with little wheels on it.  The box had a plastic spigot and a metal handle on the front, and looked as if it belonged in a restaurant kitchen.  The picture was small and mostly blue, and looked a little out of place inside its ornate, hand-carved frame.  It showed a bride standing next to a goat.  The goat appeared to be playing a cello.

“Nice painting,” said Parker, a snarky (but still very gritty and tough) look on his face.

“Oh, that?  It’s nothing,” called Satan from the small kitchen.  Parker heard the tinkle of ice cubes being dropped in a glass.

“It’s, uh… interesting.”

Satan stepped out of the kitchen, shrugging.  “It is what it is,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  “Here’s your drink.” 

Parker took the glass, trying but failing entirely to not eye it suspiciously.  “They told me not to approach you on my own,” he said.

“They?”

“The Governor.”

“Well, he was probably right,” said Satan.

“I figured we could work something out, though,” said Parker, regarding the Devil with a half-cocked smirk.

“Hmmm—” Satan brought his hand to his chin and searched the ceiling for an answer.  “Nope.  Sorry.  You figured incorrectly.”  He said it pleasantly, as a simple matter of fact.

They stared at each other for a moment.  Parker steely eyed and serious; Satan smiling.

Parker watched as the smile receded, replaced by a mix of anger – rage even – and what looked like pain.  He failed to react to the change, however, because he was busy yelping and trying to free himself from Satan’s sudden, strong grasp. 

“Who sent you?” growled Satan.  He grabbed Parker’s arm and pulled it backward, yanking it upwards so that Parker’s hand was up at the level of his shoulder blades.  “Who sent you?” 

Parker twisted, trying to free himself, but the Devil, still holding onto the man’s arm, rushed forward to smash Parker face-first into the wall.

“Who—?”  Satan began again, but Parker continued to try to fight back, so Satan twisted Parker’s arm harder, further up the man’s back, until it made a nasty cracking sound. 

Parker screamed.

“Shut up!” said Satan.

Parker did not shut up, and so, after a further bit of struggling, some swearing, and a couple more screams, the tough-as-nails cowboy found himself upside down in a bathroom, smacking his head on a porcelain bowl and swallowing water.

“How is it that you found me?” demanded Satan.  His voice had changed.  The refined British aristocrat had gone, and now he sounded like more than one voice; like a group of horrible, angry undead things, all trying to talk at the same time through Eddie Van Halen’s guitar amplifier.

“I s-s-saw you—” Parker stammered and swallowed a mouthful of water.  He started to choke.  Satan pulled him up and shook, causing Parker’s head to bang against the toilet bowl again. 

Parker coughed and sputtered and regained his breath.  “I saw you at the FBI building,” he said.  He was surprised how difficult it was to talk while getting a swirly.  Here he was, a man of so many talents, including resisting torture, but he hadn’t been prepared for this.  Speaking coherently while having his head jammed into a flushing toilet was just not something he’d ever anticipated doing.

The toilet flushed again, and Satan pulled the man up, just out of the water.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” said the Devil.  “You saw what happened today; what I did, and you thought it seemed like a good idea to follow me?”

“I didn’t,” but Parker’s words turned to gurgles as Satan plunged the man back into the commode and flushed again.

“You did!” Satan insisted as he pulled the man up.

Parker caught his breath.  “No, I didn’t have any other leads!”

Satan stopped, curious.  “Leads for what?”

“Please!  Please just put me down, and I’ll explain!”

Satan hesitated, leaving Parker hanging.  Parker reached out, grabbing the lip of the bowl to stop from hitting his head again as he dangled. 

“Oh, all right.”  He dipped Parker back into the bowl, flushing once more, and then dropped the man’s feet to the floor.  He grabbed some towels out of the cabinet.  When he turned to hand them to Parker, the civilized Brit had returned.  “Dry yourself,” he said, “and then wipe everything off very thoroughly.  If there’s even a droplet of water, I’ll kill you in a slow and horribly painful way.  Do you understand?”

Parker grabbed a towel off the top of the stack, grunted, and started toweling his hair.

“Excuse me!  I asked you a question!  You can at least do me the courtesy of giving me an answer.” 

Parker let his hands fall and stared at Satan in disbelief.  “Yes.”

He spent the next ten minutes cleaning Satan’s bathroom. 

When he finished, he gathered up the towels and took a few cautious steps out into the living room. 

Satan was relaxing on an expensive-looking sofa, apparently contemplating his scotch.  “Put the towels down and have a seat there,” he said, pointing to a stool he’d placed in front of the fireplace. 

Parker was still damp and was grateful for the small fire.  He hadn’t even sat down though when the interrogation began.  “Why are you here?” asked Satan.

Parker hesitated, and Satan’s crystal tumbler flew across the room, smacking the cowboy in the head, and smashed to bits on the fireplace behind him.  He grabbed his head and hunched over.

Satan did not wait before asking again.  “What does Mr. Whitford want?”

Still crouched and holding his head, Parker answered, “I— I’m not entirely sure.” 

Satan leapt off the sofa and stepped to the fireplace.  He pulled an iron poker from the fire, its tip glowing red.  Parker glanced up, the white parts his eyes somewhat larger than normal.

“I doubt that a moron like yourself will ever be very sure of anything,” said Satan.  “Nevertheless, I must insist that you try to answer my question.”  He held the pointy bit of the poker toward Parker’s face.

“He wants your help.”

Satan glared at Parker.  “Can we just assume that the next time you fail to provide a prompt response to one of my queries, I’ll put one of your eyes out with this?”  He shook the poker for emphasis.

Parker’s face twisted as a variety of mostly negative emotions tried to express themselves simultaneously.  Satan swung the glowing tip of the implement around, holding it under Parker’s eye.

“Y-Yes!” Parker stammered.  He slipped off the stool, stumbling as he tried to get away from the red hot poker.

“Good. Now, sit back down.”  Satan pointed, using the poker, at the stool as he settled back onto the edge of a stylish coffee table.  “Now.  Why does Mr. Whitford want my help?”

Parker did not answer immediately.  Satan shot up, the brass implement making a wooshing sound worthy of a kung fu movie as its glowing tip tore through the air and plunged into the man’s thigh.

Parker screamed and, of course, fell off the stool again.  Satan kicked him.  “Get up!”  But Parker just rolled on the floor, holding his leg.  So Satan kicked Parker again.  “Get up, you maggot!”  He snatched Parker up by the shirt, hoisting him upright, and slammed him back down, bottom first, onto the stool.  Parker let go of his leg and grabbed at his lower back.

Satan, holding Parker’s collar in one hand and the poker in the other, waited silently, fuming, for the man to stop making stupid faces.

Parker sat for a moment more and tried to catch his breath.  Tears streamed from his eyes and his face was twisted.  “I think he’s trying to take over the country.”  He breathed awkwardly, mostly through his teeth, as he tried to bear the pain.

Satan dropped his hand.  His plush carpet smoked where the tip of the poker touched it.  “What?” he asked.

“After the storm—”

“What storm?”

Parker shook his head, confused.  “The—the hurricane.  The big one.  Hit New Orleans a couple of weeks ago—”

Satan tossed the poker back into the fireplace and returned to his seat on the couch, sighing as he sat.  “You,” he said, “will explain all of this to me.”  He looked Parker in the eye.  “Or I will press the tip of that poker into your flesh repeatedly – starting at your feet and moving by inches up your body – until you are dead.”

With a lot of pausing, sweating, and heavy breathing, Parker explained about Bill Cadmon’s prediction, the hurricane, and the steps that Whitford had taken after the storm, ostensibly for the purpose of providing relief.  He told Satan about the angel he’d seen talking to Cadmon, and explained how Whitford had become worried about being a pawn in whatever scheme it was that Cadmon and the angel were cooking up, and how he’d then sought to level the playing field with whatever this Baphomet Project thing was. 

“And then I saw you come out of the FBI building, and, well—  that’s how I ended up here,” he said.  “That’s everything I know.”

The Devil sat for a moment, rubbing his chin.  When he spoke, it was as if he were alone in the room.  “I think,” he said, “that I will have to go and have a talk with Mr. Whitford.”

Parker smiled – this seemed like a good thing – but then he saw the look in Satan’s eye.

“Now,” said Satan, “how about some water?”

Chapter 16.           Klaxon Ducks

The telephone is naively regarded by many to be a modern convenience; a tool created to help folks overcome the accidents of geography that would separate them.  This, however, is wrong.  The real story of the creation of the telephone is actually a sad, sordid tale.

Alexander Graham Bell – a notorious prankster now incorrectly known to history as the “inventor” of this sadistic, infernal machine – actually conceived of the phone as a means of harassing and taunting his neighbors.  The people in his community, aware of his predilection for stupid pranks, had taken to avoiding him, and he needed something that would allow him to reach out and touch those who, under normal circumstances, would see him or hear him coming, and promptly run away.  Necessity may be the mother of invention, but its father is an asshole. 

Liam slept, sprawled out on an extra large bed – his long arms and legs extending at odd angles from beneath piles of sheets – blissfully, pharmaceutically unaware that Alexander Graham Bell’s ghost lurked just off-stage.

His bedroom was simple, if a bit Spartan: a bed, a table, a lamp, and stacks of books piled here and there.  He’d left the windows open to try to take advantage of the cool nighttime air, finally falling asleep to the shimmery, almost rhythmical sound of the breeze playing in the leaves of the trees outside.

He’d stayed up too late.  Again.  Flipping channels, trying and failing to read books, pacing.  He’d felt disconnected; out-of-sorts.  There seemed no point to anything.  No point to watching television.  No point in trying to eat the dinner he’d microwaved after the weird date with that woman, Lola.  No point to reading.  No point to sleeping.  It had taken a third sleeping pill before he’d been able to set aside his angsty malaise and finally get some sleep.

Alexander Graham Bell’s cold, dead hand reached out and touched him.

“Mmmmmmrrrrhhhghghgh.”  Liam rolled over.

The phone continued to suck.

“Mmmmmmmm!!” he insisted.  In his dream, angry ducks with klaxon bills squawked at him.

“MMMMmmerrrrrrraaaaaaguuuggghh ducks!”  Something crashed and he was awake.  He realized that it was the phone that was ringing, and that there were no tornado-siren-billed ducks anywhere.  He grabbed the handset, banging the receiver into his eye. 

A man’s voice said, “Liam?  Liam McEwen?” 

“Ow, fuck,” said Liam, rubbing his eye.  “Yes?  Who is this?  Why are you calling me now?”  He considered smashing the phone on something as punishment for, well, for being a phone.  And for ringing.  The bastard.  But then he remembered that he was more mature than that these days.  He took a deep breath, muttered an extra “fucker” at the phone for good measure, and carefully replaced the receiver against his ear.  “What?” he barked.

“Liam, it’s Cas Boehner.”

Boehner had been Liam’s first boss back at the CIA Special Activities Division.  He was the man who had called the shots back in Washington while Liam was off in the Third World doing all sorts of things that fall into the category of “Don’t Try This at Home.”  Liam wondered why the hell he was calling now, five years after he had retired, and at ass-o’clock in the morning?  Clearly, the man was looking for trouble.

What the heck time was it anyway?  Liam searched for his alarm clock.  It was gone.  He reached up and turned on the lamp.  The clock was in pieces on the floor, the unfortunate victim of his anti-duck rage.

“Liam?”  Boehner was apparently still on the phone.  Such a persistent wanker.  “I’m not calling at a bad time, am I?”

“It’s still dark outside, Cas.  So yeah, I’d say it’s a bad time.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” said Boehner, confirming that he was, in fact, a dick. 

Liam imagined Boehner smiling to himself at the stupid joke.  He remembered how Boehner’s smile was basically an annoying smirk, exacerbated by a stupid head waggle.  “I’m going to hang up now, Cas,” he said, and started to put the phone down.

“Liam, wait.”  Boehner sounded worried.  Apparently he’d learned to simulate human emotions since the last time they’d talked.  “Something has come up.”

“No kidding?  I figured you were calling in the middle of the night just to catch up on old times.”  He wondered whether Boehner had also learned about sarcasm.

“I need your help.”

“Okay, the shop will be open tomorrow.”

“I don’t need a damn guitar.”

“Then I can’t help you.”  Liam sat up on the side of the bed and put his bare feet on the wood floor.  He was waking up now, passing beyond the point where he’d be able to roll over and fall back asleep.  He thought about what an asshole Cas was for calling in the middle of the night, and then he thought about the box of microwavable egg rolls Festus had left in his freezer.

“Yes you can, and we’re going to pay you very well for your troubles.”

“And that’s ‘very well,’ by government standards?”  Liam asked, not intrigued at all.

“Well, yeah, but still.”

“Listen, jerk off.  I’m retired.  I’m done with all that crap, and it’s been— it’s been years since I did any kind of training or even picked up a gun.  There are at least five other guys you can reactivate who are probably much more interested and more prepared to deal with whatever crap you’ve got to deal with.  Call one of them.”  He started to put the phone down, but then brought it back to his face.  “And anyway, I shouldn’t be on your list of people to harass in the middle of the night after the whole thing with the Vice President.” 

“Whitford is why I’m calling.  He’s the problem, Liam.”

Liam held the phone out at arm’s length and stared at it, as if it had just bitten him.  He sighed, muttering to himself.  “What on Earth?”

“Liam?  Liam?  Hello?”

Liam put the phone back to his ear.  “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Look, I—” Boehner sighed.  “I know there’s been a lot crap between us.  But this goes way beyond any kind of personal B.S.  Just hear me out.”

“I’m listening,” said Liam.  “You have thirty seconds.”

“You’ve seen the news?”

“Whitford taking over the state of Louisi—”

“Yes.  And the refineries and pipelines and reserves,” said Boehner.  “So you know he’s positioning himself to do something.  Well, there’s more.  Much more.”

“Okay.”

“As I’m sure you’re very aware, there have been a lot of strange things going on lately – unprecedented earthquakes, tornadoes, weird rain…”

“You think,” asked Liam, “that Dick Whitford is somehow controlling the weather?  Earthquakes I can understand, but the weather?”

“No, what I’m saying is that there are a lot of folks who are starting to think really crazy stuff about all the things that have been happening.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” said Boehner, “it’s complex.”

“So, simplify it for me.”

“Well…”

“Cas.”

Boehner sighed.  “The end of the world, Liam.”  He spoke the words with the tone of a teenager forced to acknowledge a curfew or address someone as “sir.”  “There are a lot of people out there who, when they look at all of the things that have been happening, jump to the conclusion that there’s a pattern – that there’s really some kind of meaning to be found in a series of unrelated natural disasters.  There are a lot of people who’ve decided that – it sounds stupid, but, well – they’ve decided that it’s the end of the world.  You know – like Armageddon and—”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the headlines.  But what does this have to do with Dick Whitford and Louisiana?”

“He is, apparently, one of the ones who thinks this.”

“So?” asked Liam.

“Well, he’s really believes it.”

“So he’s a dumbass.  And?”

“Well,” said Boehner, “apparently, the whole Louisiana thing is part of that.”

“What does that even mean?”  Liam laughed.  “Wait,” he said, “you want me to take care of Whitford?  Take him out?  I can do that.”

“No!  Holy shit, no!  That is not why I’m calling.”

“But it would be easy, and—”

“No—”

“I’d like to do it.  Really.”

“No,” said Boehner, “that’s not what I want.”

“But that’s what I want.”  Liam switched the phone to his other ear and settled in.  “See,” he said, thinking back to the touchy-feely afternoon talk show that Raju liked to put on at the shop, “that’s the whole problem between you and me – with our relationship.  Since the very beginning.  You never acknowledged what I want.  A healthy relationship is two-way street.  A ‘give-and-take’ if you will, and—”

“Liam?”

“Yes?”

“Please shut up.”

Liam sighed.  “So, what then?”

“Okay,” continued Boehner.  “It’s like this.  We just found the body of one of Whitford’s men here in D.C.  A guy named Clyde Parker.”

“Clyde Parker is dead?”

“You knew him?”

Liam gave a non-committal grunt. 

“Well,” said Boehner, “Parker apparently spent the last week or so snooping around Washington.  He was apparently searching for something called ‘Baphomet.’”

“Hmm...  sounds scary.”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“No,” said Liam.

“It’s a project we had a few years back.  All very top secret.  Anyway, they found Parker’s body in some ritzy condo.  Apparently his head was in a toilet.”

“Where was his body?”

“Still attached,” said Boehner.  “The condo was rented to a guy named B.L. Tod.”

“Is there a point to this story?  ‘Cause I’m going back to bed in about ten seconds.”

“Thirty-six hours ago, a single man walked into the Hoover Building—”

“Ahh!” said Liam.  “People walk in there all the time.  It’s completely normal, and nothing to worry about.  Problem solved.  Glad I could be of help.”

“Yes,” said Boehner, “but this one killed thirty-seven agents.”

“When did this happen?  I haven’t seen anything on the news—”

“Well, we’re trying to keep things quiet until we figure out who the hell this guy is.  Actually, we know who it is – this B.L. Tod guy – but we have little more than a name.”

“And what does all this have to do with Whitford?” asked Liam.

“Well, just hours after this guy blows up half the FBI building, Clyde Parker ends up dead in his apartment.” 

“Okay,” said Liam, but then he paused, thinking, and sighed.  “I still don’t see the connection.”

“I’m not sure anyone does.  But what we know is this:  First, this guy is dangerous.  Second, he may have some kind of connection to Baphomet – because of Parker – and therefore to Dick Whitford.  And now he’s headed your way.  He’s headed to Texas.”

Liam scoffed.  “How do you know that?  He leave you a note?”  He rubbed his head to try to get rid of a dull, throbbing sensation that was getting worse as the phone call went on.

“We’ve got a bunch of searches – look ups for his license plate – all through Virginia and Tennessee.  And then we end up finding a highway patrol car in flames and the cop is gone.”

Liam laughed.  He’d never had a very good relationship with traffic cops, and tended to think of them as more or less sub-human.  “Sounds like he’s doing us all a favor.  Anyway, you want me to go ahead and kill Whitford?  I can do it.  No problem.”  Liam had suddenly found that he really, really wanted to take out the Governor.

“No!” said Boehner.  The phone went silent for a moment as Boehner, apparently, paused to sigh and be pissed and maybe tear some hair out.  Liam smiled.  It was just like old times. 

“This isn’t the usual bullshit, Liam.  This guy is—he’s very strange.”

Liam did not respond.

“He blew up an entire floor, but he didn’t use a bomb or—anything, as far as we can tell.”

“What?  How did he do it?”

“We don’t know.  It’s— It almost looks…”  Boehner sighed. 

“What, Cas?”

“He’s…”

“Cas?”

“He’s like you, Liam.”

The two men sat in silence. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Liam.

“Yes, you do.”

“I had an agreement, Cas.  Nobody is supposed to talk about any of that.  Including you.  Ever again.”

“And I’m not.”

“You just did.”

“Would you stop?  Look, we have him on video, Liam.  He’s totally unarmed.  Just walks up and starts setting things on fire, making people dead, and blowing things up.  It’s—it’s unbelievable.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Well, there are several possibilities.  But there’s only one that concerns you.  There is a man, who lives not too far from you, by the name of Alistair Preston.  He was with the Baphomet project.  I’ve got a contact who will meet you there in Austin tomorrow – well, this morning.  At the satellite office.”

“You want me to meet someone, you send him to me,” said Liam.  “But don’t bother, because I’m not doing it.”

“Look,” Boehner sighed, “I don’t have anyone else I can turn to.  I need your help.”

“Why can’t you send someone from DC?”

“You know I’m not supposed to send my guys into some state.  And I—”

“But I’m already in Texas?  I don’t think it works that way.”

“—definitely can’t do it with those checkpoints up.” 

“What?  What checkpoints?”

Boehner sighed.  “Whitford has set up checkpoints at the Texas and Louisiana borders.  There’s a rumor he’s going to shut down the airports.”

“Cas, I really don’t think I want to get involved .  I’ve put all of that behind me, and I—”

“Come on.  Help me out here.  All I want—”

“I’m sorry, Cas.  I’m not going to do this.”

“All I want is for you to meet up with one of the agents down there.  Well—she’s not an agent, technically.  She’s on loan.  Her name is Lola Ford.  She’ll come to you.”

“You’re not listening, Cas—wait, what was her name?”

“Lola Ford.”

Liam didn’t say anything.  He wasn’t being stoic or anything – but he’d found that he needed a moment just to breathe.

“You still there?  Hello?”

“Okay,” said Liam.  “I’ll do it.” 

Chapter 17.           Texarkana

It was 4:45 a.m., and Satan was tired.  It had been a long drive – eighteen and a half hours of the most excruciatingly dull and culturally irredeemable territory the United States has on offer.  Now, finally, he was careening toward Texarkana, about to cross the border into Texas.

Texarkana is a small town.  It doesn’t have a lot going for it, other than its fantastic name.  Maybe that’s because naming your town by combining parts of the names of the two states whose border it straddles – while wildly imaginative and cool – doesn’t, by itself, inspire captains of industry to build factories and distribution centers that would otherwise lead to some kind of economic vitality.  Or maybe it’s because Texarkana is located in East Texas, and East Texas is second only to Death Valley when it comes to lacking signs of intelligent life.  Either way, the town is small, and there is rarely anything that any citizen of Los Angeles (or any other city, for that matter) might recognize as traffic.  Travelers on their way to more appealing destinations are therefore mercifully spared having to stop anywhere inside the city limits.  Not that stopping outside the city limits is really any better.  But still.

Tonight, though, the traffic gods were pissed.  And they’d arranged a mile-long line of stopped cars and jarring red taillights to demonstrate their wrath. 

The snarl-up caught the Lord of Darkness by surprise.  Despite traveling at over twice the legal speed limit, he’d been dozing very slightly, and was forced to apply his brakes with more urgency than he might have liked.

It is a scientific fact that, for every doubling in speed, the distance required to bring a car to a stop increases by a factor of three.  And any vehicle – even a fancy-pants Italian sports car with the ceramic brakes option – will require approximately the distance of a football field to slow down from 150 miles per hour.  That is, unless there is something nice and sturdy handy, like a tree or a telephone poll.  But there weren’t any of those available to help out.

The other drivers on I-30, who up until that point had had very little to do other than to sit and wait, were treated to the sight of a bright orange supercar hurtling toward them as the Devil struggled to bring the car down from near-orbital velocity.  They oohed and aahed as the Lamorghini’s tires howled and screeched and smoked.  It kept going long enough that a couple of the folks who were waiting in the line of traffic were actually able to turn around to check in to see if there had been any forward progress.  There hadn’t been any, so they turned back to the still howling and screeching tires. 

“Jesus Christ!” said Satan.

The car finally came to a stop. 

Hmmm, thought Satan, watching as a gaggle of people gathered around, snapping away with their camera phones.  He devoted roughly half a second to cool, levelheaded reflection, and then decided that this was as good a time as any to test the off-road capabilities of his car.

The Devil inched the Lamborghini around an appalling, minivan-shaped abomination that he’d narrowly avoided hitting and eased out onto the shoulder.  It wasn’t wide enough, so he had to drive with one wheel off in the grass, which was exactly the sort of thing the engineers in Sant’Agata had had in mind when they gave the Gallardo LP-460 five whole inches of ground clearance.  Satan’s bumpy, tilted forward progress was punctuated periodically by reassuring scraping sounds as the car’s undercarriage made contact with the edge of the pavement.  Up ahead, Satan could just make out flashing lights and what looked like the boxy shapes of military trucks parked at jaunty angles.

The checkpoint was, technically speaking, stationed within the state of Arkansas.  But it had been easier that way.  The border between Texas and Arkansas runs right through the middle of downtown Texarkana, and trying to police the myriad streets that crisscross the state line would have been impossible for Corporal Russell and his band of mental giants.  Besides, a hundred and fifty years or so had passed since the last time a state in the Union had had to try to repel an invasion from a neighboring state, and anyway, the governor of Arkansas knew better than to try to interfere with anything set in motion by the inimitable Dick Whitford.  So the people of Arkansas – a state that had recently passed a law allowing its citizens to carry firearms into houses of worship – just sat and watched.  In fact, most were just too stunned to react at all to the line of military trucks that paraded in and set up shop on I-30, five miles outside of town.

Corporal Jim Russell was in charge of the checkpoint.  The men under his supervision were all old friends, or acquaintances he’d known from high school.  They’d all joined the military together, and Russell, the former big man on campus, literally as well as figuratively, had been the natural leader of the group from the start.

This band of courageous, committed soldiers were charged with the task of protecting the Texas border from undesirable types.  And in their zeal, they’d erected a makeshift holding pen into which they’d flung every hippie, Communist, and other Liberal they’d encountered.  And because Corporal Russell and his men were all good, East-Texas boys, they’d also rounded up a number of African-American folks and put them into the holding pen too.

Russell stood off to the side with a handful of his men, watching the slow interrogations and/or incarcerations taking place fifty yards up the road.

“It’s a stupid name,” he said. 

“What?” asked Buck Abernathy, one of Russell’s men.

“Texarkana,” said the Corporal.  “It’s a stupid name.”

“I don’t know,” said another named Ronnie.  “I think it’s kinda cool.”

“Well, you’re a dumbass,” said Russell.

Ronnie narrowed his eyes, giving Russell a look that might have been intended to convey a threat of imminent bodily harm, or maybe just that Ronnie was having trouble seeing.

“You know,” said Corporal Russell, “they’ve also got a town called ‘Arkadelphia.’  What the hell kind of people go naming all their towns by sticking together parts of other town names?  That’s just dumb.”

“Yeah, that’s a lot worse than just stealing names of foreign cities,” said Buck.

Russell turned, mystified, toward his underling.  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Like, every town in Texas used to be a city in some other country,” said Ronnie.

“Yeah,” said Buck.  “There’s a bunch.  We got a ton of towns named after foreign places.”

“Like what?”

“Paris, Texas.”

“Hmmph,” said Russell.  “Shut up.”

“Carthage?” proffered Buck.

“Oh and there’s Dublin.” 

“And Egypt.”  Ronnie and Buck nodded at each other enthusiastically.

“That ain’t a city, dumbass,” said Russell.

“And Italy,” said Buck, ignoring his boss. 

Another soldier joined in the fun.  “Don’t forget Moscow.  And Palestine.”

“Right,” said Buck.  Ronnie nodded some more.

“All of you,” said Russell, “shut up.  Just shut up!”  He held a walkie-talkie to his ear.  “What?  What?”

The rest of the soldiers huddled toward Corporal Russell, trying to listen in. 

Corporal Russell stood abruptly.  “You!  Move that Humvee.  Block the shoulder.”

The soldier tilted his head in the manner of a confused dog and squinted at his superior.

“Move the Humvee to block the shoulder.  Now!”  He pointed to the space between the shoulder and a clump of trees.

The soldier jumped and ran toward the truck.  Corporal Russell saw that the Lamborghini was already too close, and so heaved his corpulence over to the shoulder, where he stood with his legs spread and his fists on his waist – his best tough-guy pose.  He stared with squinty, tough-guy eyes as the sports car – shaped like a wedge and colored like the sun – slowed and stopped.  The engine revved, making the kind of manic barking sound that only highly-strung exotic engines make, and shut off.  The door opened and a man in a pin-striped suit stood.  Time seemed to slow as he pulled off his sunglasses.

“Are you the nitwits who’ve caused this disaster?” said the Prince of Darkness, pointing back toward the traffic jam.

The soldiers looked at one another and then at Russell.  Corporal Russell was a big man.  He’d been captain or quarterback or some other really badass thing in high school, and he wasn’t about to take shit from this effete (though that’s not the word he would have used) jerk off in the pinstriped suit.

“Get back in your car, and go back to the end of the line,” he said.  His men sneered and snickered.  They stopped though, and Corporal Russell let out a little yelp as Satan stepped forward, grabbing him by the collar.

“I will do no such thing,” said Satan.  He said it simply, the calmness in his voice standing in stark contrast to his aggressive posture.  Then he shook Corporal Russell, hard.  And the man simply disappeared, leaving Satan holding a rather roomy uniform.  A little mouse squeaked, and Satan let the uniform fall on top of him.

None of the men under Russell’s command had ever seen anything quite like that, and they were all, to put it mildly, a little shocked.  None of them spoke a word, which was probably prudent given that the guy who’d just turned their boss into a rodent was still there among them.  After a couple of seconds of this prudent silence, the little brown mouse climbed out of the Corporal’s discarded clothing.  He squeaked at Satan.  The Devil stepped forward, and, without even so much as a glance downward, crushed the rodent under his shoe.

Satan smiled congenially.  “Now,” he said, pointing to the Humvee that had been moved to block the shoulder.  “Who would like to move that large vehicle out of the way?”

Chapter 18.           Festus Is an Idiot Who Calls Too Early in the Morning

For the second time that night, the phone rang.  But this time Liam sat up immediately, his mind alert and duck free.  He grabbed the receiver.  “What?” he barked.

“Dude!” said Festus, his feelings hurt.

Liam looked out the window.  It wasn’t fully dark out anymore.  The sky had that pale and pinkish hue it gets as the sun is just coming up.  Regardless, it was clearly way too early for Festus to be acting so peniscuous.  Or to be calling at all, for that matter.  Liam glanced at the shattered remains of his clock on the floor.  “What time is it, Festus?”

“It is 6:25 in the morning, and—”  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“Why,” said Liam, pausing to calm himself, “are you calling me at 6:25 in the morning?”

“Well, I need help,” said Festus.  The line stayed silent for a moment.  Festus could hear Liam breathing deep, slow breaths. 

“What kind of help could you possibly need that requires you to call me in the middle of the night?”  He asked the question casually, as if he were just throwing it out there.  More thunder rumbled, and it occurred to Liam that he hadn’t actually seen any clouds in the sky when he’d peeked out the window.  He pushed back the shades for another look, and there it was – a big, mashed-potato-looking stack of clouds, rolling in from the west. 

“Well, it’s not the middle of the night.”  Both immediately regarded this statement as something of a misstep, but Festus chose to plow on anyway.  “I’m in jail,” he said.

“Again.”  More thunder.

“Yes, that’s correct.  Again.”

For the second time that night, Liam was tempted to smash his phone.  He was definitely going to move the damned thing out of his bedroom.  “Festus…”

Festus could hear Liam breathing again.  “It’s totally not my fault this time.”

“What?  Did somebody trip you and you accidentally fell into jail?”

Festus was aware that Liam had a temper, but things had to get pretty crazy for him to lose his cool.  This kind of bitchiness was unprecedented and totally unlike Liam.  It was, after all, only jail.  “Dude,” he asked, “I’m sorry to be calling so early, but I’m in jail, and I just spent the night cuddling with the biggest Mexican guy I’ve ever seen.  Or maybe he was Hawaiian.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that I learned way more about man-love than I ever wanted – or even realized there was to learn.”

Liam knew better than to allow Festus to run a conversation.  “Tell me why you are in jail, Festus, or I’m hanging up.”

“I went for communion last night.”

“You dumbass.  I told you you’d get in trouble.  You should be glad it’s just jail.”

“Whatever,” said Festus.  In fact, he had been vaguely disappointed by the priest’s failure to do anything really villainous.  In the end, all he’d done was ask Festus to apologize and then let his leather-clad associates beat him up a bit.  And then, of course, the cops showed up and arrested him.  Spending the night in jail fending off the romantic overtures of a hormonally-challenged Mexican had actually been the worst part – so far at least.  Now he braced himself to tell Liam what he’d been up to – which wouldn’t be much of a surprise, really, since Festus rarely went to jail for other things. 

“What was the word I used a second ago?  Ah, yes.  Dumbass.”

“Well— well, yeah, okay.”  It wasn’t as if Liam had said something they didn’t both already know.  “Anyway, jail totally sucks.  So I need you to come pick me up.”

“Absolutely not.  I have somewhere I need to be this morning.”

Festus was indignant.  “Where?  The can?  It’s Saturday!  Come down here and bail me out already!”

“Today is Monday, Festus.”  Liam sounded calm now and a little weary.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Festus, not at all aware of the irony of his statement.  The phone went quiet for a moment while Festus made a variety of contemplative “hmm” sounds at himself. 

“Festus?”

“Oh, yeah.  Look, it was a long night, filled with way more heinousness than any man should ever have to endure, okay?  Please just come get me.”

“Sorry.”  Liam shook his head, which was helpful, considering that Festus was talking to Liam from the other end of a phone line, inside a jail almost three miles away.

“Come on, man,” Festus pleaded, “I don’t have anyone else who can help.  Don’t leave me here.  I pretty sure Mount Iwannadoya is ready to take our relationship to the next level.  He has nothing on his lower half but leather chaps, by the way.”

“Sorry, man.  Gotta go.”

“Liam?!  What in the hell is wrong with you this morning?  Did someone die or something?  Or did some kind of angry, stinging insect somehow manage to crawl up your ass?”  He could hear more heavy breathing from Liam.  “Just come get me already, you heartless bastard.  You would not believe what this guy just told me about Governor Whitford.”

“What?” asked Liam. 

“Can’t talk about it now.  Just come get me.”

“I’m only coming to get you so that I can kill you and leave your body in a ditch somewhere.”

“I can live with that.”

Chapter 19.           I Love a Parade of Naked Guys

In the 1970s, lots of people thought that the world was going to end.  The Earth was supposedly going to melt or freeze or explode or something, all because we couldn’t be bothered to turn off the tap water while brushing our teeth, and so we were all definitely going to die.  In this period of disco and wild-blue-sky optimism, there emerged the worst architectural style the world has ever known: modernism.  “Build ‘em big,” they said.  “Build ‘em big and ugly and monolithic.  Build ‘em so that they’re still here when the Time Traveler arrives and dinosaurs have reappeared and evolved to the point where dino-archaeologists can be impressed by our stupendous architectural achievements.”  And so they built them big and ugly and monolithic.  And now we’re stuck with the damned things.  These awful tributes to the dystopian future –where old people are melted down and recycled as food – infest our cities and, perhaps appropriately, are used primarily for government offices, low-income housing, or (combining the two) jails. 

The Austin City Jail is one of these ultra-modern abominations.  It is a very tall, very brown, and very government-looking building on the eastern edge of downtown.  It was built, of course, in the 1970s, and there are now very few people alive who will admit to having had any part in its construction. 

Liam and Festus walked out of the front of the jail building and down the front steps to the street.  Liam wore the kind of pained expression you might see on the face of a person who is on his first visit to a sewage processing plant.

“So he said that it’s the end of the world,” said Festus.

“Who did?”

“Haven’t you been listening?  The guy last night.”

“Some crazy dude you met in jail?”

“Well, yeah.  But I’m not sure he was crazy.  He told me some really wild stuff.”

“Wait, did you hear what you just said?”

“Wild stuff, man,” said Festus.

“You need to stop going to jail, dumbass,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Festus, nodding as if he were receiving an ancient Chinese secret or other bit of profound wisdom.  But then he muttered, mostly under his breath, “It’s not like I was trying.”

“The hell you weren’t.”

They crossed the street in silence.

“You know,” said Festus, by way of changing the subject entirely, “I’m pretty excited about animal adjectives.”  He paused, looking around.  “Where the hell did you park?”  Liam nodded toward a parking lot up the street and kept walking.  Festus had to scramble to catch up. 

“So,” he said.  “Animal adjectives.”  He waggled his eyebrows at Liam as he were referring to an inside joke about their shared harem or a horde of cash they’d recently liberated from a bank.

“What—?”

“You know—”

“—the fuck?”

“—like feline, which means ‘cat-like,’ and canine, and equine.  But those are just the usual ones.”

“Oh sure,” said Liam.  “Right.”  He kept walking.  An outside observer might have thought, based on his body language and the way that he seemed to speed up his pace, that Liam was trying to tune out Festus’ rambling.  An outside observer would have been correct. 

“And my favorite – get this,” Festus smacked Liam’s arm, “—is turdine!  It means ‘bluebird-like.’  Caprine is pretty good too, I guess.  Means ‘goat-like.’”

Liam stopped and turned to face Festus.  “You done yet?”

“Yeah, I guess.  Sure.” 

Liam turned and stepped into the street, only to have a motorcycle cop blip his siren at him.  “What th—?”  He stepped backward, but missed the curb and fell backward onto his butt.

“Wow,” said Festus, leaning over to offer Liam a hand.  “What was that?”  He pulled Liam up, and the two watched two more police motorcycles roll down the street.  A third burbled and blatted its engine as it followed the others, but then slowed and came to a stop five feet away from Liam and Festus.  The policeman, still seated on his bike, held his arms straight out, signaling that no pedestrians should cross the street.

“What’s going on?” asked Festus.

The cop stared straight through them, ignoring Festus’ question.  “Stay back, gentlemen.”  Liam and Festus looked at each other for half a second and then headed off down the sidewalk. 

As they walked, and the sound of the cop’s idling motorbike faded, they heard voices – men’s voices.  They turned to see what was coming and there, half a block away and five-abreast, was a very long line of men dressed in a random assortment of camouflage fatigues, trucker caps, and T-shirts advertising professional wrestlers.  Many of the men had signs.  The line of men in front marched shoulder-to-shoulder, holding a banner that read, “Texas Independence NOW!!”  They were chanting too, but there seemed to be little in the way of organization, rhyming schemes or even coherence to their discordant cacophony. 

“Hell no, we won’t pay income tax!”

“Texas, our Texas, you are great!”

“Are these some of those militia men who you always hear about having standoffs with the FBI or the IRS or whatever?” asked Festus.

“I guess.”

They stood and watched the parade with the kind of enthusiasm that people usually reserve for red lights and “DO NOT WALK” signs.  Liam turned to look at the gathering crowd, and then nudged Festus.

“Hey, look at that!”

An assortment of naked men appeared, rushing in from the other side of the street, cavorting and leaping about in flamboyant displays of unclothed athleticism not generally seen outside of 19th-century French sculpture. 

“Oh God!” said Festus, shielding his eyes.  Bellies quivered and bits flopped and the nudists yelled in competition with the militia men.

“It’s the end of the world!”

“We’re all gonna die!”

A nearby cop leaped off his motorbike and tackled one of the naked men, pinning him on the ground in a fit of law enforcement fervor that would come back to haunt him for years.

“I totally got that!” said a nearby kid, holding his camera phone up as a trophy.  “You’re gonna be on the Internet, you fascist homo!”

The gathering crowd jeered and the cop stood up, only to have the naked guy leap up and wrap his arms – and legs – around him.  Two of the marchers broke off and tried to help the policeman, swinging the butts of their rifles at the naked man, but the cop lurched and spun, staggering all over the place as he struggled with the man’s weight.  One of the helpful marchers ended up nailing the cop in the gut with the butt of his gun.  The policeman doubled over, and Naked Man leapt off, hooting and waving his arms as he left the cop to collapse in the middle of the street.  The parade continued, the militia men streaming around the disabled cop.

Liam and Festus continued slowly down the street, walking sideways as they watched the insanity unfold. 

“The car is just over there,” said Liam.  But Festus was busy watching two more streakers sprint up the street.  One stole a rifle from one of the paraders, hooting as he waved it in the air.  The man was surprised a few seconds later when the gun, which he’d assumed was merely a prop, discharged, shattering the windshield of a nearby automobile.  He paused, looked around with a kind of worried, surprised expression, and then hooted again and unleashed a barrage of bullets at a nearby hot dog stand.  Hot dogs and buns exploded, and the vendor dove for cover.  A group of the marchers took off after him, but the man turned and threw the rifle at them before taking off down the street.

“Oh my god,” said Festus.  “It’s like it really is the end of the world.” 

Another gaggle of naked guys ran by, apparently in pursuit of the marchers who were in pursuit of their trigger-happy comrade.  Three of them broke off from the larger group and ran up to Liam.

“Master!”

“Master!” 

“Yes, Master!”

The men bleated the words like relieved and slightly weepy sheep as they collapsed onto their knees. 

Two of the men knelt at an appropriate distance, while the third edged his way up, and with another impassioned “Master!” threw his arms around Liam’s feet.

“Um,” said Liam.  “Stop that.”

The man looked up, his lip trembling, but did not let go.

Liam gave him a helpful kick.  “Get the fuck off me.”

The man rolled back, ending up curled up on his side.  He stared up at Liam with the sad, naked-guy equivalent of puppy dog eyes.  “Yes, Master.”

Liam looked at Festus, and Festus looked back at Liam.  They made WTF faces at one another until Liam finally spoke.

“Let’s go,” he said. 

They picked their way through the increasingly disorganized parade, and headed toward the parking lot across the street.  They made it to the other side, and Festus turned for one last look at the parade. 

“I can’t believe it,” he said.  “It’s—it’s just nuts.”  Liam didn’t respond, so he turned back toward the parking lot.  “Liam?”  But Liam was oblivious.  His sights were fixed on the vision before him.  Festus shook his head and kept walking  This is what always happened when they approached Liam’s car. 

The automobile was the about only thing that he ever really seemed to get excited about these days.  It was a hot-rodded, 1969 Camaro, with black paint that, if you got close enough, had nice little sparkles in it.  It was, in a word, bitchin’.  He’d spent most of the last five years since he’d retired and most of his money fixing it up, and it now had a power-to-weight ratio just short of a Saturn V rocket.  He’d also worked with a local shop to tweak the chassis and replace all of the suspension components.  Between that and some very expensive tires, it lobbed its nearly two-ton weight around in ways that tended to elicit furrowed brows from innocent bystanders and snarky comments from physicists.

“Ooh.”  Liam ran his hand along the body of the car. 

Festus shook his head again.  This was how it always went.  But today there were naked crazies and armed militia men about.  “So I need to tell you about what the guy told me.”

Liam glanced up.  “What?”

“I need to tell you—”

“Yeah, yeah.  Why do I need to know?”  He squatted down to pick at a dust mote or something on the front fender.

“What’s that sound?” asked Festus. 

Liam popped back up.  “What sound?”

Festus tilted his head to listen, and then pointed back the way they’d come.  “That,” he said.  “That rumbling sound.”

Liam stepped around the car.  “Maybe it’s those military trucks.”  He nodded in the direction of what appeared to be a second, much faster, much larger, and much more menacing parade coming up behind the first. 

They watched for a second, listening to the rumbling sound made by a very large swarm of Humvees coming down the road.  They watched as the first of the trucks overtook the parade and stopped about a block away.  Naked guys scrambled everywhere.  The flannel-clad guys just kept on marching, albeit in a somewhat more irregular pattern as they picked their way around the trucks.  Soldiers began pouring out of the trucks and running after the naked guys.

Festus stepped forward, squinty-eyed and hunched over like a little old lady as he tried to see something more clearly.  “What is—  Does that say ‘Texas’ on the side?”

“Yeah,” said Liam.

Festus pointed a look of surprise at Liam.  “Do we have a military?”  Liam always seemed to know these things.

“Apparently we do.”

A naked guy sprinted past.  “Freeeeeee-doooooom!”  Two soldiers turned away from the fray and gave pursuit.

“Liam,” said Festus, “I think we should go.”

“I think you’re right.”  Liam unlocked the car and the two climbed in. 

Liam cranked the ignition.  The car sounded like the demon love child of a rough-idling lawn mower and a 747; as if it were powered by a rageaholic Tyrannosaurus Rex who preferred to spend its days downing cocktails made from gasoline and liquefied oxygen. 

“Dude,” said Festus, glancing down at the arm Liam had used to put the car into gear, “what happened to your arm?  Is that a… a tattoo?” 

Liam looked down.  “Shit,” he said.  There were three bright, unnaturally red spots – little circles with tails.  It almost looked like he’d had an unpleasant encounter with a badger (though one would expect such marks to appear lower on the body – perhaps on the shins) or a kangaroo (again, not a terribly likely scenario, given that kangaroos are not indigenous to Central Texas. 

“I don’t know what that is,” he said.

“Does it hurt?” asked Festus.

Liam tried out his arm, flexing this way and that.  “Nope.”  He looked at Festus and shrugged. 

But Festus was already over it.  “We’re going to need some tacos,” he said.

Liam nodded.  It was getting a little late for breakfast, but Festus had uttered an undeniable truth; a Euclidean first principle:  When all else fails – or pretty much whenever you have time – get tacos.  Especially on a morning like this.  “All right,” he said.  “Tacos.”

Chapter 20.           Clyde Parker Mortuus Est

“Fine,” said Dick Whitford.  “Yes, I understand.  No, that’s quite alright.  No.”  He slammed the phone down in its cradle and sighed.  It was shaping up to be a very shitty morning.

Fuck, he thought.  Parker was dead.  His trip to DC had been a complete waste.  More than a waste – it was a complete mess that he’d have to deal with.  A big mess, and absolutely nothing on the stupid Baphomet thing.  And, worst of all, there were fucking angels everywhere, apparently.  And not one of them was on his side.

The Governor was not your typical, modern-day politician.  These days, most political hacks come vacuum-packed with an overabundant supply of charisma and charm.  They make their way by smiling and making everyone they meet feel special and important.

Dick Whitford didn’t do special.  And charisma and charm could go fuck themselves, as far as he was concerned.  No, he’d made it to the top the old-fashioned way – backstabbing, blackmail, and bullying.  He saw the world in simple terms, classifying everything as either a weapon or a weakness.  He horded the former, ferreted out the latter, and was masterful at putting both to good use.

When Parker had told him about the angel, Whitford hadn’t been surprised in the least.  He had, after all, been the Vice President, and he’d made a point of reviewing all of the government’s darkest and dirtiest secrets.  He knew all about who really killed Kennedy, what NASA saw on the dark side of the moon, and what kind of weird shit had gone down out in the New Mexico desert.  And so there was no moment of shock, no pause for reflection to allow the new reality to sink in.  No, what he’d thought was, How can I get one of those?  And then he’d instructed Parker to “go out and find whatever magical crap you can get your hands on.” 

And now?  Well, good help is hard to find, and it’s very inconvenient when the help dies with his head in a commode.

He stabbed a meaty finger at his phone.  “Withers!” 

“Yes, sir?” 

He glanced up and saw his secretary standing in the doorway, where she’d apparently been hovering. 

The phone, unaware that Withers was actually in the room, started making an annoying beeping sound.  The Governor stabbed his finger at another one of its buttons, but that just seemed to provoke it into emitting an annoying dial tone.  He prodded it with a couple more finger jabs and, finally, had to use his fist to make it shut up.

Withers took a tentative step into the office.  Her face was pale.  “Mr. Parker, sir,” she paused, her voice a whisper, “is it true?”

Whitford sat back, impassive and toad-like, and ruminated.

“Is he – dead?” she asked.

Whitford didn’t move other than to take a slightly deeper breath.  “Yes,” he said at last.  Clyde Parker was indeed dead, but as inconvenient and annoying as that was, the Governor had neither the time nor the emotional capacity to waste precious minutes crying about it.  “Have you figured out where the hell everyone went?”

Ms. Withers brushed her hands down the front of her long skirt, and stood erect, regaining her composure.  “No, sir.  Although I’m pretty sure that I saw Joseph and one of the gardeners among those naked men who were out front earlier.”

“The security guard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So my entire staff left to go streaking?”

Ms. Withers shrugged. 

“That’s disgusting,” said Whitford.

“Yes, sir.  It is.”

“You’re not going to get naked and run off, are you?”

Ms. Withers seemed to think about it for a moment.  “No, sir.”

“Good.”  Whitford resumed his toadish rumination.

Withers watched him for a moment before breaking the silence.  “What would y—?”

“I need to talk to Cadmon,” he said.  He lurched forward in his chair, glowering for a moment before speaking.  “Get Cadmon on the phone.  I need to talk to Cadmon.”

Chapter 21.           Ima Eat Some BBQ, Bitches

The Governor’s Mansion was surrounded by military trucks, but something was odd.  The guard stand stood empty, and the big, iron gate appeared to have gotten stuck halfway open.  Bill Cadmon leaned forward from the back seat of his Town Car, peering out over the front seats at what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a deserted building. 

Cadmon glanced at his driver.  “Just go in, I guess.”

The car pulled up into the circular drive.  Off to the side, lodged halfway into a large bush, sat a utility truck.  It was tilted, with one of its front wheels dangling in the air, looking as if it had been parked by someone who’d been doing some hard partying and was anxious to get back to it.  The door was open, and Cadmon peered in the open door as his driver eased past, wondering just what the heck was going on. 

They pulled to a stop right in front of the Mansion.  The usual porter was missing, having gone off, presumably, with the driver of the truck, so Cadmon had to open his own door.  He jumped out, and with an angsty bounce in his step, mounted the few stairs to the main doorway where, again, there were no people.  Odd, he thought, as he searched for a doorbell.  He found the little, lighted button, and stood there ringing it for almost a full minute – an eternity for a man unaccustomed to waiting for anything.

He turned to his driver and shrugged.  The driver peered out from behind the steering wheel and shrugged right back.  Cadmon turned back to the door, but then immediately decided that he really didn’t want to wait any longer.  He turned and shrugged at his driver again. 

The driver, well aware that his boss was a colossal idiot, pointed to the door, and mouthed the words, “Open it!”

Cadmon pointed a finger in the air, and his eyebrows bounced halfway up his forehead in the way that eyebrows do when folks have “Eureka!” moments.  He tried the doorknob.  It was big and brass, and slightly intimidating, but it worked.  He glanced back at the driver, flashing a cocky smile that really only worked on buxom, computer-power-button-operator girls, and then went in. 

Whitford’s office suite was up the main staircase.  Cadmon knocked and poked his head in.  “Hello?”

Ms. Withers started, nearly losing control of the stack of papers she held.  “Oh!  Mr. Cadmon.  You’re here!  My goodness!  Please come in.”  She fumbled the papers onto her desk and bustled over to hold the door open. 

“Kind of a ghost town around here,” said Cadmon. 

Ms. Withers stared at him from underneath droopy eyelids and pursed her lips.  Her eyes met Cadmon’s and lingered there for a moment before she spoke.  “Yes, it is.  We’re a little short-handed this morning.”  She bared her teeth at him, and he went into a defensive half-crouch.  After a moment, he realized she was just trying to smile so he stood back up.  He’d never seen her do that before though, so he stayed ready, just in case he needed to do something.  Like crouch again. 

“Those are nice pants,” she said.

He went back into the defensive crouch.  “What is going on around here today?  Where the heck is everyone?  What the—”  The waiting area smelled smoky and slightly sweet.  He glanced around and spotted a large, grease-stained bag on her desk.

“Well, Mr. Cadmon, that is a very good question.”  She pronounced the last three words as if each were a separate sentence, using the irritating authoritative voice that underlings of powerful people often adopt.  “Unfortunately, it is one for which I am unable to provide an answer.” 

Cadmon gave a non-committal grunt and nodded, pretending to admire an old map of Texas on the wall in order to avoid further eye contact. 

“The Governor has been waiting for you.  I’ll let him know you’re here.”  She snatched the bag and marched across the room toward a pair of imposing, darkly-stained doors.

She paused, turning her ear toward the door to listen.  Cadmon could hear the Governor having what sounded like a very exciting conversation.  Ms. Withers stood perfectly still, waiting for Whitford to stop making angry sounds before peeking in.  Cadmon, peering over her shoulder, noticed that he did not appear to be on the phone, and had, apparently, been ranting to himself.  Ms. Withers cleared her throat to speak, but Whitford barked at her, without even looking up, before she could say a word.

“Why haven’t you got that goddamned preacher on the phone yet?  I need to talk to him.  Right now.”

“He’s here, sir,” said Ms. Withers. 

Whitford looked up.  “What?”

“Cadmon, sir.  He’s here.”

Whitford’s eyes narrowed.  “I told you,” he said, “to get him on the phone.”

“Yes sir, I know.”  Ms. Withers almost looked nervous.  Almost.  But she stood her ground.  “I was unable to reach him.  But he’s here now.” 

Whitford continued his brisk tone, but declined to make eye contact.  “All right.  Send him in.”

“Mr. Cadmon?  Oh—”  She turned to find the preacher right behind her, and attempted another smile.  And then she stepped backward, moving her body into the doorway and pressing her back against the doorjamb.  “You can go on in, Bill.”  Her chest heaved. 

Cadmon took a hesitant step toward the doorway and paused, making several awkward, abortive attempts to go through before sliding sideways, pressed up against the opposite jamb.  The secretary let out a long breath.

“Thank you, Ms. Withers,” said Whitford.  “That will be all.” 

She seemed suddenly to be aware of herself.  “Oh,” she said.  “Okay.  I’ll just be right out here.  At my desk.  If you need anything.”  She flashed another zombie smile at Cadmon and clicked the door shut behind her.  She burst back in half a second later, bustling over to Whitford’s desk, where she placed the greasy paper bag.  If Cadmon hadn’t been studiously ignoring the woman, he’d have noticed a furtive wink as she made her way out of the office a second time.

He watched as the Governor tore open the bag, pulled out container after container, and arrayed them in a semi-circle on his enormous desk.  The giant desk was, like the rest of the office, stained almost black.  The massive structure might have made a nice house for a family in one of those third-world countries.  But this was Texas.  And Whitford needed something on which he could eat his meals and prop his feet.  So there it sat, in the middle of his enormous wood-paneled cave, looming over and oppressing anyone stupid or unfortunate enough to come into the Governor’s office. 

Whitford didn’t look up from his plate, but started right in.  “Apparently, my man Parker is dead.”  He grunted as he shoveled hunks of smoked meat into his face.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” said Cadmon with a gentle nod and facial expression that made him look as if he were sucking on a sour candy.

“Yeah,” said Whitford, “Whatever.  Anyway, you called this meeting.”  He took a moment to engage in some ruminative mastication.  “So get on with it.”

“I did not,” said Cadmon.  He pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward Ms. Withers’ desk.  “She said—”

“Whatever.  You’ve been calling me non-stop for a week.”

“But I—”

“Don’t give me that crap,” said Whitford.

Cadmon clamped his mouth shut.  He wished that, just once, he could talk to this fat bastard without feeling like a stupid schoolboy.

“So what do you want?” asked the Governor.

Cadmon opened his mouth to speak, but the governor interrupted.  “Before we get into that, I need you to tell me something,” he said.  “I want to know how you knew about the storm.”

“Well,” said Cadmon, “that’s actually one of the things I’m here to talk about.”  His eyes bugged out, but because the Governor had already cleared his plate and was now chomping a container full of onion slices that had clearly been intended as garnish.  The two men locked eyes for an instant and Cadmon quickly wiped the look of surprise off his face.

“Well?” asked Whitford.

Cadmon took a deep breath.  He rubbed his hands together, then adjusted his seat.  “Well, it’s—”  He ran a hand through his hair.  He’d thought through what he was going to say a hundred times, but now he couldn’t find the right words.  So he just came right out and said it.  “It was an angel, Dick.  An angel told me about that storm.”

“Okay,” said Whitford, completely unfazed.  “All right.” 

Cadmon looked up, dropping his hand from his forehead.  Whitford appeared to be nodding to himself. 

“You don’t seem—”  The preacher shook his head, unable to find the right words.  Of all the different ways this could turn out, he would not have predicted this particular response.  He wondered if Whitford had known about Ezekiel already.

The pale monster in the squeaky chair smirked.  “I’ll admit that it’s pretty strange.  I mean, an angel.  Ha!”  Cadmon jumped at the sound of Whitford attempting to laugh.  “But the idea that you could predict this huge, unbelievable storm – that was absurd.  And then you turned out to be right.  The world’s best meteorologists couldn’t have predicted that.  So, I knew it had to be some kind of weird, fantastical crap.”  He gave a little nod, as if this kind of thinking were perfectly natural for all good ole boys:  Got yourself an ineffable mystery?  A situation inexplicable using reason and modern scientific knowledge?  No problem.  It was probably just an angel or something. 

“And you believe me?  About the angel?”

Whitford hesitated.  “Well,” he said, “the storm showed up, just like you said.  And it all worked out like you predicted.”  He gave another one of those “that’s perfectly reasonable” nods. 

A moment of awkward silence passed between them.

“Okay,” said Cadmon, letting out a breath.  “He wants to meet with you.”

Whitford said nothing.

“The angel does.  Here.”

Whitford still sat, impassive and toad-like.

“So, he’s coming.  Here.  To meet with you.  And he’s—”

Whitford interrupted with an abrupt burst of sound, reinforcing the idea that he was, in fact, a very large, very pale amphibian.  “When?” he croaked.

“I— I don’t know exactly.  Soon.”

“Tomorrow?  Next week?  How soon?”

“Any minute now.”

“Jesus!”  Whitford stood, his toad-like impassivity gone.  “Is he just going to walk up the steps?”

Cadmon sighed, defeated.  “No, he’ll just appear.”

“Good.”  Another nod, which immediately changed into the kind of assholic look of condescension that can only be achieved when a really large person in a position of authority tucks his outermost chin and stares down his nose.  “With those goddamned giant wings—”

Cadmon looked up, right in Whitford’s eyes.  “How do you know—?”

“Oh—well, I assume—I mean, he’s an angel, right?  And angels have wings.”  Whitford smiled.  “So anyway, is that all you came here to tell me?”

Cadmon didn’t answer immediately.  “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“What do you mean, what am I going to do now?” 

“You now control more than 50% of the country’s refining capacity, and three of the four main oil pipeline entry points.  That gives you a lot of power,” said the preacher, an exaggerated smirk on his face.  “Just imagine what you could do.”

“Is that why you’re here?  To play ‘what-if’?”  He glared at Cadmon.  “You came to me with this idea.”

“I know I did.  Of course I did.”  Cadmon sat, looking a little sullen.

“Remember?”

“Yes, Dick, but—”

“But what?”

“Well, you can’t just stop.  You have to keep going.  Move on to the next state; the next conquest!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, Dick!  You know what’s at stake!”

“No, I don’t,” he said. 

“It’s—”  Cadmon laughed, shaking his head.  “Jesus Christ, Dick.  Don’t you get it?  It’s Judgment Day.  Armageddon.  That’s why the angel is here.”  The preacher looked as if he might cry.

“Don’t give me any of that mystical ‘It’s the End Times’ crap.  I want to know what the hell is going on!”

“That is what’s going on.  That’s what the angel is doing – getting the ball rolling to bring about Judgment Day.”

Whitford sneered, but didn’t say anything.

The preacher continued.  “I’ve been asked to help facilitate.”

The governor let out a loud guffaw.  “So, let me get this straight,” he said.  “An angel came down from Heaven and somehow got you involved in – what, exactly? – bringing about the end of the world?”

Cadmon stared, a defiant look on his face.  This was more like the reaction he’d expected.  “Yes,” he said.  “Well, no.”

“Which is it?”

“I’m supposed to find people.  People to play certain roles.”

“And I’m one of those people?”

Cadmon looked sheepish.  “Yes.”

Whitford sat, apparently mulling it over.  “What,” he said finally, “is my role, exactly?”

“Well,” said Cadmon, “you were supposed to take over the State of Louisiana.”

“Yeah, I got that.  Thanks.  Now tell me why I’m supposed to take over Louisiana.”

“It was supposed to be a starting point.  And now you’re supposed to move on to other states, and eventually…”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Well, you know—”

“I don’t know.”

Cadmon sighed.  “In the Bible,” he said, “there are certain roles prophesized.”

“Roles?”

“Yeah, the four horsemen,” he said, and then lowered his voice.  “And there are some others.”

Whitford raised his eyebrows.

“Well, there’s the Antichrist.  You know—and I think there may be some others.”

“And which am I supposed to be?”

“Well, it’s not clear exactly.  They didn’t tell me which one you’re supposed to be.  They just—”

“Bull.  Shit.”

Cadmon’s reluctance to speak gave way at last, and the words came pouring out.  “The angel told me to find a leader.  A conqueror.  They wanted someone who would have no problem taking over a neighboring state.  Someone who could take control of Louisiana.  And then move on to other states.  Someone who would have no problem running things.  If it came to that.”

“Isn’t that—the Antichrist?  You’re saying that I’m the fucking Antichrist?  Goddamnit Bill!”

“I don’t know for sure!”

“You’re a goddamned moron, you know that?” said Whitford.  He looked down at the desk where his hands were spread out flat.  He almost seemed hurt.  Vulnerable.  “Why me?” he said.

“Because I didn’t know anyone else—”

“You chose me to be the goddamned, mother-fucking Antichrist?  Why do I have to be the bad guy?  I’m always the bad guy!”

“Well, it’s not as if—”

“Not as if what?!”

Whitford’s bulk, spread out as it was over the seat, made the man look a little like a volcano in a suit.  He seemed to tremble a little as he stewed in his anger, and Cadmon amused himself by imagining Whitford’s head exploding upward, on top of a column of lava.

“Look,” said Cadmon.  “It’s not like that.”

“No?  How is it then?”

“You’re not actually the antichrist.  You’re just playing a role.  You can’t really be a bad guy if an angel comes down and asks you to do it.”

Whitford’s eyes narrowed and a low grumbling noise seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within his bulk.  Cadmon wasn’t sure if the man was mulling something over or just experiencing an unpleasant gastrointestinal moment.

“Wait a minute,” said the Governor, “is that why asked me if I could get my hands on some sarin gas?”

Cadmon’s eyes went wide.  “So,” he said, “did you—?  Did you get it?”

Whitford started to speak, but was interrupted by an ear-splitting grinding, screeching, buzz-saw noise.  Like the sound of a giant electric hair clipper trying to break the sound barrier.

“Hello, Dick Whitford,” said the angel.  “I am the Angel Ezekiel.”

Chapter 22.           Bonus Taco!

There were a lot of reasons why Liam liked Festus.  He was intelligent (though he seemed to do his best not to show it), thoughtful (though the majority of his thoughts seemed to be very strange), and just generally a good guy to hang around with (if you like hanging around guys who are, more or less, completely nuts).  There was one trait, however, that, if he were asked, Liam would have refused to acknowledge, even to himself:  Festus’ batshit antics made Liam feel relatively normal, and helped to remind him to keep his own oddball tendencies in check.  It was like being in a grocery store and seeing a morbidly obese guy straining and sucking wind as he reaches up from the seat of his electric shopping cart to pull down a pack of “diet” cookies.  It makes you think twice about the package of Oreos you’re just about to drop into your own cart. 

Festus stopped making snarfing sounds and grunts and came up for air.  “Oh my God,” he said, wiping his face on the sleeve of his black T-shirt.  “I think this is the best breakfast taco I have ever had.  In my life.”

“You say that every time.”  Liam reached for more hot sauce.  He could hardly fault Festus for the repetitive comment though – they were damned good tacos. 

The two sat outside a small shack on the Drag, just north of the University, reveling in the manly camaraderie that only comes with the shared enjoyment of tacos.  The shack was not fancy – just a closet-sized building with a window and a sign that read, rather prosaically, “Taco Stand.”  They sat on a porch, which was really just a section of parking lot fenced in by an old, crumbling brick wall, with a couple of rusty, wire chairs and tables tossed in.  There were a few clouds off in the distance, but they were far away, and so Liam and Festus enjoyed the bright sunshine and the occasional breeze that came in and took the edge off the humid winter heat.

Liam finished his breakfast and sat back, stretching out his legs and placing his hands back behind his head.  Loading one’s arteries full of coma-inducing grease first thing in the morning wasn’t brilliant.  But it was awesome.

“So tell me about your new Hawaiian friend,” said Liam.

Festus glared at Liam.  “What you need to hear about is this other guy.  Dude was wasted.  Had some crazy stuff to say about the Governor.”

“Did you pump him for information?”

Festus made a face that said something along the lines of, “I’d kill you, if it didn’t mean I’d have to put down this taco.” 

Liam, however, didn’t notice Festus’ expression.  He was therefore blissfully unaware a taco was all that stood between him and a brutal, and probably very messy, death.  “What’d the drunk guy say?”

Festus leaned in conspiratorially.  “Well, he said that he’d been working for the Governor.”

“A drunk guy, who was in jail, had been working for the Governor?  Doing what?  Crafting legislation?”

“No, no,” said Festus.  “They hired him to find something or steal something.  I didn’t quite understand.”

“The word ‘quite’ seems inadequate here,” said Liam.  Festus smirked.  “So, what did he find?  Or steal?  Or whatever it was that he actually did?”

“I don’t think he found it, whatever it was.  But that’s not the point.”  He crumpled his spent taco wrapper and put it on the growing pile of grease-stained papers.  “Wait a minute,” said Festus.  “Is that yours?”  He pointed to a small, oblong object wrapped in yellow paper.  It sat in the exact center of the table.  Greasy, translucent spots on the wrapper revealed that it was, in fact, a taco.

“No, I ate two already.”

“Me too,” said Festus, his voice full of the kind of wonder that most people reserve for really special occasions, like meeting space aliens or discovering a lost continent.

“That means—”

“Must be an extra—”

“—bonus taco!” said Festus.  “Sweet Jesus!”  Liam pushed it toward Festus, who peeled back the wrapper and, shrugging off the anatomical constraints imposed by his standard-sized, H. sapiens sapiens dentition, tore off an impossibly large chunk.  They sat in silence while Festus, his head tilting this way and that, tried to chew half a taco all at once.  His facial expression slowly changed as he chewed and chewed and chewed, so that he began to look less like he was eating breakfast than taking care of some onerous chore, but eventually he got it down.

“He told me—” Festus paused for another bite, “some other stuff.”

Liam ignored Festus again.  He was now watching as a black-feathered bird repeatedly dive bombed a squirrel.  The squirrel had one of those little juice boxes that children drink from, and the bird appeared to be, for whatever reason, very upset by this fact.  The bird dove and missed, flapping his wings frantically as he turned around in midair for another attack.  He swooped downward again, but this time the squirrel was prepared, and he leapt up to mount a counterattack.  The two collided in midair, crashed to the ground (it was a tiny, bird-and-squirrel-sized crash), and rolled around a bit – a mass of fluffy tail and feathers locked in a manic, mortal battle.  The bird finally extricated himself from the squirrel’s clutches, fussing and flapping his way off a few yards.  He clawed at the gravel on the ground as the two creatures eyed each other. 

After a second, the bird launched himself into the air again, but this time he didn’t go straight for the squirrel.  Instead he hovered over the fuzzy rodent, holding what appeared to be smallish but not insubstantial stone in his claws.  The squirrel stared up at the bird, and the bird stared back for a couple of seconds before releasing the stone, which smacked the squirrel on the noggin.  The squirrel teetered a bit, shook his head, and ran off toward some bushes.

Festus, completely oblivious to the raptor-rodent death match that had just taken place, continued to regale Liam with his tales from the municipal jail.  “Whitford,” he said, “either has already obtained – or is attempting to obtain – some kind of biological weapon.  Or poison gas.  One of those.  I’m not sure which.”

Liam snapped his head around.  “What?” 

Festus nodded as he inhaled the last bite of taco.

“That’s insane.  Crazy talk.  Doesn’t make any sense at all.”  Liam leaned forward, suddenly the grand inquisitor.  “How do you know that the guy you talked to wasn’t just another crazy conspiracy theorist like you?”

“Wrrmmph?” said Festus, signaling indignance through a mouthful of taco.  “He’s not.  He said Whitford’s working with that TV preacher – Camdon?  Cadmon?  Condom?  I don’t know.  Sounds pretty wacky to me, but then, the guy was totally freaked out.  Completely freaked out.  Kept screaming, ‘We’re gonna die!  We’re all gonna die!’”  Festus, apparently in the interest of communicating the experience as fully and accurately as possible, half stood, rolled his eyes back in his head, drooled a bit, and flopped over backwards onto the table.  “We’re all gonna die!” 

The large and swarthy lady who manned the taco stand window (in both the selling-tacos sense and the “I’ve-got-a-hairy-mustache-and-big-arms” sense) poked her head out and gave Festus a look of matronly disapproval.  Festus very quietly returned his seat back and tray table to their normal positions.  “I don’t know,” he said, removing a greasy sheet of taco wrapper that had stuck to the side of his head.  “What do you think about it?”

“Um, I don’t.”  There was a slurping sound, and Liam turned to see that the bird, having bombed the squirrel into submission, now had a straw in his mouth and was draining the juice box.

“He also said that Whitford is the Devil,” said Festus, still oblivious to the bird’s antics.  “But I don’t think that’s true.  I think he’s the Antichrist.”

Liam stared for a longish while, his face full of squinty eyes and knitted eyebrows.  “Festus, you are an idiot.”  He looked back at the bird, but it had flown away.

Festus opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, and, with a slight, self-reflective nod, opted to take a sip of his beverage by way of rebuttal.  “So,” he said, taking a completely un-novel tack, “what do you think?  Could the Governor really be the Antichrist?”

“I don’t really think—”

“No, wait,” said Festus.  “Just hear me out.”

Liam sighed.  “You know I don’t believe in any of that crap.”

“So, what?  I don’t believe that you’re a giant asshole, but you generally do a great job of proving my non-belief to be pretty misguided.”

“Um... blow me?”

“So anyway, there’s a kind of Antichrist checklist in the Book of Daniel.  First thing on the list is that the Antichrist will do as he pleases; that he will answer to no Earthly authority.  That one’s easy.”

“It’d be really amazing,” said Liam, “if you had the capacity to remember things that were actually useful.”

Festus carried on, an ice-breaking ship plowing right through Liam’s unhelpful commentary.  “Second, he will have ‘no regard for the desire of women,’ which supposedly means that he will either be asexual or homosexual.  I’m not sure about that,” he said.  “Wait, you’ve met him.  Do you think he’s gay?  He doesn’t seem very gay.”

“Doubt it.  But I couldn’t say for sure.”

“Third, either he or his companion will claim to be Jesus.  That’s that Camdon guy, right?  And fourth, he will appear to survive a fatal injury.  Well, he’s had all those heart attacks, right?  Right?” 

There are only so many things you can say to a raving lunatic, none of which appealed to Liam particularly at that moment.  So he sat back again, put his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes, waiting for it to be over.

“And the Antichrist is supposed to start taking over the world.  Whitford invaded Louisiana, right?”

“He didn’t invade Louisiana,” said Liam.

“Well, maybe he didn’t actually invade with tanks and stuff, but you said yourself that he now controls most of the oil supply of the most powerful nation in the world.”  Festus did the shrugging and hand-waving equivalent of writing “QED” under a proof, and slumped back into his chair, spent. 

The bird came back.  But now he landed right in the middle of their table, sliding and flapping his wings as he slipped on one of the taco wrappers.

“Whoa,” said Festus, scooting back in his chair.  “What the hell?”

The bird turned his head to the side to regard Festus.  He took a step forward, toward Festus’ drink.

Festus knocked his chair over as he stood up, evidently feeling a little nonplussed.  “Seriously,” he said.  “What the hell?” 

Liam seemed unfazed.  “Oh, relax.  It’s just the Thirsty Black Bird of the Apocalypse.”  He waved his hand in the general direction of the bird.  “Totally fits in with your theory.” 

Festus glanced around for a bit of guidance, but found none.  The taco lady had disappeared from her window, and there seemed to be absolutely nobody else around, not even out on the Drag.  It was as if this little corner of Austin had suddenly turned into the stark, empty set of an Alfred Hitchcock movie, leaving just Festus, the wacko bird, and the arguably more wacko version of Liam, who’d obviously been the victim of some heinous alien body snatchery.

“Just relax, Festus.”  Liam waved him back over to the table.  “Sit down.”

Festus took a tentative step back toward the table.  The bird took another step too, and then, after giving Festus a couple more of those scary, one-eyed looks that only creepy black birds can give, took one more step and closed his beak over the straw in Festus’ beverage.

Festus declined to take any further steps toward the table, opting instead to stay right the hell where he was. 

Liam, having apparently accepted the bird situation and moved on with his life, picked at a scrap of leftover taco filling and plucked it into his mouth.  “Tell me more about what the guy told you in jail.  Did he give you any kind of details about what the attack would be?”

“No.  Just that it’s supposed to be some kind of poison gas or something.  I dunno.” 

“Not real helpful,” said Liam.

“He kept saying stuff about the Army of God.  And talking about how everything’s supposed to be all crazy.  And I’m starting to think he was r—”

“Okay, you’ve had your fill,” said Liam, waving a hand at the bird.  The animal turned to Liam, gave what for all intents and purposes appeared to be a nod, and flew away. 

“You know,” said Festus, “you always seem to be the epicenter of all the weird shit that happens around here.  Weird shit really only happens when I’m around you.  I think we may need to stop hanging out.”

“You called me to get you out of jail, boner.”

“Yes, well… still.”  Festus shuddered.  “Weird shit.”

Liam looked at his watch.  “I’ve got to go.” 

“Where?”  Festus apparently could not fathom either the fact that Liam actually had somewhere to be, or the possibility that Liam had found Festus’ conversation to be anything less than absolutely riveting. 

“Lola is stopping by the shop.”

“The girl from your date?  All right!”

“No, it’s not like that.  We didn’t hit it off at all.  She’s—she’s with the FBI.”  He stood, surveying the taco-paper devastation they’d wrought.  “I’m going to help out on something...”

“What?  Tell me you’re not getting involved with all of that again.”

“I ... think I just told you that I was—am.”  He scooped up the greasy wrappers and stepped to the garbage can.  “Anyway, it’s just a little thing.”

“What the hell?  I thought you didn’t like shooting bad guys.”

Liam turned.  “What?  No.  I love shooting bad guys.”

Festus was generally the shocker, not the shockee.  He didn’t know what to do, so he just stared at Liam.

“Shooting bad guys is fun.  It’s not like you see on the movies…’”  Liam made his voice high-pitched and feigned consternation.  “‘Oh no!  I shot him!  He’s dead.  And now he’ll never go to the can again!  I feel so sad.  Boo hoo.’”  This was a side of Liam that Festus had never seen.  “No, it’s more like, ‘Yeah!  I just shot that fucker.  Now he won’t go around blowing shit up in the name of God or Jesus or Allah or whatever unicorn-tree-god he believes in.”  Liam punctuated this statement with a subtle fist pump.

“Well, there are a lot of unicorn-tree-god jihadists,” said Festus.  “I’ll grant you that.”

Liam swatted at a fly as he tried to shove their breakfast garbage into the can without actually touching it.  “Besides, I’m not going to shoot any bad—” 

“You come back here!”  The taco stand man-lady had appeared again, having wedged her ample self halfway out the window this time.  She caught Liam’s eye.  “He’s stealing the tacos!”  She pointed and Liam followed the line of her finger.  A man with no shirt weaved his way past the tables, planted a hand on the low brick wall, and threw his legs over.  Or at least, that’s what he attempted to do.  He caught his foot on the edge of the bricks and ended up rolling sideways over the top of the wall and onto the ground.  But a second later he was up again, clutching a pile of tacos to his chest.  He glanced around, apparently more concerned about being convicted of klutziness than petty larceny, and resumed his flight. 

The taco stand lady started to yell again, but was interrupted by the sound of screeching tires.  The sound was from a shiny, black Lincoln Town Car attempting to come to a quick stop, which it did, right after hitting the man with no shirt.  He doubled over, smacking his head on the hood, and then slid off the side of the car onto the ground. 

The car doors swung open and two old men in engineers’ coveralls stepped out.  They stepped around to the front of the car and stared at the shirtless man, talking quietly to one another for a moment.  They stopped talking and, after some looking around and some nodding at each other, the two old men crouched down, picked the man up, and carried him around to the back of the car.  They then proceeded to put him into the trunk.  He went in without much of a fuss – probably on account of having just been run over – and so the two old men, each brushing his hands together in the way one does after a job well done, climbed back into their American-made leviathan and drove away.

Sometimes, when really screwy stuff happens, the casual observer finds it difficult to mount a coherent or logical response.  Sometimes there’s just not much you can say or do.  Liam and Festus did the only thing they could.

“What.  The.  Fuck?” said Liam.

“Yeah...” said Festus, nodding his head very slowly.  The earthquakes, locust swarms, and weird, apocalyptic weather events of late were one thing.  But now, things really seemed to be getting out of hand.

The taco stand lady bustled out to the edge of the porch, a broom in her hand.  “You don’t steal my tacos!” she shouted, waving the pole end of the broom at the world at large.

“Should we call someone?” asked Festus.

“Nah,” said Liam.  He looked at his watch again.  “Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

They were too full from the tacos to attempt full, sliding-across-the-hood stunts, and so they just got into the car like normal guys, and drove a couple of blocks over to the guitar shop. 

When they arrived less than a minute later, Liam was disturbed to see that the lights of the shop were already on.  They went inside, and found Raju asleep on the floor behind the cash register, looking bored.

“Raju,” Liam gave him a love tap with his foot.  “What are you doing?”

Raju sat up, wiping drool from his face, and looked up from under droopy eyelids.  “What?”

“Are you high?”

“No,” said Raju.  “I don’t think so.  Why?”

“There’s a woman coming here.  She should be here any minute.  Don’t act like an idiot.”

Chapter 23.           Whitford Flosses, Calls in the Secessionists

The angel talked and talked.  He made everything sound so easy.  He told them where they could get the sarin gas, and about the demon who was on his way to Texas to try to screw everything up, and all the things they needed to do to ensure the plan succeeded.  His words seemed to flow, warm and comforting.  Cadmon watched the anger drain out of Whitford’s face, and found himself nodding along with the rhythmical cadence of the angel’s speech.

Cadmon snapped awake.  The angel was saying something to him.

“He is in charge now.  You will do as he says.  Your resources are his.”  The angel turned away and rose to his full height, lifting his arms out to his sides.

“What?  Wait a minute!”

Ezekiel dropped his arms and turned, flashing Cadmon a dirty look.  “He is in charge now,” he stabbed a finger toward Whitford.  The Governor, still a little dazed, managed a weak smirk.

The angel gave a curt nod and took a deep breath, regaining his composure.  He started to spread his hands again.  But Cadmon persisted. 

“I don’t understand?  Why is he—?

The angel’s eyes flashed red as he spun.  “What do you want?”  There suddenly seemed to be a lot more air moving around the room than is typically the case indoors.  The wooden blinds that covered Whitford’s windows rattled.

Cadmon sat startled, his eyes wide.  “Well, I—”

Whitford leaned over to peer around the angel.

“Nothing,” said Cadmon.

“Good,” said the angel.  The room flashed and shook, and Ezekiel disappeared without bothering with the whole arms-raising thing this time.

They sat in silence for almost a full minute.  Whitford picked at his teeth absentmindedly.  Cadmon caught up on some sighing he’d been meaning to do.  Neither seemed to know what to say.  But then Whitford snapped to attention, apparently having figured something out.  He yanked open a drawer of his desk, and rummaged through papers, pens, and other office paraphernalia.

“Damnit,” he said.

He rummaged some more, and finally settled on a pen.  He tore the cap off, tossing the pen itself aside, and wedged the pointy end of the pen cap in between two teeth.

He glanced up at Cadmon, his face contorted. 

The preacher waited for him to say something, and tried not to let the revulsion he felt show on his face.  “Well,” he said.

Whitford said nothing.  He continued to pick at his teeth. 

“Hello?” said Cadmon.  But the Governor said nothing, so the preacher stood to leave.

Whitford grunted.  “Okay,” he said, pulling the pen cap out briefly to examine it.  “Alright.  Lots to do.  So you’ll send your men after the demon—?”  The last word was garbled, as if the Governor were trying to talk while picking at his teeth.  Which he was.

“What?” asked Cadmon.  “Some of my men?  What demon?  What the hell are you talking about?”  He sat back down.

Whitford smacked both hands down on the desk.  “The demon?  Hello?”

Cadmon stared blankly at the Governor.

“Were you even listening, dumbass?”

“Well, yes.  I thought… but I—”

“The demon,” said Whitford.  “The one who’s on his way here.”

“Oh, right.  Right.”

“You’re supposed to send some of your men to get him.”

“My men?  What are you—?”

“Unk,” said Whitford.  He’d tossed the pen cap aside and was now just using a his finger.  Finally he stopped, removed his hand – which had been lodged halfway into his mouth – and held something up to look at it in the light. 

Cadmon nearly gagged, but felt a little relieved now that the episode appeared to be at an end. 

But it wasn’t.  Whitford stabbed a button on his intercom.  “Withers, bring me some goddamned floss.”

Ms. Withers came in with the dental floss.  “Minty, just like you like it,” she said, and bustled out. 

Cadmon really, really did not want to watch this man floss.  But if this, he told himself, was what it took to do God’s work, then so be it.  He tried to think of Jesus’ suffering.  Then he thought about how Jesus probably never had to watch the Blob floss.

When it came to Whitford, Cadmon generally tried to avoid being around for anything that even remotely resembled a bodily function.  Today, however, was a total catastrophe – Cadmon had already watched the man eat, and was about to have to watch him floss.  At least we’re not at the gym, he thought, and then immediately shook his head to erase the disturbing image of post-workout showers that popped into his head.

“My men?” asked the preacher.

“I know about your little army.”

Cadmon decided to ignore that one.  “Why can’t you send some of your people?”

Whitford spread his arms.  “Do you see anyone here?”

Cadmon glanced around, slightly confused.  “I see you.  What about those soldiers I’ve seen around town?”  He gestured at a closet which, even on a day when Whitford’s soldiers hadn’t run off naked, probably would have had few, if any, serviceable military men, clothed or otherwise.  “You’ve got tons of people – soldiers, staff, whatever – that you can send.  Why can’t you do it?”

“You fuckwit.  My entire staff ran off this morning.  All of them.  Every single one.  Along with half of our – my – soldiers.  Ezekiel said it has something to do with the demon.  But whatever.  Apparently they’re out there, just… just running around naked.”  He too waved a hand at the closet, even though he’d just opened it this morning and hadn’t found a single naked guy in it.

“Ms. Withers is still here.”

“Shut up,” said Whitford.

“You’ve got to have someone.  I can’t send my guys.  Just send some state troop—”

Dick Whitford was capable, when the occasion called for it, of being very convincing.  Most people assumed this had something to do with his habit of occupying positions of power.  Folks who’d been subjected to his persuasive powers, however, knew better.  They knew that Whitford’s my résumé of high-ranking jobs in the executive branches of various governments was merely a complement to his volcanic temperament. 

“Goddamnit!”  He slammed his hands down on his desk as he stood.  He leaned across the now disordered stacks of papers and pointed a meaty, sausage of a finger in Cadmon’s face.  “Don’t you fuck with me.”

“What?  I’m not fu—”

“Didn’t you hear what the angel said?  Your resources are mine now!”

“Okay,” said Cadmon, trying not to let the terror he felt show through his façade of pleasant cooperativeness.  “But—”  Cadmon saw the glowering expression on Whitford’s face and decided not to pursue the point.  “How do we find him?”

“He’s driving here, apparently.  In a bright orange sports car.”  Whitford rifled through some notes on his desk.  “Here,” he said, thrusting a slip of paper at the preacher.  “An orange Lamborghini.”

“You don’t have a license plate or anything?”

“It’s new, and has those new-car, paper plates.  So, no, I don’t.  But how many fucking orange Lamborghinis did you see today?

“Uh…”

“And how many did you see yesterday?  Or the fucking six months before that?”

“Well…”

“None.  That’s how many, you goddamned ninny.  Just tell your men to go stake out I-35 and look for the bright orange sports car hauling ass down the road.”

“How do they—?”  Cadmon hesitated.  “What do they do with – the demon?”

“Jesus!”  Whitford slapped a giant palm down onto his desk.  “You goddamned dumbass.  Weren’t you listening at all?”  For a second he looked as if he might eat Cadmon.  But then he subsided.  “Look,” he said.  “He said the demon is masquerading as a human, which somehow makes it vulnerable.  But he can change back, so Ezekiel said we have to catch him before he changes.  So, have your men shoot him.  Or blow him up or something.  Doesn’t matter.  Just get him, and do it quick.”

“What happens if the demon sees them first?”

“Then they’re fucked.  And so are we.  So don’t screw this up.”

“Oh,” said Cadmon.  “Alright.”  He sat for a moment.  “What—?  What do I – or they – do with his body?”

Whitford glared at the preacher.  “You dumbass.  You really oughta pull your head out of your ass next time a fucking angel talks to you.”  He shook his head to show Cadmon just how disgusted he was.  “You’re supposed to take him to your church.  I’m supposed to get an anesthesiologist – never mind, I’ll worry about that.  You just get him there.”

“Okay then,” said Cadmon.  He started to stand.

“Wait,” said Whitford.  “There’s something else.”  He sighed and slumped back into his enormous chair.  “I need— The angel wants us to get something.”  He looked Cadmon in the eyes, staring until he could see the man squirming.

Cadmon looked up expectantly.  “What is it?”

“It’s called Baphomet.”

“Stupid name.”

“Yeah, it’s some kind of CIA thing from years ago.  They were researching mind control techniques.  Apparently they were successful before being shut down.  Been trying get a hold of some of the research for a while.”  He saw Cadmon’s skeptical look and added, “The angel wants us to get it.”  He nodded.

“He … does?”  Cadmon didn’t remember hearing anything about this.  But then, he’d totally missed the bit about the demon too. 

“Yes,” said Whitford.  “That’s right.  He does.”  He glared at the skeptical preacher, daring him to express doubt again.

“Okay.  Alright.”  Cadmon held up two conciliatory hands.  “How can I help?”

“Clyde was supposed to visit with a man who lives just outside of San Marcos, after he came back from DC.  Now that he’s gone, I need someone to go out there.” 

“What was Clyde doing in Washington?”

Whitford waved a dismissive hand in the air.  “Trying to get the Congress to declare today as ‘National Mind Your Own Goddamned Business Day’.”  Whitford gave Cadmon a dirty look.  Cadmon glared right back.  “He was lobbying for federal money to fix potholes.”

“Hey, there’s a giant pothole on my street,” said Cadmon.  “It’s ridiculous.  Fills up with water every time it rains.  Looks like a lake.  We’ve got a family joke:  What drives on water—”

“That’s nice, and I’m terribly interested,” said Whitford, the expression on his face indicating a variety of sentiments that did not include interest, empathy, or concern.  “Right now, though, I need you to send a couple of guys out there, pick up the guy who Clyde was gonna meet with, and bring him back.”

“Alright.”  Cadmon reached for a notepad on Whitford’s desk.  “What’s the guy’s name?”

“How the Hell am I supposed to know that?” asked the Governor.

“Well, you’re the one—”

The Governor didn’t let him finish.  He tossed a folded sheet of paper at Cadmon.  “Here’s the address.”

“Okay,” said Cadmon, reaching for the paper.  “But I still don’t understand how they’re supposed to find him if they don’t have a name.”

“Parker had the name, and he’s dead, okay?  All I’ve got is the address.  But the man is a freak, apparently,” said Whitford.  “Very, very strange guy.  Just tell your men to go to that address, find the weirdo, and bring him back.”

“Okay,” said Cadmon, pocketing the page. 

And with that, Whitford was done.  He picked up a stack of paper, sat back, and began reading.

Cadmon waited for the Whitford to say something.  “Is that all—?”

Whitford didn’t even look up.  “That’s all I need.  Thank you.” 

Cadmon stared for a second, mouth agape.  The Governor just ignored him though, and with nothing else to say, he stood up and left.

Chapter 24.           A Second Date with Lola

People often say – as a friendly alternative to phrases like “shit happens” or “life sucks and then you die” – that everything happens for a reason.  It’s a way of putting the vicissitudes of life into perspective by saying that there’s some kind of larger plan or scheme, and that, however much your life sucks now, things will ultimately work out for the best.  That may be so, but it raises several questions: First, just who the fuck is in charge of choosing these alleged reasons why everything happens?  Second, what kind of arcane, coin-tossing, quantum-mechanical-undead-cats-in-a-box, new-math worldview is he or she or it using as a basis for his or her or its reasoning?  Third, how do we get him or her or whatever just to stop it already?

Lola Ford walked into Liam’s guitar shop.

It was early.  Nobody buys guitars before lunch, but Liam always insisted on opening the shop right after breakfast anyway.  Festus was manning the register and, after his long night in jail, had fallen asleep.  His lower half was perched on top of a stool, while his upper half lay sprawled on top of the glass top of the store’s main display case.  He awoke with a start, saw Lola, and promptly fell off the stool and onto the floor. 

He sprung back up in an instant, and started to brush himself off, but then paused to look down at the rumpled, filthy clothes he’d been wearing for the better part of twenty-four hours – a good chunk of which he’d spent in jail – and decided his time would be better spent attempting to impose some kind order on his beard and wild-man hair, so he tried that instead.  He quickly gave that up, however, and pinned all his hopes instead on his winning smile.

“Hello!” he said with a slightly manic – and not at all winning – grin.  He held out the hand which he’d just been running all over his dirty clothes and hair. 

“Um …  Hi,” said Lola.  She ignored his hand.  “Who are you?”

“I am whoever you want me to be,” said Festus, rearranging his face into what he intended to be a charming smirk, but ended up being just a cockeyed version of the same, manic look as before.  “Name’s Festus Bongwater.  How do you do?”

Liam heard the commotion from where he was checking stock in the back and felt, for the first time in a very long time, just a tiny bit nervous.  The feeling took him by surprise. 

He’d spent the last decade or so as a monk.  In fact, his buddies at the CIA had called him “Father Liam.”  It wasn’t a conscious choice.  Women just didn’t seem to affect him anymore – not since that praying mantis bitch, Anna.  Fuck her.

But then, last night, he’d felt something.  He wasn’t even sure what, but it was … compelling, and it was the first time in as long as he could remember that he’d felt anything at all.  He’d allowed himself to feel it.  He’d had to.  After all, she was pretty hot.  Really hot.  More than that though – well, he wasn’t sure.  But he hadn’t been able to dismiss whatever it was.  And, of course, it had all worked out pretty well when she’d got up after two minutes and left.

And now?  Now it seemed like fate was fucking with him.  Just a little bit.  He sighed, set down his clipboard, and headed up to the front of the shop to see what fate had in store.

“And watch this!  I can totally—”  Festus noticed Lola craning her neck to see around him and stopped, mid-brag.  He put down his hands, which he’d been holding above his head as if he’d been singing about diminutive arachnids and water spouts.

“Hi, Liam,” said Lola.  Her eyes seemed sparkly or something.  Was that normal?  Did all eyes do that?  Liam couldn’t remember.  He wasn’t generally the sort to pay attention to that kind of thing.  Unless the eyes belonged to a bad guy.  And those didn’t typically sparkle.

She had on a shirt and pants that looked pretty normal, except for the fact that the shirt (it was probably actually a blouse, but nobody in the guitar shop other than Lola could have said for sure) was bright red and purple.  Liam thought about complimenting her pants, but then decided it’d be better not to go there.

“Hi.”  He reached around Festus and shook her hand.  “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Yeah, I—well—sorry about last night.  I guess you understand now.”  She gestured vaguely at the shop, as if maybe the hollow-body Gibson in the corner explained everything.

“Sure,” said Liam.  “You know.”  He nodded and shrugged and shook his head all at the same time. 

She glanced at Festus, who was still standing well within the bounds of what any normal person would have regarded as Lola’s personal space, and looked back at Liam.  “Is there somewhere we can sit and talk for a couple of minutes?”

“Sure,” said Liam.  “Back here.”  He stepped aside and motioned her through the door to the back room.  Festus gave a single, Teutonic nod, and fell in step behind her.

Lola stopped just inside the doorway, surveying the war zone of nacho leavings, pizza boxes, beer cans, and bong paraphernalia.  She turned with a hint of a smile to look at Liam, but found herself face-to-face with Festus, who wore the surprised look of a tailgater who wasn’t expecting the car in front of him to stop so soon.

“Fes—?

“Ma’am?”

“It’s alright,” said Liam.  Lola raised an eyebrow at him.  “Really.  He’s actually got some information that might be helpful.”

Lola eyed them both skeptically, but then turned to try to find a comfortable seat among the nacho crumbs.

“And who’s that?”  She pointed to the young man of Indian descent perched awkwardly on a desk chair, asleep. 

“Raju!  Wake up!” said Liam.  Raju stirred.  “Wake up!  It’s your turn to man the register.”  Raju did not move again.

Liam stood up, grabbed the back of the chair and gave it a quick spin.  Raju rolled and kind of dove headfirst onto the floor in a heap of arms and legs.  Without a word, he picked himself up and staggered off to the front of the store.

“Okay,” she said.  Liam and Festus had pulled up a couple of chairs and were now seated across from Lola.  “Well, first, tell me – how long ago did Boehner call you?”

“Last night,” said Liam.  “Uh, this morning I guess.  Early.  Like 3:00 a.m. early.  Why?”

“So why did you ask me about Whitford last night?”

“Well,” said Liam, “I wasn’t really asking you.” 

Lola raised an eyebrow. 

Liam tried to recover.  “I mean, I was asking you, but not because it was you.  I was just making conversation.”

“Ah,” she said, sounding not at all convinced.

“He hates Whitford,” said Festus. 

Lola didn’t bother using her skeptical face on Festus, and gave him kind of a weary look instead.  “What?  Why?”

“We—we had a few run ins,” said Liam.  “Back in DC.  Doesn’t matter.”

“What?  What would the Vice President want with the CIA special forces?”

It was Liam’s turn to raise an eyebrow. 

“Fair enough,” she said.  “What did he want?”

“It was the thing with the banana-farming insurgents in Paraguay …”

“I heard about that!  I thought it was just a rumor.  That was you?”

Liam bobbled his head this way and that.  “Yeah, I guess.”

“What?” said Festus.  “What?”  They ignored him.

“Hmm.”  Lola resettled herself, brushing her hands down the front of her pants.  “Okay then.  Well, I assume then that you know all about Whitford and this Baphomet thing.”

“I know Clyde was in DC, trying to find it,” said Liam.

“You’re on a first name basis with Clyde Parker?”

“Well, not anymore I’m not.”

“Right.”  She gave him a wry look, but then the look faded, in much the same way smiles and warm faces tend to disappear when people look out their front window and see a homeless guy defecating in the yard.  She pointed to Festus.  “Does he really need to be here?”

Liam put up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.  “Just— Yes, he does.”

“Right,” said Lola.  She picked her bag up from beside her feet, and began rummaging through the stacks of papers inside.  “So, yesterday, Parker turns up dead, and they search his hotel room and find bunch of notes about something called Project Baphomet.”  She produced a manila folder stuffed with papers and dropped it onto the coffee table.

“Any idea what Baphomet is?” he asked.

“No, not really.  Apparently it had something to do with mind control, but that’s pretty much the extent of what we know – other than that the CIA was involved originally.”  She pulled out a phone, and clicked some of the buttons as she waited for Liam to look through the folder.  “One of the names you’ll see in there is Alistair Preston.  He was, apparently, one of the leads that Parker dug up, only he’s here – in Texas.”  Lola reached for the folder and shuffled through the papers. 

Liam took the page she held out.  “Preston…  British Intelligence?”

“I guess,” she said, playing with her phone again.  “I’m supposed to meet him in – shit – thirty minutes.”  She reached over to gather up the folder. 

“What?  Where?”

“Wimberley.”  She held out her hand, and Liam handed back the page he’d been reading. 

“We went tubing there,” said Festus.  This wasn’t quite the contribution to the conversation he’d hoped it would be.

Lola didn’t even look in Festus’ direction.  “I’m hoping he can tell us what the heck Baphomet is.  Maybe that will give me some insight into whatever the Governor is really up to.”

Festus nudged Liam.  “Oh yeah, right,” said Liam.  “Festus heard something about how the Governor might be planning some kind of thing.”  Another nudge.  “Some kind of biological or chemical weapon or something.”

“What?”  She glanced up from her bag.  “Why would you know anything about—?”  She sighed a weary sigh.  “Never mind.  Liam, we need to leave.”

“You’re right,” said Liam.  “He can tell you about it in the car.”

Lola held up her hands.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“No, no.  It’ll be fine.  Let’s go.”

Raju was doodling on the counter with a dry-erase marker as Lola, Liam, and Festus walked out of the back room. 

“Raju,” said Liam, “I’m going out for a while.  You’re in charge.”

“Okay,” mumbled Raju, apparently still hung over from whatever adventure had culminated with him being curled up in the desk chair.

“I may be a while.  I don’t know.  You might have to close up.”

“What?  How long—?”  Raju looked up, a tiny bit of alertness finally having crept in to his baked-out gourd.  “Hey!  Wait a second.”  He stood.

Lola made the mistake of glancing in Raju’s direction, but only for an instant before gluing her eyes to Liam.  Liam didn’t look as worried as one might expect the proprietor of a guitar shop to be upon finding his cash register being manned by a pants-less employee.

“Raju, where the hell are your pants?” 

“I love her,” explained Raju. 

“I don’t care,” said Liam.  “Put your pants back on.”

Raju smiled at Lola.  “Hey, baby.”

Lola took a couple of slow, sultry steps toward Raju and the cash register.  Her lips parted ever so slightly and glistened.  Her chest heaved.  Liam’s jaw dropped, and his eyebrows tried to get out of the way of his enlarging eyes.  She leaned over the counter, thrusting her chest forward, and reached up to caress Raju’s face.  Raju’s eyes got giant, like he was trying to absorb every last photon in the entire shop.  She slid her finger tips down his cheek, lingering for an instant, and then slapped the ever living shit out of him.

“Put your pants back on,” said Liam, and they left Raju alone in the store.

Outside the shop, Lola headed straight for a sedate-looking sedan with four sedate doors and painted a sedate shade of maroon.  Liam and Festus did not, opting instead to stand and stare at what they regarded as one of the more shocking things they’d seen that morning.  After a couple of seconds, Lola turned and saw a look of horror mixed with disgust mixed with disdain on Liam’s face.  Festus looked afraid.

“What?” asked Lola.  Liam made a face like he was having gastronomic difficulties and gestured in the direction of his own car.  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” she said.

Liam opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words came out, so he looked a little bit like a fish. 

“Okay,” she said.  “I guess we’re taking your car.”

“Shotgun!” said Festus.

A few minutes later, Festus sat in the back seat, alone and nursing a bruised ego.

Liam waved his hand in Festus’ general direction.  “Tell her.”  And Festus did.  He told her about Whitford, and Cadmon’s army, and the poison gas.  He told her about his repeated attempts to rebuff the Hawaiian guy’s romantic advances.  He told her he was thinking about shaving his beard.  She told him to shut up about the beard already.

“He didn’t give any details about the weapon?”

“No,” said Festus, “but he did mention the—the project you guys keep—”

“Baphomet?”

“Yes.  That one.”

“What did he say about it?”

“Well…” Festus pursed his lips and scratched his beard.

“Anything you can remember,” said Lola.

Festus looked up, his faced pained.  “It was jail, you know?”

“You spend a lot of time in jail?”

Festus’ expression did not change.  “Yeah, you know, more than I’d like, really.  You know, the guy seemed drunk or high or something.  I don’t know.  He wasn’t making a ton of sense.  I would have ignored him except he kept mentioning Whitford’s name.”  He suddenly braced himself in the backseat, gripping an extra seatbelt and a window post.  “Hang on,” he said.

“What?”

“We’re about to get onto the highway.”

They got onto the highway.

“Oh my god!” said Lola.  She hadn’t spent a lot of time riding in racecars or stunt planes, and hadn’t ever been strapped to the front of a rocket, and so was therefore inadequately prepared for Liam’s enthusiastic approach to entering onto a freeway.  There was far more tire squealing, swerving, and lung-crushing acceleration involved than she’d expected or might have, had she been behind the wheel, deemed absolutely necessary.  And she expressed her feelings about the situation by invoking the name of a guy who’d been nailed to a tree two millennia earlier.  “Jesus!”

“Yeah,” said Festus.  “I know.”

Chapter 25.           Beat Me Up, Scotty

There are parts of downtown Austin that, but for the lack of tumbleweeds – and, of course, an overabundance of tallish buildings, paved streets, and traffic-control devices – could easily pass for a desolate, isolated scene in a Western movie.  Which is just to say that there are parts of downtown Austin that are almost apocalyptically empty.  In particular, there is a section that sits east of the state Capitol Building, where various and sundry bureaucratic monstrosities give way to a slew of parking garages that all the important political types, lobbyists, and bureaucrats use before scurrying off to conduct the business of the Lone Star State.  Most days of the week, this area sits pretty much entirely empty, wanting only for the occasional rolling tumbleweed to transform the sun-scorched canyon of concrete and steel into the Old West.  On Sundays, even the ghosts, rodents, and bugs make themselves scarce – a twelve-foot, winged scrotum could host a mythical-creature dance party and no one would be the wiser.

In the middle of this brick-and-mortar wasteland, there is an intersection.  And at that intersection, on this particular Sunday, the former Lord and Master of the Underworld waited, pointed in the general direction of the Governor’s Mansion. 

The Devil sat.  His engine idled.  He rolled his neck and shrugged his shoulders and sat some more.  He glared at the stoplight.  It was not a very nice stoplight.  Not that that’s really saying anything – they all suck.  But this one was a particularly mean, old stoplight. 

Most folks don’t know that stoplights have personalities.  Sure, most of us indulge in the occasional anthropomorphization of objects – labeling this boat a “she,” or that broken can opener a “complete fucker.”  But there aren’t that many people out there who really believe (or who will admit to believing) that inanimate objects have feelings (or, in the case of broken can openers, loathsome, nefarious agendas).  And the few people who really do believe in that sort of thing are mostly raving idiots who shouldn’t be trusted with ships (or can openers, for that matter).  This works out pretty well, on the whole, because most inanimate objects are, in fact, just that: inanimate. 

Except for stoplights.  Stoplights have personalities.  Some are nice.  Some are wistful.  Some are complacent.  Most are assholes.  Their hopes and desires and dislikes and dispositions run the gamut – just like people.  But unlike people, stoplights can’t actually do anything about any of these things.  This is especially galling (for stoplights) because most were, in their past lives, gods of one sort or another who outlived their usefulness, and are now, quite understandably, pissed at only being able to shine red, green, or yellow. 

People eventually cease to believe in or pray to or sacrifice for or need or even care about most gods, and when a god becomes obsolete, he (or she or it) gets reassigned.  And due to the fact that the universe is an infinitely weird and fucked up place, most end up reassigned as stoplights.  This particular light happened to have been the Greek goddess Enodia (in charge of crossroads and gates) in a past life.

Satan – a god only in disposition and, anyway, still relevant enough to escape relegation to the mytho-galactic parts bin – continued to sit at this bitchy stoplight.  He waited.  On any other day, the Devil’s normal response to the interminable, evil stoplight would have been to do something decisive.  Something rash even.  Like stomping the accelerator and laying twin strips of quarter-inch-thick rubber across the intersection and maybe exploding some nearby buildings for good measure.  But not today.  Today, Satan was tired – ridiculously, impossibly tired.  He had, after all, just come off a string of more than fifteen hours of mostly uninterrupted driving.  And so he just sat, feeling wiped out, and maybe just a little bit weary. 

This wasn’t the first time he’d been in this state, but exhaustion wasn’t really something he’d gotten the hang of.  His first experience with fatigue had come at the end of his first full week in a human body – a seven-day marathon of debauchery and rage-fueled obliteration of pretty much anything and everything close to hand (including an unfortunate family of squirrels in Farragut Square).  The Devil had thought then that he’d broken something.  Or that the body was defective maybe, and that he ought, perhaps, to try exchanging it for another.  But then he’d collapsed and slept for almost thirty-six hours straight. 

When he awoke, refreshed and just a tiny bit giddy, he surmised that this was just one of the limitations imposed by the human body he chose to inhabit.  It was just like it had been with the snake, which he’d been able to make talk, but not fly (which would have substantially increased the awesomeness of the Book of Genesis).  He accepted this – mostly because he liked the waking up bit so much – and put himself on a regular, almost-human sleep schedule.  He never quite got the knack, however, of recognizing when exhaustion was creeping in and clouding his mind.  But then, when you view the world through insanity-tinted lenses, everything seems fucked up, and it’s hard to tell when you’re not quite thinking straight. 

He sighed, mostly too tired to care that the only thing that crossed in front of him were a few leaves and bits of trash carried by an intermittent breeze.  He gripped the steering wheel with human hands and worried:  Had he been right to come to Earth?  Had he been right just to leave like he had?  To leave, and live as a human, abandoning the world and His Plan to work themselves out?  Of course, he had figured that, without him, things couldn’t go forward.  That was The Plan, after all, wasn’t it?  He was essential, wasn’t he?  It was his job to instigate things – he felt sure of it.  Mostly sure, anyway.  How could it possibly happen without him?  It couldn’t.  No way.  But then, all the signs seem to suggest that that’s exactly what was happening.

The ex-goddess Enodia continued to be a stubborn bitch, but the Devil hardly noticed as he sat, lost in his thoughts, watching as zero cars crossed through the intersection in front of him.  He also failed entirely to notice the monster-sized truck that came up behind him (of course, the Italian guys who build the cars claim that Lamborghini drivers don’t really need to bother looking at what is behind them), or the low-pitched urrrping sound of its knobby tires attempting to slide to a stop.  Nor was he aware that the truck, emblazoned with flames, images of the Confederate flag, and various stickers professing the driver’s loyalty to the National Rifle Association and to the Lord Jesus Christ, Savior and King, had, in fact, been following him for nearly twenty miles.  He did, however, register a jolt as the behemoth smashed into the back of his Lamborghini, crushing the hand-crafted engine. 

The stoplight finally changed to green.

The next thing Satan was aware of was his window being shattered with a crowbar, and bits of glass spraying his face.  A pair of hands reached in and grabbed his jacket, trying to drag him through the small opening.  This will not do, he thought.  The hands disappeared, and the Dark Lord heard a surprised scream.  He glanced out the space where the window had been and saw that there were at least three men.

“Oh, shit!  What the fuck is that?” said one of the men.

“He turned Jimmy into a newt!”

“That’s not a newt, you dumbass.  It’s a komodo dragon.”

There was another scream, though this one sounded more like a scream of pain than fear. 

“He bit me.  Get it off!  Get it off!”

“Don’t kick Jimmy, goddamnit!”

“He bit me!”

Inside the car, Satan reeled.  His cheek hurt.  He reached up and felt something hard and sharp on his skin.  It was a glass shard, and it came off easily, as if it had just been sitting there on the surface of his face.  When he pulled his hand back to look at it, he saw that it was covered with blood.  In fact, his whole hand was covered in blood.  A strange, new sensation enveloped his body.  His head felt lighter than normal.  His heart rate shot up, like it did when he got angry, but instead of the urge to destroy things, all he felt was a very strong desire to sleep.

The men outside, having apparently come to grips with Jimmy’s ascension to the komodo dragon plane of existence, returned their attention to the car.  Or, rather, the individual inside the car.  Hands reached in again, clawing and pulling.  Satan scooted away from the door, but the men yanked it open.  He reversed course, and started to get up out of the car, just as one of the men grabbed him by the lapels.  Tight jeans, thought the Devil, much too tight.  He tried to set those pants on fire, but there was only smoke.  He tried again. 

“Oh shit!  Oh shit!  Oh shit!” said the man, whose arms were now burning.  He let go of Satan’s jacket, and toppled backward onto the cement.  The Devil stood, wondering why the whole man hadn’t caught on fire.  But his wondering was cut short by another one of those first-experiences-for-Satan-in-a-human-body moments – that of having a crow bar crash down on his skull. 

The next thing he was aware of was that he was being dragged by the arms, his head lolling this way and that, across the asphalt, and away from his beloved – and now destroyed – automobile.  He struggled to separate the throbbing sensation in his head from the pang he felt at losing another Lamborghini.  He thought that he’d just have to get another one, and he wondered for an instant what color he’d choose this time.  But then he was confused about what kind of car it was or where he’d got it.  And then he couldn’t remember what he was thinking about.  Or where he was.  Or what he was doing there. 

His thoughts shifted to the dull, throbbing sensation in his head, and the sting of something – blood? – running down into his eyes.  That was certainly unpleasant.  But then, there seemed to be a lot of unpleasantness right now.  He seemed to be moving; sliding backwards.  It was all very confusing.  Something clicked and he remembered that he was being dragged somewhere by two men.  Ah, yes, he thought.  I’m being attacked by assholes.  Assholes in need of killing, no doubt.  He put his legs underneath him and twisted upward, trying to tear himself out of the grip of the two men.  But it was no use – his body lacked the strength.  He tried again, and one of the men kicked him. 

“Ow!  Why are you trying to—” he asked, and for the second time in less than a minute, something heavy and hard crashed down on his head.

When he came to a moment later, he was leaning up against a dumpster.  Bolts of pain shot down his neck and back, and he felt as if he were going to split in two lengthwise.  Standing in front of him were two men who looked as if they did all their clothes shopping at truck stops.  They were arguing in urgent half-whispers, but he couldn’t make out any of the words.  One of them had a gun, which he was waving in Satan’s general direction as he argued.  Finally, the other man tore off his hat – a mesh baseball cap advertising some sort of bait and tackle shop – and used it to smack the man who was holding the gun.  He shoved the gunman toward Satan.

“Do it already.”

The man with a gun hesitated, pointed the gun at the Devil, and fired.

Satan felt a searing, burning sensation in his belly that blossomed into a hurt that seemed to cover the entire spectrum of pain all at once.  Layer upon layer of pain radiated outward – down his legs, up his chest.  The muscles in his abdomen clenched up of their own accord, doubling him over onto his side.  His throat tightened, and he let out a raspy groan as he struggled to breathe in.  It was cold – terribly cold.  He needed to get out – out from the body – so that he could get these – destroy these men—

The gun fired again, and Satan collapsed in a heap of spent flesh.

Chapter 26.           Rule No. 37: Always Take the Body with You

Whitford’s mid-afternoon snack seemed to want to help out as he answered the phone.  “Brr-r-r-ello?”  His face was impassive as he listened to the tiny voice coming from the handset, but then a smile appeared and spread over the wide expanse of flesh.  “You found him?  Already?  That’s—”  He stopped, reining in his enthusiasm.  “That’s good news.  So, okay.  Where’s the body?”  He paused again, and then sat forward, smacking the desk with his hand.  “What?  They didn’t?  Well, tell them to go back and get it.  Get it.”  The squeaky telephone voice got louder and more urgent.  “No,” said Whitford.  “I don’t care.  Just get it.”  He hung up.

Chapter 27.           Satan Wakes Up to Bunny Slippers

It was bright.  The sky was the kind of profound and enticing and cloudless blue that only seems to show up on Mondays, when it’s time to head back to work or school or jail or whatever.  It was also hot.  Unusually hot – unusual, that is, unless you’re from Texas and you’re used to fucked-up, hot days springing up suddenly in the middle of what is supposed to be, but never is, the cool season. 

In the middle of the enormous sky, the midday sun lingered, blinding and oppressive, and beat down like a giant, 2-nonillion kilogram ball of incandescent, boiling gas parked a mere 93 million miles away.  A very slight breeze blew in, offering a tantalizing hint of cool relief, but then decided it was way too hot to spend the day hanging around blowing on things, and flitted off to find some shade.  A nearby fountain burbled.

Satan lay slumped in an awkward heap by the side of a ripe-smelling dumpster, his pinstriped suit dusty and in tatters.  One arm of the jacket had disappeared entirely, and the underlying, blood-stained shirtsleeve looked as if it had had a run in with an automatic-juicer-and-julienne-fry-o-matic from some late-night infomercial.  His fancy shoes were gone, and his socks were nowhere to be found.  Despite the state of his apparel, however, Satan appeared to be whole and completely unscathed.  A little dead looking, maybe, but there was no blood actually on his body – coagulated or otherwise – and nothing really to indicate that he had, in fact, been wearing the clothes when they had been so thoroughly abused.

An odiferous man in a faded blue, floral bathrobe and bunny slippers shuffled up.  In his hand he held an oversized placard that read, “Repent!  The End Is Nigh!”  He noticed the pile of distinguished-yet-disheveled gentleman next to the dumpster and scooted over to have a look. 

“Hey,” he said.

Satan continued to look dead.  The man laid his sign aside and, kneeling down, jiggled Satan’s collar.  Satisfied that Satan was not actually dead, the man rose.  One of the members of the order of rodentia ventured out to investigate, thinking (or smelling) the man to be one of their brethren, but the man cleared his throat, and the rat scurried off.

“Wake up,” said the man, nudging Satan with the cute, bunny-nosed end of his footwear.  Satan stirred, but then was still again.  “You need to wake up,” said the man.  “It’s almost three o’clock.  Naptime is at an end.”  He stepped back, took a deep breath, and reared up to deliver a good, swift kick to Satan’s backside.  But Satan groaned, and the man un-cocked his lethal slipper. 

Satan’s eyes flicked open and darted around, taking in his surroundings, while his body remained motionless, and stuck in its awkward position.  Finally his eyes alighted on the oddly-colored, rodent slippers in front of him, and made their way slowly up to the Rasputinesque countenance of the man in the floral robe.  “Who are you?” he asked.

“I,” the man stepped forward with a dramatic sweep of his arm, “am Eli.”  He stood as erect as his aged and weather-beaten body would allow, and placed his right hand over his breast.  He made his eyes all squinty and pointed what he thought probably looked like a good, steely gaze off into the unknown distance.  After allowing the profundity of the moment to steep adequately, he turned back and beamed at Satan.

Satan eyed Eli suspiciously.  The man had all kinds of odd symbols scrawled on his arms and legs.  They might have been tattoos except for the fact that they looked less like the work of a trained tattoo artist than that of an inebriated weirdo with a predilection for wandering around the city in a bathrobe.  He decided that the man was probably just a harmless idiot, and moved on to more pressing matters.  “Okay, then.  Excellent.  Now, who am I?”

Eli did not hesitate even an instant before answering.  “You sir,” he said, “are the man I found lying beside this dumpster.”  He pointed a grimy, blackened finger at the spot where he’d found the Devil and, in fact, where the Devil still lay.

“Very good,” said Satan, nodding, feeling that this was indeed a good answer.  Progress.  He took a deep breath.  The fickle breeze was back, and for a moment the rank smell of the garbage was gone, replaced by the scent of chlorine from the nearby fountain.  It soothed him, but then he remembered where he was, which was next to a stinky dumpster, apparently behind a building somewhere.  His eyes darted some more.  The rest of his body continued not to move.  He looked up at Eli.  “How did I get here?” he asked.

“That, I am afraid, I do not know.”  Eli looked at the ground and shook his head sadly.

“Hmmm...”

The breeze came back again.  This time it brought a sheet of newspaper advertising some specials at a nearby drugstore.  They watched the paper flap back and forth for a moment, and Eli started to pick at some lint on one of the pastel flowers on his robe.  The Devil thought at first that this might be the man’s way of passing an awkward, silent moment, but then Eli kept at it, and the Devil began to wonder whether the man had forgotten the conversation altogether.  He was just about to say something when Eli looked up from his robe.

“Did you get shot?”  Eli pointed at the front of Satan’s shirt, which had a nasty blood stain down the front.

The Devil fingered the hole, pulling the fabric to the side.  “I don’t know,” he said.  His body ached, and the spot on his skin under the bullet hole felt rough and hot to the touch.  But there was no blood and no wound.  In fact, he seemed to be just fine. 

Eli leaned over, offering Satan a hint of the olfactory bouquet that was the result of a long-standing estrangement from showers and bathing generally.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Looks okay to me.”

Eli stood, looked around here and there, and kicked at the ground with his toe.  It wasn’t clear to Satan whether the man was attempting to extract an irritating pebble from his footwear or responding poorly to something the ground had apparently said to him.

“It’s very bright,” said Satan.  He was starting to sweat and wished that the breeze would quit fucking around with that paper and put itself to good use.

“Yes.  Yes it is,” said Eli, nodding.  He stared off into the middle distance in the manly way of someone who has just received a bit of well-stated wisdom.  “It is indeed.”

“I had a car,” said Satan, remembering out loud.  “I loved my car.”

“I had one too, once,” said Eli, commiserating again.

Satan sat up.  “Do you know what happened to it?”

“Well, no, I can’t remember.  But it was a nice car,” said Eli helpfully.  He looked at Satan’s tailored suit.  Even though it was dirty and torn to pieces, it still was an extraordinary fit and looked damned sharp.  “Where are you from?” he asked.

Satan hesitated, started to speak, and then stopped again.  A look of shock – and maybe just a tiny bit of panic – came over his face.  “I—” he started, but then stopped.  He turned his pale face to look up at Eli.  “I don’t think I know that.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters much.  The world is about to end.”  Eli picked up his sign.

“Oh?”

“Yes.  It’s true.”

Satan made a pensive face and looked down at that spot – off to the left, and maybe six inches or so off the ground – where people look when they’re pondering serious things.  “That … is deeply troubling.”  He pondered some more, and shook his head.  “I’m not sure why, though.”  He turned to look at Eli.  “How do you know?  How do you know the world is going to end?”

“Because, my friend, I am a prophet.”  He placed one hand on his hip and, with the other one, made a sort of waving gesture.  “It’s my job to know these things.”

“Ah,” said Satan.  “Okay.”

“You should come with me.”  Eli extended his hand, and pulled the Devil up. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  Something tells me you should.”

Satan thought about it for a moment as he stood, swaying very gently in the non-existent breeze.  “Okay,” he said.  And they went.

Chapter 28.           Ramón

“It’s such an odd picture,” said Lola.  “None of it makes any sense.”

Liam shifted and swerved around a minivan full of lemmings.  “What doesn’t make sense?” 

“Whitford.  Louisiana.  The virus – or gas or whatever.  Closing the borders.  All that.”

“What borders?” asked Festus.

Lola turned to face the back seat.  “Whitford has checkpoints at the Texas border and Louisiana border.  They’re turning people away.”

Festus leaned forward.  “So we couldn’t leave Texas if we—?”

“I’m not sure.  It’s not like he issued a press release about it.  I guess he’s just trying to keep out official government types while he consolidates power here.”  Lola stopped, realizing that she was sharing privileged information with a weirdo who looked like Jesus – a homeless, vagrant version of Jesus.

“So,” said Liam.  He flung the car around a curve, drifting slightly as he threaded between two slow-moving boring mobiles.  It was an artful maneuver, but went largely unappreciated, as the car’s passenger compliment was mostly devoid of art-driving aficionados.  “What I want to know about is this whole Louisiana thing.  What’s really going on there?”

“That,” she turned to face Liam, “is really screwed up.  And totally mystifying.”

“He’s not just helping out?” asked Festus.

Lola turned back to look at Festus, her eyes suspicious.  But Festus grinned a big, stupid grin, and she relented.

“No, Whitford’s not helping.  I mean, New Orleans is in bad shape, don’t get me wrong.  But there was no need for him to rush in and play the hero.”

“But given the federal government’s track record…” said Festus.

“Well, what you don’t know is that Whitford actually mobilized the Texas State Guard before anyone knew for sure the storm was going to hit New Orleans.” 

“Texas has its own army?” asked Festus.

“Yes, well—  Texas and about twenty other states have them.  It’s basically the same thing as the National Guard, but separate.  But there’s more.”

Liam started to speak, but Lola cut him off.  “We have reason to believe,” she said, “that, contrary to reports, the Louisiana governor wasn’t killed in the storm.”

“What?” asked Festus.  “He’s still alive?”

“No.  He disappeared hours before the storm hit.”

“Huh,” said Liam.  “Weird.”  He said this with rather less excitement than might be expected of someone who has just learned that his governor went and whacked the governor of a neighboring state.  In fact, he might as well have been remarking on the presence of an oddly-shaped cloud.

“Weird?” asked Festus, supplying some of the enthusiasm that had been missing from Liam’s statement.  “It’s crazy!  I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah,” said Lola.  “It’s all very strange.  It’s almost—well, it’s definitely too much.  Too weird.  I— I just can’t figure it out.”

Festus leaned forward and rested his elbows on the top of the front seats.  “I’ve got three—four—five words for you guys,” he said.  “It’s the end of the world.  Okay, that was six.  But here’s two more: Fuck, yeah.”  This elicited a tiny, barely perceptible smirk from Lola.  “So, I’m serious,” said Festus.  “I think it’s the end of the world.”

“He’s got this conspiracy theory,” muttered Liam. 

Lola raised an eyebrow at Liam.  The raised eyebrow said, “You’re the one who wanted to bring him.” 

“It’s not a conspiracy theory,” said Festus.  “I mean, think about it.  You got this guy, he’s taking over the world.  He invaded Louisiana…”

Liam started to interrupt.  “He didn’t—”

“Dude, the fact that he had the Louisiana Governor killed ahead of time confirms it.  Whitford isn’t on a humanitarian mission.  He invaded the state, plain and simple.”  He turned back to Lola.  “And now he controls all that oil.  And he’s barricading the state, and building up an army.”  Festus sat back in his seat as Liam executed another maneuver straight out of James Bond’s own copy of Her Majesty’s Top Secret Driving Manual. 

Liam and Lola sat in silence for a moment, not so much digesting what Festus had said as suffering from the mental equivalent of heartburn.

When he spoke again, he was much less animated; almost contemplative.  “It’s like he’s all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at once.  White, black, green.”  Suddenly the animation came back.  “The earthquakes and all the storms – we didn’t have any of those here until after he came back from Washington.”

“Festus,” said Liam.  But Festus was totally absorbed by his own theorizing.  “Festus!” 

Festus looked up.  “What?”

“This is crazy.  Crazy talk.  Total nonsense.  So stop it already.”

Festus seemed to deflate a little, but then perked right back up.  “How about the plagues of locusts?”

“And frogs,” said Lola.

“Toads,” said Festus.

Lola rolled her eyes.  “Toads.”

“Purely coincidental,” said Liam.  “Your theory is crazy talk.”

“Well, wait a second,” said Lola.  “Whitford is pretty religious.”

“Yeah,” said Festus, “if, by ‘very’ you mean, ‘totally fucking batshit’.  Sure.”

“Right,” said Lola, turning to Liam.  “Like, he’s opposed to any kind of Israeli-Palestinian peace because he thinks it would go against God’s will or something.”  Liam shot her a look that would have made a ninja pause and re-think his plans for the evening.  She ignored it.  “So what if he really does think that it’s the end of the world?”

“Well,” said Liam.  He relaxed a little and nodded.  His eyebrows promptly made their way up his forehead.  “That’s exactly what Boehner said.”

“Ha!” said Festus.  “And you’re the one who’s always telling me not to think with my dick.”

That comment led to a few moments of uncomfortable silence. 

“So where are we headed?” asked Festus. 

Lola ignored him.  She was too busy holding on as Liam roared down an exit ramp without slowing at all.  Not even a tiny bit.  She turned to Liam.  “You’re going to get a ticket.”

He nodded the slow nod of a stoner contemplating the pot-enhanced profundity of a “Shit Happens” bumper sticker.  “Yeah,” he said without turning to look at her.  “I guess.”

She smiled, but then noticed a sign on the side of the road.  “Hey,” she said.  “I think this is where we’re supposed to t—”

Liam flung the car through a ninety-degree turn onto a two-lane ranch road, causing Festus to let out a high-pitched and diphthongal, “Ha-aa!” as he smashed up against the side of the back seat.  Up in front, Lola squelched a couple of gross gulping noises.  But the car stayed on the road, and even managed not to spend too much time sideways.  There was a bit of smoke, and some urping sounds from the tires that made it sound as if Liam was driving on a road paved with disgruntled baby seals, but Lola’s breakfast stayed put, and nobody died.  So it was a good turn.

They turned again onto an even smaller country road a minute or two later, but there was a lot less room for high-speed antics this time, mostly on account of the presence of a very large and heavy-looking gate which someone had – obviously in an egotistical and self-centered fit of aristocratic xenophobia – inconsiderately placed across the pavement.  It had a sign that read “Private Property” in large, unfriendly letters.  Liam smashed down hard on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop inches from the gate.  Festus and Lola immediately busied themselves breathing again and shivering and giving thanks to various deities.  Liam, on the other hand, calmly backed the car up a bit, and reached out the window to tap the “Call” button on an intercom panel that stood just outside his open window – having been installed there, presumably, by the same inconsiderate person who’d erected the gate.

He turned to Lola.  “I assume this is the place?”

Lola checked the scrap of paper on which she’d written the address.  “Yeah,” she said, craning her neck to read the numbers on the gate.  “This is it.”

Outside, the speaker on the intercom panel made a double-beeping sound as if Liam were placing an international call.  Festus piped up from the backseat.  “This is the United States calling with a collect call from Mr. Floyd to Mrs. Floyd, will you accept the charges?”

“Festus,” Liam sighed.  “Please shut up.”

The speaker made a staticky click and a smoky, Latin voice answered.  “Hhhello?  Hwho is it?”  His H’s were extra breathy and sexy.

Liam leaned toward the speaker.  “Liam McEwen and Lola Ford.  We’re here to see Alistair Preston.”  There was a murmur of protest from the back seat.  Liam glanced in the rearview mirror.  “You’re not officially here.”

“Jes.”  The speaker buzzed and crackled and, between the bits that sounded more or less like human speech, made staticky wooshing sounds.  “We hab been espectine jou.”

Liam turned back to Lola, a slightly confused look on his face.  But then the big gate swung open.  He shifted into gear, easing the automobile over a cattle guard and onto a road that wove its way off ahead through patches of gnarled cedar trees and dried-out, scrubby brush.

They traveled along the road – which was apparently just a driveway – twisting and turning for several minutes and catching only sporadic glimpses of their destination.  Finally the trees opened up to reveal a well-trimmed garden in front of a palatial building.  It was really less of a garden, though, than a football-field-sized menagerie of non-indigenous plants that had been trimmed and abused into an exciting array of chunky, geometric shapes that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 1980s rock video.  Behind the Max Headroom garden sat the sprawling, multilevel building – a home, presumably – which looked as if someone had taken an enormous pile of surplused balconies, archways, and princess towers, covered the whole thing in pink stucco and Spanish roof tiles, and decided to call it “home.”

Festus leaned forward.  “Whoa.”

A man emerged from the building as they pulled up to the house.  He ignored Liam’s car, choosing instead to stare off into the unknown distance as a slight breeze picked up and toyed with his long, flowy black hair.  He came down the stone steps to the driveway slowly, giving each the time and attention it deserved.  He had no shoes and his jeans were ragged and well-worn.  He wore a loose, white linen shirt.  Buttons were, apparently, not his forte – he’d only managed a couple.  The top portion of his shirt therefore hung open, revealing a glistening expanse of chest, if you’re in to that sort of thing. 

“Hhhello,” he said, nearly swallowing the first part of the word.  He pronounced his ‘H’s from the back of his throat, sounding almost like he was about to spit something nasty onto the ground.  “My name is Ramón.”  His words dripped with passion, sexiness, and whatever the hell else makes fat old ladies buy romance books at grocery stores.  He refused to make eye contact with either Festus or Liam, opting instead to stare at Lola with his smoldering eyes and the kind of tough-guy-staring-into-the-sun look that actors and famous soccer players make when cameras are around.

“Um, hi,” said Lola.

“Jou are here to talk about the Baphomet?”  He tossed his hand back dismissively, as if he were discarding some trifling, unsexy thing, and tilted his head to regard them out of the corner of his eye.  “Jes?” he asked, with kind of a half-cocked, knowing smirk.  Lesser men would have looked stupid making that kind of face, but lesser men weren’t Ramón. 

Liam and Festus exchanged a “WTF?” look. 

Lola pulled out a pen and notepad and dove in.  “Ramón, you know about Project Baphomet?”

“Jes.  Whell, maybe.  Hwhat do jou want to know?”  He scratched absentmindedly at his chest, tugging the edge of his shirt a little to reveal a chiseled and, apparently, waxed pectoral muscle.  Lola’s eyes bugged out.  She turned her head and coughed to stop from laughing. 

Festus interrupted.  “Wait, what did he say?”

“Jes,” smoldered Ramón.

“He means ‘Yes,’”  Lola explained.

“Jes,” said Ramón.  “Jes!”  He held his hands out, palms up, as if that explained it.  He looked Festus up and down and scoffed.  Estupid idiota, he thought. 

Festus made a smirking face of his own.  Only his came off looking uncomfortable and showing that he had way more chins than was really absolutely necessary.  Stupid idiot, he thought.

“Festus, you’re not helping, so shut up, and go sit over there.”  Lola pointed to a sharp rock.  She turned back to Ramón, who stood there looking vaguely tragic.  “Tell us what you know.”

“Whell...” Ramón ran his hand through his hair, closing his eyes and pursing his lips as he did so.  “It was a lot of, yo no se, how do you say... cabras?”

“I don’t know Spanish.”

“Goats,” volunteered Festus, from where he sat perched on his uncomfortable rock. 

“Jes.  Cabras,” said Ramón.  He shrugged as if it were absurd to suggest that there could be a CIA program that didn’t have something to do with goats.

Lola let her hands, pencil and notepad drop down by her sides.  “What on Earth do goats have to do with anything?”

“Los matan.  They kill them.”  He shrugged again.  What the hell else do the CIA do with goats?

“What?” she asked.  This was going nowhere.

“They kill them… con their cabezas.”  He pointed a finger and tapped his noggin.

“With their heads?  What?”  Lola turned a dismayed looked at Liam.  He shrugged. 

“Hey,” said Festus.  “I think I read about this once.”  He turned to Ramón.  “It’s real?  They really killed goats with their minds?”

“Jes.  Sus cabezas,” said Ramón.  Lola mouthed something at Liam, so Ramón took the opportunity to ogle her up and down.  A satisfied smile spread across his lips. 

Lola turned back.  “I—” she hesitated at the sight of Ramón’s post-coital expression.  “I don’t see the connection between goats and Baphomet.”

“Jou know,” said Ramón.  “Jus’ cabras.”

“Goats,” said Festus. 

“Jes.”  Ramón pointed at Festus as if he were to blame.

“Just ... goats?” asked Lola.

“Jes.”

“Ramón,” she said, “I think you need to take us to Mr. Preston now.”

Ramón looked sullen.  “Jou better come inside.”

They followed Ramón through an imposing entry that opened up onto an expanse of snow-white, crushed-leather sofas and other expensive-looking furniture.  The room was sprinkled with a variety of small recreations of famous statutes – David, The Thinker, The Easter Island heads – which someone had improved via the liberal application of some homo-erotic artistic license.

The main sitting area was bordered on two sides by colonnaded walkways with darkened halls leading off to other parts of the estate.  Thirty feet off, on the far side of the enormous room where the rear wall should have been, was another colonnaded walkway.  But this one opened up onto a multi-level deck and pool that overlooked the Austin hill country.

Ramón stopped and turned.  “Please hab a seat.  I be right back.”  He eyed Festus, and looked alarmed as he noticed the white couch Festus was poised to sit on.  “Jou sir, jou chould sit ober hhhere.”  He gestured to a dark and severe-looking wooden chair that looked like a leftover from the Inquisition.  The seat offered no padding, and the back was just a board that shot up from the seat at a ninety-degree angle.  “Is … mas comfortable,” Ramón said, pronouncing each syllable.  He patted the austere chair.

Festus regarded the chair as if it were a medieval torture device.  He looked back at Liam and Lola.  Lola turned away, pretending to be interested in one of the priapic statutes.  Liam just smiled and gestured toward the chair.  “Looks comfy,” he said.

“I be right back,” said Ramón.  He disappeared through one of the darkened doorways on the side of the room.  After a moment, an older gentleman strode in, Ramón padding in barefoot right behind him. 

Alistair Preston’s posture was aristocratic.  He wore a smoking jacket and very loud, plaid pants of the sort that only rich, old British guys can get away with.  “Hello, hello,” he said.  “Do come in, please, do come in.” 

“Does he have to be here?” asked Lola, gesturing at Ramón.

“I don’t have any secrets from Ramón,” he said with a lecherous old man look.

Lola winced.  “We’re here for Project Baphomet.  We need to get whatever you have.”

“Get Project Baphomet?” Preston chuckled.  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Mr. Preston, this is extremely important.”

“I’m very sorry, my dear.”  He smiled congenially.  “But you see, there is nothing to get.”

Chapter 29.           Mean Dude in a Track Suit

Eli and the Devil staggered and shuffled their way around downtown Austin, stopping here and there to watch the spectacle as naked guys ran wild as dogs through the streets.  They came upon an old-carny type who sat in the front of one of those horse-drawn carriages that couples sometimes get into by mistake.  Satan followed Eli, assuming – quite reasonably – that he knew the driver or had some other reason for approaching the man.  But then he watched as Eli walked right past the man to engage the horse.

The horse was huge, like one of those beer horses – with the furry feet and a long, flowing mane that appeared to have come right off the cover of a romance novel.  The gigantic beast, however, looked as if he’d seen better days – better days stomping on smaller horses, and maybe smashing through barns and brick walls or something.

Eli waved Satan over to have a visit with the quadruped.  The old prophet produced a carrot from the depths of some secret compartment hidden in his flowery bathrobe, and fed it to the hormonally-challenged beast, addressing the animal by name.  He turned to Satan and explained that the horse was called Sam, but that, if you asked him (the horse) – which nobody ever did – he (the horse) would have told you that his name was Rexnord, Overlord of the Tempest.  This, Eli said, was a very typical sort of name for a horse.

They left the horse and made their way west, toward the neighborhoods of condos and students and university-centric debauchery and weird-but-not-really-that-weird stuff that makes Austin such a wonderful place to live.

“Where are we going?” asked Satan. 

“Why?  Are you bored?”

“Well, no.  I guess not.  Maybe a little.”

“Okay then.  Watch this.”  Eli strode out into the middle of the street and stepped up onto the median.  He held out his hands.  “My people!”  A family of tourists paused to look, but then the tourist parents quickly ushered their tourist children away.  An old lady grunted a mean old-lady grunt and waved dismissively.  “Repent!” said Eli.  A passing car honked, and Eli waved his hand in a complex signal that could have been a hex or a blessing.  “The End!”  He raised his arms for emphasis.  “The End is near!”

His announcement complete, Eli headed back to the sidewalk.  A naked guy, who had apparently been watching, yelled from across the street.  “Yes!”  He punched his fist into the air and flailed about.  He whooped and spun and did a frantic dance.  “It’s the end of the world!”

“It seems to me,” said Eli, “that the nudist contingency in town is somewhat larger than usual.  It’s a bit odd, I think.”

Satan watched as the naked guy continued to celebrate by leaping about.  “That guy can jump pretty high,” he said.

Eli nodded, joining the Devil in marveling at the athletic display.  “Yes,” he said.  “There is a reason why the Greeks used to compete naked.”  He did not point out that the Greeks, in their nudist games, never had to try to outrun Humvees.  It would have been a timely comment, though, if he had, because at that moment a very large and menacing Humvee roared up and skidded to a halt just inches short of the spot where the naked guy was writhing in a fit of ecstatic affirmation.  The truck’s doors burst open and a bunch of soldiery types leapt out.  They wore mean expressions and even meaner boots, and the two in front tackled the naked guy.

“The Governor’s new police force is … enthusiastic,” said Eli.

“Whose?  What?” asked Satan.  “What is that?”

Eli paused from his spectating for a moment and turned to look at Satan, who was hunched over slightly, staring at the Humvee with the kind of squinty eyes that are universally acknowledged to be the pantomime sign of “I can’t see very well.”  It’s not entirely clear why squinting is supposed to make it easier to see stuff, but nobody ever said these things have to make sense.

“What is that symbol?” asked Satan.  He pointed to the star painted on the side of the military truck.

“It … looks like a star,” said Eli.  He did a little bit of hunching over and squinting himself and then nodded.  “Yep.  That’s what it is.”  He nodded some more.  “A star.”

Satan stood suddenly and turned to Eli.  “Where am I?” he asked.

Eli looked at Satan’s feet and then back up at his face.  “I’d say you’re about two feet – maybe eighteen inches – from me,” he said.  “And I’m right here.”  He offered Satan a reassuring smile.

“No, no,” said Satan impatiently.  “I mean:  What is this place?”  He waved his arms, gesturing to the world in general. 

“Downtown?”

Satan scowled.  His eyes glowed just a teensy bit, but Eli didn’t notice.

“Austin?”

“Okay.”  Satan nodded, apparently mollified, but then turned back to look at Eli abruptly.  “Where is Austin?”

“Texas.  The Lone Star State.  Austin is the capital of Texas.  It was an Independent Republic from 1836 to 1845.  And there are those who believe—”

The Devil exploded.  “Texas!  That’s it!  I… I think I hate… Texas!”  He threw his arms up, and stomped around a bit, making unintelligible ranting sounds to himself.  A few, lonely wisps of smoked rose from the little strip of grass that ran along the sidewalk.

“What,” asked Eli, turning his head to the side, “is wrong with Texas?”

Satan stopped and stared at Eli looking a little bit lonely and lost.  It was a second before he spoke.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I—I’m not sure.”  He gazed at the ground and scratched at his head a bit. 

“I sometimes feel the same way, my friend.”  Eli held his arm out, and patted the Devil on the back.  “It’s normal to feel such things in days like these.”

Satan shook his head, arched his eyebrows, and made kind of a cockeyed grimace.  “Days like these?”

“The End Times,” said Eli.

“Ah, yes.”

In front of them the fracas between the soldiers and the naked guys had grown.  Two more naked guys showed up to try to liberate the first.  But now all three were face down on the ground, and had been mounted by the soldiers – solely, one assumes, for the purpose of applying handcuffs and preparing the men for transport to some place where they could be sodomized by folks who were not actually on the state payroll. 

“I think we should move on,” said Eli. 

They walked together for a while.  Eli identified the buildings and offered little anecdotes.  “I once saw a man being intimate with a dog behind that dumpster.”  He scratched his chin and then pointed to the building behind the dumpster.  “That’s the Governor’s Mansion.”

Satan felt very odd for a moment.  Shadowy, flickering thoughts teased and flitted through his brain and taunted him.  What was it?  He felt … angry.  Intensely angry.  It was a strange sensation, not because it was anger, but because there just seemed to be so much of it, and it seemed, for whatever reason, to be entirely focused on the giant, white house in front of him.  He felt it build and roil and boil over itself until he felt as if his body might rip or explode even.  And then the Governor’s Mansion burst into flames.

“Huh,” said Eli.  “Isn’t that something.  Quite unusual.”  They stood together for a moment, staring at the flames.  “Right,” said Eli.  “Let us be off on our journey.”  He strode off, or shuffled rather, with dignity, confidence, and a sense of purpose – down the street. 

Satan stayed for a moment to watch the flames, but then hurried to catch up.  “I’m going to need some new clothes,” he said.  A buzzer sounded behind them, followed shortly by sirens.

“Why?” asked Eli.  “Those seem to fit you well.  I’ll grant you that they’re torn up a bit, and maybe a little stained, but they seem perfectly usable to me.”  He stared at Satan as they walked.  “If you’re uncomfortable, you should ask yourself why.  Figure that out before you go hunting new threads.”

“I am uncomfortable,” said the Devil, “because these clothes are dirty and shredded.”  He held up his arm and tugged at his sleeve to make the dirtiness and shreddedness more clearly apparent.  “And anyway, they just don’t seem … quite right or something.” 

“Trifling matters.”  Eli waved his hand dismissively and returned to his shuffling.  “Despite what they say, the clothes do not make the man.  They merely determine the set of assumptions others make about the man.”

Satan felt the odd, angry feeling again.  But this time it was less of a volcanic swelling, than kind of a low grade, electrical crackling.  He regarded the sensation as if from a distance.  It was strange and a little bit interesting – he seemed to be buzzing very slightly – but he was unsure what to make of it other than to note its strangeness.  He sighed a weary, frustrated sigh.

“Where are we going?”

Eli offered another dismissive wave.  “West.  Thar be grub thataway.”

They walked together for several quiet minutes and passed into the more neighborhoody bits of town.  They happened upon a vertically-challenged man on the sidewalk in front of an old, run-down apartment building.  The man seemed to be in the middle of – or causing – a commotion, and this, to Eli and the Devil at least, offered the hope of some entertainment, in much the same way that a smattering of smashed up cars and recently-separated body parts offers drivers a break from the monotony of actually getting to where they were going.  So they paused to watch. 

The man on the sidewalk was called Arnie.  At least, that’s what he was called by his mother and his aunts and his boss.  He actually preferred to be called “The Tank,” but nobody ever called him that.  They might have, if he’d been a foot taller.  But he wasn’t, and they didn’t.  And so, his profound desire to be recognized as an awesome, tough guy went unrequited.  Arnie coped by engaging in as much high-volume berating, disparaging, and insulting as he could manage. 

Today, he was yelling at an old man.  “Get moving, old man!”

A frail, weather-beaten, and weary-looking old man staggered past, struggling underneath the weight of an old mattress.  Each step he took, as he made his way toward an old truck, looked as if it might be his last.

“Come on, old man!  I haven’t got all day!”

The old man stumbled and staggered, but managed to take the last few steps to the back of the truck.  He turned sideways, letting the mattress slide off his back and onto the ground, and he leaned back against the truck, panting. 

The Tank was too busy yelling to notice as Eli and the Devil approached.  “Move your ass, old man!  Get back up there and get the rest of it!” 

An elderly woman sat on the edge of a window sill, looking at her husband with hopeless eyes.  Eli sidled up to her and asked what was going on. 

“We’ve been evicted.  They want to build condominiums for the college students.  We’re old.  Social Security isn’t enough.”  She waved a crooked, boney finger in the general direction of The Tank.  “He raised our rent.  It’s just too much.  Too much.”  She let her arm drop.

The Tank noticed the old woman.  “Quit your yammering, grandma.”  She leveled a baleful gaze at him.  In her eyes was a standard dose of old-aged wisdom, and quite a bit of weariness, but there was no fear.  So he yelled at her some more.  “You better get your crap out of there by five.”

Satan glanced and saw that the woman’s husband was back on his feet, wheezing and coughing as he tried to lift the mattress into the back of the truck.  He grunted and strained and finally got the mattress up and over the rail of the truck’s bed.  He turned and, with his back up against the truck, slumped back down onto the ground in a heap of very tired old man.

Even The Tank seemed to be put off a little by the sight of the man collapsing so pathetically.  He quickly turned to try to shift the blame to the wife.  “Why don’t you get off your wrinkly old ass, grandma, and go and help him?”  He pointed a stubby finger in the direction of the old man, who had slumped further and was now lying on his side on the ground.

Eli stepped forward to address the Tank.  “You, sir, should reconsider—”

“Who the fuck are you?”  The Tank got right up into Eli’s face – as all Napoleon Complex sufferers apparently must – and gave Eli a shove, or attempted to, rather.  Eli was not an insubstantial individual, dainty floral bathrobe notwithstanding, and the be-robed prophet didn’t move.  The Tank tried again.  “Get the hell out of here, you smelly vagrant fuck.”  He shoved harder this time, and succeeded in moving Eli back a couple of steps. 

That was when the Devil chose to intervene.  He put his hand on Eli’s shoulder, and spoke in a quiet voice.  “Please allow me,” he said.

Chapter 30.           Satan Remembers that He Is Awesome

“Who the fuck are you?”  The Tank sneered and ran his eyes down to Satan’s ratty shoes and back up again.

Satan paused, mid-stride.  “Well, I—” 

“It was a rhetorical question, dumbass.”  The Tank had no idea that the individual he’d just insulted was the Devil.  Of course, neither did the Devil.  If the Tank had known who he was talking to, he probably would have been nicer, maybe a little bit obsequious even.  And if Satan had realized who he really was, the Tank’s head would probably have been on a stick.  But they were both blissfully ignorant.  So the Tank lobbed another sneer in the Devil’s direction, and then called the Lord of the Underworld an asshole.

Satan scowled.  “That’s not very—”  And then something clicked, as if somebody had flipped a switch inside his head.  And suddenly he knew.  He knew exactly who he was. 

“I,” he said, “am an angel of the Lord’s Vengeance.”

Yes, that’s how it was.  He was an angel.  The Devil let it roll around in his mind a bit.  An angel.  And not just any angel.  He was special.  First among all other angels.  God’s favorite.  It felt good.

The Tank watched for a few seconds as a circus of expressions played across Satan’s face.  He turned to Eli, his palms out as if to say, “What the hell is this?”  Eli shrugged.  Satan stayed lost in his thoughts, oblivious.

So, he was an angel.  But what on Earth was he doing here?  He glanced at the mean-looking little shit of a man in front of him.  The man needed to go, that much was clear.  He was, after all, intensely irritating, though Satan couldn’t put his finger on exactly why that was.  Sure, the guy was a jerk, although Satan wasn’t entirely certain that that was really what was bothering him.  But whatever the source of his irritation, Satan knew that he’d been put here to take the man out.  He knew it with every fiber of his poorly-dressed being.  He was here as an avenging angel, sent to dispense Divine justice and kick the crap out of bad guys like this.  It was just so clear; so perfect.  But then, if that were right, wouldn’t he have a flaming sword?  Wasn’t that kind of standard equipment?  No matter, he’d figure that one out in a minute.  Right now he had bigger fish to fry – a bigger, fatter fish in a track suit.

Satan stood erect and opened his mouth, baring his teeth.  But he wasn’t going to eat the Tank or anything.  He was just smiling.  It was a broad, infectious smile. 

The Tank tried to keep his angry face on, but then apparently couldn’t help it.  He let a tiny bit of a grin slip. 

“I am the Morning Star; the Son of the Dawn,” said Satan.  He stood tall, with his shoulders back, and breathed expansive, epic breaths.  He turned to the side – just slightly – like a kicker lining up for a field goal.  And he kept smiling a bug-eyed smile that would have made CDC staff members reach for their plastic, air-tight apparel.  “I am the Sun and the Moon and the stars that dot the Firmament.  I am the light of the breaking dawn.”  He took another step toward the Tank – kind of a swooshing (but still very manly and menacing) sashay of a step.  “But to you,” he said, “I think I may just be bad news.” 

The Tank didn’t seem to know what to say in response to all of this.  He managed to wipe the stupid grin off his face, replacing it with kind of nasty, skeptical look.  But then the Lord and Master of the Underworld and All Kinds of Other Bad Shit just stood there, shining the kind of endless, spotlight smile that usually only preachers and politicians can manage.  And so the Tank’s angry expression melted, bit by bit, and was replaced at first by a face that made it look like he was trying to speed things up on the toilet.  He fought, his head shaking a little even, but in the end he couldn’t help it, and smiled again – a real smile this time, big and ebullient.

“Arnie,” said Satan.

The Tank’s happy face dropped at the sound of his name.

“You’re an evil-doer, Arnie.”  Satan took another step toward the man.  “Your heart is wicked, and filled with vile intentions.”  The Devil’s smile was still all lightness and warmth.  He waited and smiled and watched the various emotions fighting for air time on the Tank’s conflicted face. 

The silence between them was just about to get awkward when the Devil took a smooth, impossibly quick step toward the Tank.  He wrapped one hand around the man’s throat, and grabbed a handful of his hair with the other.  At the same time, he stepped a quick, short step around the Tank, thrusting one leg behind the man, and then lunging forward, as if the two were doing some super-sexy and aggressive Latin dance. 

The Tank reeled – which is perfectly normal, well-adjusted behavior that is not at all unusual for someone whose head is being yanked backward by the Prince of Darkness.  He tripped over Satan’s foot and toppled back, his arms doing the double-take, flailing thing that arms do when people fall backwards, and collapsed back against Satan’s forward leg. 

All of this happened in less than a second as part of a single, deft move.  The Tank lay perfectly still for an instant, his eyes wide and darting as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.  It took a second, but then his demeanor changed.  His eyes went from wide and dinner-plate-ish to narrow, slitty, and pissed.  “Let go of m—” he said.  He wriggled awkwardly, like a still-live fish, wrapped in butcher’s paper and headed for the block. 

Satan tightened his grip around the man’s throat to stop him from saying anything untoward.  He leaned in, his face side-by-side with the Tank’s, and whispered into the man’s ear.  “What you’re doing here, to these old people, it’s wrong.  And you know it,” he said.  “You insult and sadden the Lord with your wickedness.”  There was an abrupt shift in the tone of his voice, from evil and Satanic to Las Vegas showman or circus announcer.  “Which is why I’m here!” he said with a grin.

Meanwhile, back in the world inhabited by more normal weirdos, Eli wore an expression of alarm and utter surprise.  This might have been because nothing he’d seen that morning had given him any reason to suspect that the gentleman in the ratty suit would suddenly break out a Latin-dance/Jiu-Jitsu move on this random jerk.  Of course, it might also have been the fact that his newfound amnesiac friend was glowing slightly.

“Fuck,” the Tank managed to choke the word out.  He followed up with a gurgled, “you.”  He wriggled and twisted, trying to wrench himself free.

The Devil lifted his head back away from the Tank’s ear to look him in the face.  When he spoke, his voice had changed.  It had grown, expanded, and multiplied, as if the guy at the sound board had cranked up all the knobs for reverb and echo, and then punched the button labeled “Demonic Backing Vocals.”  The fact that he spoke in Latin just made it sound that much more evil and scary.  “Mens est suus locus, et verto olympus ut abyssus.”  The Tank gaped and shuddered.  “Iam proficiscor vos pro somnus.” 

There was a popping sound like an oversized champagne bottle being opened, and a flash of brilliant, white light.  And where before there had been a corpulent guy with a nasty disposition, there was now just a faint cloud of sparkly gray dust spilling out of the track suit and streaming toward the ground. 

Satan stood and tossed the track suit aside.  He brushed the dust off his hands and turned to Eli with the pleased expression of someone who has just bowled a strike. 

The prophet’s eyes bulged and seemed to want to crawl out of his head to find somewhere safe to hide.  “I saw— I saw something like that in a movie once.  Robots exploded Los Angeles.  It was—”  He seemed suddenly to be having some trouble with the ground, like he was in the middle of his very own private earthquake.

Satan, still glowing a bit, stepped toward Eli and held the man’s face in his hands.  “It’s all right,” he said.  He stared hard into Eli’s eyes, like he was trying to see right through them to look at the man’s amygdala or something.  “Relax, my friend.”

Eli seemed to regain his composure.  At least, he no longer looked like he was about to have an unpleasant, cranially-damaging encounter with the concrete.  Satan stepped back, put his hands on his hips, and grinned.

“How—” the prophet breathed like he’d been running.  “How?  What?”  His hands seemed to be doing an independent run-through of all the gestures they knew.  “How did you do that?

“Oh.”  Satan laughed casually and gave a dismissive wave.  “I don’t know.” 

“Well, that was definitely—”  He shook his head.  “Who are you?”

“I,” said Satan, “am an avenging angel.”  He beamed.  “I just remembered.”

Eli’s eyes grew wide again.  “It really is the end of the world!” 

Satan cocked his head and squinted at Eli, unsure if he was really willing to make that kind of inferential leap. 

Eli stepped back to look at the Devil.  “Where are your wings?”

The Devil attempted peer over his shoulder at where his wings should be, turning around in kind of a tight circle like a dog chasing his tail.  He stopped and looked back at Eli.  “They’re gone,” he said, his eyes wide. 

They stood in contemplative silence for a moment, and then Satan perked up.  “I need a sword, preferably a flaming one.  I seem to have lost that too.”  He patted Eli’s cheek, and strode off past him toward the old man who’d so recently been moving furniture. 

Eli seemed to deflate.  “What?”

But Satan’s attention was now focused entirely on the old man, who sat on the little porch of the apartment building, next to his wife.  Satan squatted down and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.  The old man shuddered a little at the touch, but looked up into the Devil’s eyes, unafraid.

“It’s okay,” said Satan.  “Everything will be just fine.”  But the old man looked confused, and maybe even a little bit angry.  It wasn’t okay.  Everything, apparently, would not be fine. 

“I appreciate...”  He waved his hand in the general direction of the pile of now-empty track suit.  “But the landlord is going to be really upset that you … you ... evaporated his man.  He’s going to be pissed off.”  He shook his head, simmering.  “And what about our rent?  What are you going to do about that?”

Satan leaned over and picked up a length of pipe that was lying on the ground.

The old man continued.  “This is a fine mess.  A real fine mess.”  He pointed an accusing finger at the Devil.  “You tell those boys at the KW that this isn’t what we agreed to.”

“What?”

“You’re with the KW, aren’t you?”

“What?  What on Earth are you talking about?”

“The KW.”  The old man turned his liver-spotted, jowly face to Satan.  “Aren’t you with the KW?”

Satan struck a pensive pose and scratched his chin.  “I don’t think so.”  With that settled, he moved on to bigger, brighter, and less boring things.  “Regard this,” he said, wielding the pipe, “this simple pipe.”  He waved his hand with a flourish and the pipe ignited.  “Now, regard this flaming pipe of divine justice!”  He wafted the fiery implement back and forth a couple of times.

The old man glared at Satan, evidently not impressed, and still very pissed.

The Devil let the hand holding the pipe drop by his side.  “You shouldn’t be ungrateful,” he said.  “The Almighty gets very upset when people are ungrateful.  Very upset.  You could even say, I suppose, that it irks Him.”  Satan held up the fiery pipe again, and was just about to administer some fiery, Divine retribution when he was interrupted by the sound of squeaky brakes.

Satan turned to see an enormous Town Car roll to a stop.  Almost every part of it – even the windows – was black.  And the bits that weren’t black were brilliantly-polished chrome.  It was immaculate, and – to Satan – beautiful.

He turned to Eli.  “Ooh,” he said, pointing his fire pipe back at the car.  Behind him, the old man and his wife stood, removing caps, patting down skirts, fixing mussed hair, and otherwise making themselves presentable for their overlords.

Eli shuffled over to Satan’s side in a hurry, apparently anxious about something.  “Put that thing out,” he said, waving his hands.  “Put it out.”

“What?”

Eli pointed at the car.  “It’s the KW!” 

“What’s that?”

“Kind of like the ... the mob.  Or what’s that Japanese thing?  The Yakuza.  Bad news.  Very bad news.”

“Oh,” said Satan lightly.  He extinguished the flaming pipe of Almighty Vengeance and tossed it aside.  “Should we run away?”

Eli stopped, turned, and straightened up as best he could.  “No,” he said.  “It’s too late for that.”

Chapter 31.           Hells Bells

Bill Cadmon entered his office to find that the ratio of hot, young assistants to old, fat guys had got completely out of whack.  The usual compliment of buxom, college-age blondes was present, of course, but there were far too many corpulent, middle-aged men – which is to say that there was one old, fat guy sitting in Bill Cadmon’s $3,000 chair, which was parked behind the preacher’s 125-year-old, $25,000 desk.

“What are you doing here?” asked Cadmon.

Dick Whitford ignored the question.  Dick Whitford did not answer questions that did not serve his purposes.  “You didn’t get him, did you?”

“What?”

“The body,” said Whitford.

“Oh, I—”

“You didn’t.”

“—don’t know.  I haven’t had a chance to ask.”

Whitford raised his eyebrows in the way that Big Deals sometimes do when they want to signal that all questioning, gainsaying, or other forms of uncooperative conversational behavior should cease immediately.  “You didn’t get the body.”  Having made his point, Whitford returned his attention to a folder of papers he’d spread out on the desk.

“Okay,” said Cadmon, flummoxed.  He tried a different tack.  “How do you—?”

Whitford did not look up.  “He burned down the Mansion.” 

“He?”

“The one you were supposed to take care of.”

“How do you know it was him?”

Whitford tore off his reading glasses and stared up at Cadmon from underneath heavy lids.  “Who the hell else could it be?”

“Hell, I don’t know.  Anybody.  There are a lot of maniacs running around town right now…”

“Those are your maniacs,” said Whitford, with a nod toward the door, presumably to indicate the various militia men on the church grounds, and not the nice old lady who was mopping the floor just outside the office.  “Or are you trying to tell me that you think your men burned down my mansion?  Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, no.  Of course not, but—”

“I didn’t think so,” said Whitford.  “Besides, we have video from the security cameras.  Apparently the video shows the whole thing – every surface of the building – bursting into flames simultaneously.  Hard to imagine the morons you’ve hired managing that.”

“Did the video show—?”

“No,” said Whitford.

“You didn’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.  I was going to ask about llamas.  You had no idea that I was going to ask about llamas.  Did the video show any llamas?”

Whitford lowered his eyelids to half mast.  He sat like that for a moment, and then returned his attention to the papers.

“So you think it was supernatural…”  Cadmon spoke the conclusion to himself, and then stuck out his chin as he contemplated the implications.  “You think it might be our guy?”

Whitford slapped the papers down the desk.  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Right.  Right.”

“And now, because you failed to take care of him, he’s burned down my mansion.  And let me tell you something,” Whitford propped an elbow on the desk and pointed a meaty finger at Cadmon, “I think it’s only a matter of time before he shows up here.”

Cadmon’s eyes got big and he began to look all around him.  “He’s—  I—  What do we do?”

Whitford stared dolefully at his partner in crime.  He sighed, and pursed his lips.  “I think,” he said, “that we’ve got no choice.”  Cadmon cast him an inquisitive look.  Whitford leaned over the side of his chair and, with a hearty wheezing sound, came back up and plonked a gas mask down on the desk.  “We’ve got to speed things up a bit.”

Chapter 32.           Straight into the Frying Pan

“I must say,” said Alistair Preston, “I’m very surprised by the sudden resurgence of interest in all of this.”

“What?”  Liam and Lola spoke in unison.

“Oh, well, I’ve had several people telephoning me recently, asking all sorts of questions.”

“Several?  Who?” asked Lola.

“Oh, who remembers such things?  Not me.”  He laughed the light, carefree laugh of an aristocrat.  Ramón laughed too.  His sounded more like “heh heh.” 

Preston tossed a single manila folder down on the table.  “This is everything I have.”  He leaned against one of the high-backed chairs, and watched for a moment as Lola leafed through the papers.

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” said Lola, opening the folder and then tossing it back on the table.

“Always a prudent point at which to begin,” said Preston.  He began to pace.  “It started out simply enough,” he said.  His teaspoon made a little clinking sound as he moved it from his cup to his saucer.  “We began by looking at mind control.  Part of all that LSD nonsense, you see – mind wipes, mass hysteria – but then it grew to other things, and we began investigating all manner of, well, paranormal phenomena – mind reading, action at a distance – all terribly exciting stuff really.”  He smiled a conspiratorial smile, as if mind control schemes were just the sorts of things one did, you know, when one got together with the boys after dinner.

Liam and Lola exchanged glances, their eyebrows raised.  Festus looked at each in turn, desperately trying to make eye contact with someone, but they both ignored him and looked back at Preston instead.

“And you were successful?” asked Lola, her voice indicating that she doubted they were.

“Oh well, you know.  I don’t like to brag.”  He placed one hand across his chest and looked away demurely.  After a sufficiently humble pause, he continued.  “We had a measure of success.”  He took a dainty sip of his tea.

“Was this that thing where you guys killed goats?” asked Lola.

Preston threw up one hand in exasperation.  The other stayed put, holding on to his tea un-exasperatedly.  “What, my dear, do you have against goats?  Why does everyone want to kill goats?  The goat is a noble, willful creature that neither can nor should be killed using brain power alone.” 

“Oh, sorry.  Ramón said it was goats.”

Preston shot a dirty look at Ramón.  “You told them it was goats?  You?  Oh, Ramón.”  They stared at one another for a tense and sexually-charged moment, and then Preston returned his attention back to Lola.  “No, no.  It wasn’t goats at all.  It was sheep.”  He sipped his tea, calmer now. 

“And you killed these animals… with your—”

“With our minds.”  Preston made his eyes big. 

“Ah … ha,” said Lola.

“But it was just sheep,” he said, looking at them over the edge of his teacup.  “Well, not just sheep.  There were a few cats, and a dog.  Quite a few smallish quadrupeds, actually.  One time there was even a horse.”  He had a good chuckle at this, sighed, and wiped a tear from his eye.  When he spoke again, his voice had a gravelly, wizardy quality to it.  “Alas, my dear, it was mostly just sheep.”

“So, what you’re saying is that this was a caprine shenanigan?” asked Festus.  The words burst out of his mouth.  He’d clearly been holding them in, waiting for the first pause to make his joke.  Everyone turned and looked at him.  Preston made a face like he’d just taken a whiff of three-day-old milk. 

“I think,” said Preston, “that the word you’re looking for is ‘ovine.’  ‘Caprine’ means goat-like and, as I have attempted to make entirely clear more than once already, there were no goats involved.”

Ramón shook his head, disgusted. 

Preston shuddered and looked back to Lola.  “They were never really sure of the mechanism, you know.  Of course, you give any sheep, or horse for that matter, that much LSD, and well…”  He took another sip of his tea.  “Sadly,” he said, “that isn’t the sort of thing that garners a lot of funding.”

“Can’t imagine why,” said Lola.

“Oh,” said Preston, peering over his cup, “you’d be surprised at what the United States government will pay for.”

“Even so,” she said, “we’d like to get copies of anything you still have.”

“I’m sorry,” said Preston, “but there’s nothing left.  They destroyed everything.  Burned it all.”  He shrugged.

“Who is ‘they’—?”  She stopped though, and turned to watch Liam, who suddenly seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.  He stood up, and walked slowly toward the front door, craning his neck this way and that to look through the gauzy curtains that covered the windows on either side of the entry. 

Lola left the couch, following Liam toward the door.  “What’s up?”

Liam hushed her with his hand, and pulled one of the curtains to the side.  Through the window he could see a pickup truck, the body of which sat perched precariously on absurdly-large tires.  It was covered with lights, metal guards of various sorts, and stickers proclaiming the driver’s allegiance to the Republic of Texas and the National Rifle Association. 

“Alistair, are you expecting additional guests?” called Liam, over his shoulder.

“None other than you, my dear.”  Preston made his way toward the front door.

A car door slammed, and Liam peered back through the window.

“Who is it?” asked Festus, helpful as ever.

Outside, walking from the truck toward the house, was a man who Liam judged not to be very nice.  He based this judgment in part on the amount of flannel the man was wearing, which was a lot – far more than would normally be found covering a person with whom one might expect to strike up a pleasant, polite conversation that didn’t touch on things like the alleged shortcomings of certain ethnic groups or the question of whether the South would rise again – and partly on the fact that this flannel-clad individual was carrying a shotgun. 

Liam turned away from the window, and strode back into the living room.  He pointed to Preston and Ramón.  “You two.  Go.”  He waved one hand dismissively toward the rear of the house.  “Hide somewhere.”

“What?  What’s the matter?” asked Preston.

“There’s a man with a gun,” said Liam, “and you need to go hide yourselves right now.” 

“Oh, then.  Come along Ramón.”  The odd couple disappeared down a hallway.

“What about me?” asked Festus.

“You can hide, too.”  He gave Festus an encouraging shove, and Festus scampered off to try to catch up with Preston and Ramón.  “Lola, sit over there.”  He pointed at one of the fancy couches.

“What?” asked Lola.

“Sit.  There.”  He pointed at the couch again. 

Lola shrugged, squinted, and shook her head.

“Sit on the couch.  Act surprised when he comes in.  Don’t let him know I’m here.”  Liam stepped back toward the entryway, and crouched down behind a tall plant in the corner. 

If the man had come inside at that instant, he would have found Lola, sitting on a couch, making nasty, sullen faces at a house plant.  But the man didn’t come in.  Instead he knocked.

The knock was polite – a tiny bit timid, even.  It was certainly not the knock of a man carrying a shotgun.  Unless, of course, the man carrying the shotgun was just a neighbor who was returning the weapon after borrowing it to do some spring cleaning or something.  But then it would be unusual for a well-meaning neighbor to show up with the weapon actually aimed at the front door, or to load a shell into the chamber prior to knocking, making that “chig-chig” sound that, in movies, so often precedes a lot of noisy, unpleasant carnage.

Liam and Lola waited for the man to bust down the door.  But then there was another polite knock.  A little firmer this time, but still fairly dainty, as if the knocker had just wanted to make sure that the knockee had actually heard the knocking – without being too obtrusive or anything.

Lola shrugged, gesturing at the door, and mouthed, “Should I answer?”  Liam leaned out from behind the plant briefly and shook his head.  Lola glared at the plant some more.

There followed a moment of silence, during which Liam and Lola exchanged confused, slightly worried looks through the foliage.  Then the door knob rattled a bit, indicating that the man with the shotgun was quietly checking to see if the door was unlocked. 

Lola dropped her head into her hands and sighed.  She looked up at the house plant, her palm and fingers splayed across her face, and rolled her eyes.  She pulled her hand away, however, at the sound of smashing glass.

The butt of the shotgun appeared briefly where just before there had been a pane of glass in the window next to the door.  It caught on the gauzy curtains, which tore as the gun was pulled back through the window.  A hand appeared, and began groping around near the door knob. 

“Ow!  God damnit, sumbitch!”  The hand withdrew quickly, and after a short spell during which Liam and Lola could hear further swearing, the butt of the gun reappeared to knock out the remaining shards of glass from the window pane.  Then the hand came back, groping around some more until it found the deadbolt and unlocked the door.  It was another, eternally-long twenty seconds before the door finally creaked open. 

The man poked his head into the room.  He wore faded jeans that had a yellowish-brownish hue and were covered with mud splatters.  His flannel shirt had probably been red once upon a time, but now it was a pale, brownish-pink.  And of course, he had the obligatory red-neck mullet.  (Why anyone – even a stupid redneck – still sports this universally-derided hair style is one of the great, ineffable mysteries of life.)

The man stepped all the way into the room, and pushed the door closed – with a light “click” – behind him.  He moved slowly, the shotgun dangling in one of his hands, as if it were just a stick he’d found and had liked the look of.  He kept his body very still as he crept forward.  In fact, only his eyes – which were wide open and worried-looking – moved as he took in his surroundings.  Their frantic scanning of the room overcompensated for the lack of motion in the rest of his body.  But somehow he failed entirely to notice the woman sitting on the couch directly in front of him.

“Um, hi,” said Lola, offering a perfunctory wave.  “Want some lemonade?”

“Shit!”  The man jumped back.

At this point, it would not be unusual to be informed that the man in question “jumped a foot into the air.”  In fact, however, most people who don’t play professional sports can’t jump anything like twelve inches off the ground.  This particular redneck was no exception.  He did jump, but he only cleared and inch or two, and most of his panic response was directed to his arms, which flailed about, waving his shotgun this way and that.  He eventually got himself under control, and clutched the shotgun to his chest.  This would have been a great move had he come armed with only, say, a teddy bear, but issn’t the sort of thing that is generally regarded as proper shotgun-attack protocol.

Lola’s smile was pleasant and comforting.  She raised her eyebrows, as though she were awaiting an answer.

The man smiled back and let out a sigh of relief, he let the shotgun dangle by his side.  “Well, yeah,” he said.  “That’d be right nice.”

For a second, Lola’s jaw hung open as she stared at the man with the shotgun who had said that, yes, he would, in fact, like some lemonade.  She quickly wiped the surprise off her face, replacing it with the same pleasant smile.  But then nothing happened.  And after a few seconds more, nothing continued to happen.  Tension crept into her smile, and the muscles in her cheeks bulged as she clenched her jaw. 

Liam, meanwhile, just sat and watched from behind his houseplant, causing nothing to happen.  It was only a quick, sharp look from Lola that roused him to action. 

His first two steps toward the man were fluid – almost languid – and completely silent.  And then, just as quietly, he pounced.  He snatched the gun, tossed it onto one of the couches, and grabbed the man’s wrist, which he twisted and pinned to the middle of the man’s back.  Then he shoved the man forward, toppling him over the coffee table, and grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt, pulling it back tight against his throat.  Liam knelt on the small of the man’s back, bearing down with the full weight of his body. 

Liam looked up at Lola.  She scowled.  If they had been in a relationship, it would have been clear to everyone in the room that Liam was unlikely to get any that evening, and quite possibly the next.  But they weren’t, and so Liam just shrugged and dug his knee into the man’s back some more.  The man made a pathetic mewing sound.

Liam leaned in and spoke into the man’s ear.  “I’m going to let go of you.  When I do, you will not try to escape.  You will stand and do as I say.  Understood?”

The man whimpered and nodded his head, inasmuch as it was possible to do so with his face wedged in between a coffee-table book and the nastier bits of a small statue that some artist had carved as a tribute to the virility of well-hung and ripped youths everywhere.

Lola scoffed.  “They teach Jedi mind tricks in the CIA?”

Liam looked up.  His eyes were deadly serious.  “Go check on the others.  Take the gun.”

“I have one already,” she said. 

“Um, okay.”  Liam shrugged.  “Use yours instead.”

“I’m taking this one too,” she said.

Liam let out an exasperated burst of breath.  “Whatever.”

“Fine,” said Lola.  She picked up the shotgun and cracked it open to check if it was actually loaded, and stalked off to find the others. 

Liam watched her leave, and then turned his attention to the redneck he’d pinned to the table. 

“Ready?”

The man nodded, and then added, “Ow.  Ow.  Ow.”  The position of his arm relative to his body would have made Gumby uncomfortable. 

Liam stood and stepped back.  The man got up, shook his arm out a bit, and then glanced around casually as if he were just a visitor checking out the décor. 

“Okay.  Walk.”  The man turned and nodded.  Liam pointed to a doorway off the side of the room.  The man nodded again and set off for the other room, which turned out to be a kitchen.

Liam followed the man into the kitchen, which appeared to have been designed solely for the purpose of being photographed for one of those fancy, “This is how people who are richer and better than you live” magazines.  It was beautiful, but utterly unusable.  Liam glanced around and noticed there wasn’t even a microwave.  Large, untarnished copper cookware gleamed at them from hooks on the ceiling.  The countertops – made from the Elgin Marbles – were endless expanses of spotless, open space.  The cabinets were “antiqued,” which means that someone paid a lot of money to have them finished to evoke timelessness and Solomonic wisdom or something, without actually looking old.  Mostly they just looked expensive.  To top it all off, there were five separate floral arrangements. 

“Sit,” said Liam, shoving the man toward the island.  He spun an uncomfortable-looking – but very fashionable – stool around.  The man in the crusty jeans set down a piece of plastic fruit he’d been examining and hopped up onto the stool.

“What are you doing here?”

The man looked around, as if what he was doing here was pretty obvious.  “I guess I’m sitting.”  He nodded an earnest nod.

“Why did you come here?”

“‘Cause I was told.”  He nodded.  “They told us to come here.”

Liam let out a tiny, barely-perceptible sigh.  He’d dealt with recalcitrant interviewees plenty of times, but this wasn’t recalcitrance.  This was stupidity.

“‘Us’?  Who is ‘us’?”

“What?”  The man squinted and shifted his jaw to the side as if he were concentrating real hard.

“Is there someone else here?”

“I saw that lady.”  The man smiled.  It wasn’t a smart-assed smirk.  It was a smile of recollection.  “She’s here.  Wherever you sent her.”  He nodded and smiled an earnest, open smile that would have made June Cleaver want to start handing out knuckle sandwiches.

“Did you come here with someone?  Were you alone?”

The man’s eyes went wide.  He started to shake his head, but stopped.  “Way—”

Liam wondered whether the man wasn’t a lot smarter than he’d assumed.  His face looked more surprised and worried than confused.  Was this a new tack?  Then it occurred to Liam that the man was looking at something.  Something behind him.

Liam spun, and three things passed through his mind in rapid succession: the words “frying pan,” a loud, clanking sound, and “ow.”  He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

Chapter 33.           The Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Association

Most people think the City of Austin is run by a mayor, a comptroller, and a council of elected representatives.  Actually, that’s not true.  In fact, most folks don’t really think this at all, but that’s only because most, when asked to rattle off a list of their elected representatives, get as far as “Who’s that guy who lives in the big white house?” before they have to turn their attention back to whatever is on TV.  The city could be run by fairies and unicorns for all most people know.  The truth of the matter, however, is that the elected officials do not run anything.  (Nor do the fairies or unicorns.)  The real power lies in the hands of a ruthless and callous band of crotchety old men – men hardened by years of street fighting and long nights at the bingo parlor.  They call themselves the “Krijgsheren Wijsheid.” 

It is a silly name.  The men who picked it did so because they thought it sounded mysterious and vaguely ominous, which is helpful for any organization in the business of doing Really Bad Stuff, such as attacking supermarkets en masse to hog all of the weekly specials, slowing down traffic, and kicking the crap out of all the damned know-nothing, whippersnappers around town.  They also liked it because they tended to get a lot fewer angry letters from trademark lawyers than when they had gone around calling themselves “The Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Association.”

The town car sat, looming at Satan, Eli, and the old couple.  It did not move – not even a little bit.  It was almost timeless in its inert majesty, like a mountain, but smaller, and with tires and a radiator, and more bits of highly-polished chrome than is usually the case with mountains.

A breeze blew through, bringing with it the smell of a nearby taco stand, and then flitted off in search of some place with more action. 

Satan glanced at Eli, who now looked very worried.  Eli shrugged.  They turned back to watch the car.  The tinting on the windows made it impossible to see who was inside.  And so they just stood there, watching and waiting as the land barge did nothing, and, occasionally, smelling the tacos.

Finally, right when everyone was just about to return to their regularly-scheduled programming, the driver door opened.  A foot, just visible under the lower edge of the door, stepped out onto the ground.  The foot was wrapped in one of those soft-leather, orthopedic tennis shoes that old people wear.  It shifted slightly, and a second, similarly-clad foot appeared next to it.  There was a grunt (presumably of exertion), and the head of an elderly man appeared over the top of the door.  The head was probably connected to the feet by a neck, a torso, and some other body parts, but it’s hard to say, because all of those body parts, if they were in fact present, were completely obscured by the door of the automobile.

The old man squinted and peered around, taking in the scene, in much the same way that an eagle might scan a bit of prairie before streaking down out of the sky to capture and eviscerate a bunny.  His face was tanned and etched with deep lines left there, presumably, by years of hard days spent out in the sun dealing with cows or doing some other badass thing that would have withered lesser men.  His name was Herbert.  His friends called him Herb, but then, his friends were all dead.  Younger, still-alive types usually referred to him as, “El Jefe.”

El Jefe slapped the roof of the car and instantly the three other doors opened.  More grizzled, bird-of-prey-esque old men appeared.  Each stood watch, like a sentry, at his car door, scowling and glaring and sneering at anyone and everyone who dared metabolize oxygen in the immediate vicinity.  There weren’t all that many people around though, so the men contented themselves by aiming dirty looks at trees, birds, bits of litter, and other things they apparently found distasteful.

The two old men from the back seats locked eyes, nodded, and turned simultaneously toward the back of the car.  One – the taller, more upright of the two – popped the trunk.  The shorter man leaned in – just a little at first – and then reached further and further, until the whole top half of his body actually seemed to be in the trunk.  For a second it appeared that he might have become permanently lodged, legs dangling, in the cavernous hold at the rear of the automobile.  But then he emerged with two very large firearms of the sort generally favored by guys who also like wearing ragged, makeshift bandanas and hunting Commies in lesser-known Asian countries.  He handed one of the weapons to his tall partner.  Then they closed the trunk and resumed their respective positions by the open back doors.  They nodded at El Jefe, who turned to face Satan.

“Who are you?” barked El Jefe.  His face had the steely aspect of an angry, weather-beaten fighter pilot, or maybe an old leather bag.  The old feet poking out from underneath the door shuffled a bit.

Satan placed an affronted hand to his chest and cocked his head as if to say, “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” said El Jefe.  A hand (presumably belonging to El Jefe) appeared above the door, holding a cigar.  It placed the cigar to El Jefe’s lips.  He clenched it in his teeth and squinted at the Devil.

“I…” Satan puffed up dramatically, preparing to deliver a self-introduction of oratorical grandiosity sufficient to suit an avenging angel.  But El Jefe interrupted.

“Are you with the property company?”

Satan paused and looked around for an answer.  There didn’t seem to be one anywhere nearby.  Fortunately the little old woman came to his rescue.

“Oh, no.  No, sir,” she said.  “He helped us.”  She pointed at the Devil, as if to clarify that he was, in fact, the “he” to whom she referred. 

El Jefe squinted some more and chewed his cigar at Satan.  “Yeah?”  He addressed the woman, but kept his eyes fixed on the Devil.  “How’d he do that?”

“Well…”  The woman looked down, apparently unsure of how exactly to describe whatever it was that she’d just seen happen.  But then her husband stepped out in front of her, holding his arm out and shushing her back gently.

“He,” the old man pointed at Satan, “evaporated the man from the property company.”  The old man gave a little nod and then stood with his chin up, ready for whatever response was headed his way.

El Jefe rested his arm on the driver door and stopped mid-chew.  “What?”

The old man seemed to shrink.  “That’s ... what he did.”  He shrugged.  “He just made the guy go ... poof.”  He made a poofing gesture.  Behind him, his wife shook her head and made a slightly different poofing gesture.

El Jefe turned to Eli, who’d been standing at his shabby, flower-bathrobed version of attention.  “Eli, is this true?”

Eli nodded.  “Uh, yeah.  I mean, yes.  I saw it.  Right there.”  He turned and pointed at the spot on the sidewalk.  “Evaporated him, just like that.”  He snapped his fingers, but then, still holding his hand up in the air, seemed to reconsider his evaluation of the poofery or evaporation or whatever it had been, and let his hand fall.  “You know, I’d say it was less evaporation than kind of a …”  He searched for the word, but only found the incredulous eyes of the man with the cigar.  “He’s— He’s an angel.”  Eli turned and wafted his hands in Satan’s direction, like a game show presenter girl.

Satan was just a popcorn and a soda short of being a sports spectator as he watched, turning his head back and forth as each person spoke.  The power these men in the big car seemed to hold over Eli and the elderly couple was incredible.  And wrong, somehow.  They were so deferential, almost as if the men were kings or... gods!  Idolators!  He stepped backward slowly and cautiously, moving toward the spot where he’d tossed the flaming pipe of divine vengeance.

“You evaporated him, huh?” asked El Jefe.  Satan smiled and nodded.  El Jefe smiled and chewed and rolled the cigar around for a while, ruminating.  “You,” he said, addressing Satan, “aren’t one of Cadmon’s damned soldiers, are you?”

Satan paused, mid-step.  Who was Cadmon?  “I don’t work for any—”  He stared at El Jefe for a second, confused.  “I am a servant of the Lord.  An angel!”

“See?” said Eli.

“Yeah?” asked the man with the cigar.  “I don’t see any wings.” 

They all stared at each other for a moment.  El Jefe turned briefly to the man standing on the other side of the car and jerked his head toward the elderly couple, who were having an animated conversation of their own, and making increasingly strident poofing gestures at one another.  With the old-man equivalent of a bounce in his step, El Jefe’s passenger marched over and ushered the couple back into their apartment building. 

El Jefe returned his attention to Satan.  “So, where are they?”

“Where are what?”

“Your wings.”

“Hmm ...” said Satan, scratching at his chin.  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

The man who’d attended to the elderly couple returned, wiping his hands on his blue engineer’s suit.  He whispered something in El Jefe’s ear, and the two engaged in a quiet conversation for a moment.

Satan inched his way over to the metal pipe. 

The two old men finished their whispering.  El Jefe nodded, and the other man returned to his position at the passenger door.

“Okay,” said El Jefe, turning back to Satan and Eli.  He looked back and forth between the two before finally settling his eyes on the Devil.  “I think you’re going to have to come with us.”

“No, he – he can’t go with you.  He’s— “  Eli looked to Satan for help, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention. 

“Look here, son,” said El Jefe.  There is a principle of conversational logic which states that any conversant of a sufficiently advanced age, who is at least ten-percent more aged (the “-ed” in “aged” should be pronounced as a second syllable) than any co-conversant, may address that co-conversant as “son,” and get away with it, unless there are other, similarly aged (again, pronounce the “-ed”) smartasses nearby who are likely to call out the aged (see last parenthetical) individual for being a dumbass.  “You don’t really have any say in the matter, now do you?  He’s coming with us, and that’s the end of the discussion.”

“What?” asked Satan.  He’d been trying to figure out a way to lean over and pick the soon-to-be re-ignited pipe of divine retribution up off the ground without being noticed, and hadn’t been following the conversation as closely as he probably should have.

El Jefe looked over at Satan and jerked his head back toward the automobile.  “Get in the car.”

Satan cocked his head, giving the man a polite, inquisitive look.

“Please,” said the man with a sardonic smile.  The old man next to him – still wielding his action-movie grade firearm – held the back door open and gestured toward the back seat.

“Why?” asked Eli.

The man with the cigar stared at Eli for a moment with the cold eyes of a butcher sizing up a piece of meat.  “We just want to talk.”

Another moment of silence passed.  Satan turned to look at Eli, with his bathrobe, his wild-man beard, and his bunny slippers.  Then he looked at the old men, with their shiny car and their guns.  “Okay,” he said.  “I’ll go.”

“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.

“What’s that all about?” asked Festus.  He noticed that there were a lot of military trucks all over the place.

“Shut up,” said Jimmy.

“Yeah, shut up,” said Wayne.

“You shut up,” said Jimmy.

“No, you shut up, asshole.”

“You shut up.”

“You.”

Jimmy turned and pointed a wide-eyed, crazy man look at Wayne.  Festus looked back and forth between his captors, moving only his eyes.  It was, he thought, probably one of the tensest situations he’d ever been in – outside of the city jail anyway.  The odd thing about it though, was that he felt remarkably at ease.  All the tension seemed to be between the two other men.

Jimmy slammed the truck into park, causing his passengers to jerk forward as the truck tilted and swayed on its giant shocks.

“Jimmy, I gotta have words with you.”

Jimmy gave Wayne the kind of look a homophobic Marine might give a son who’s just announced he’s going to study floral arrangement and interpretive dance at some highfalutin’ college north of the Mason-Dixon line.  He stewed there for a second and then turned his angry face to Festus.  “You stay put,” he said, climbing out of the truck.

The men slammed their doors and immediately started yelling at each other.  Jimmy waved his hands a lot, while Wayne held his out in front of him in what looked like a conciliatory gesture. 

From inside the truck, Festus could hear nothing, but guessed astutely that something was amiss between the men.  He watched as Jimmy’s hand waving became more insistent and more animated.  And then, apparently having done all the hand-waving he intended to do, the man lunged at Wayne. 

“Holy shit!” said Festus, as he watched the two men topple over and disappear from view behind the edge of the hood.  He leaned forward, pressing his face up against the windshield to try to get a better view.  And then he realized that this was an opportunity.  He wavered for a moment before shifting over to the driver’s seat.  Festus hesitated again, checked to see if the two idiots were still busy, and eased the handle back to open the driver’s door. 

With the door open, he could hear grunting noises punctuated by the occasional “son of a bitch!” and “you goddamned pansy!”  He slid down off the seat and dropped to the ground.  There was a door into the church just fifteen feet away.  The alternative was to head back over toward where the military guys were stationed.  Festus scampered over to the door and, finding it unlocked, went inside. 

The door made a clicking sound as its spring hinge pulled it closed, and Wayne perked up from where Jimmy had him pinned to the ground.  “He’s getting’ away!” he said.  “Ow!”

“Shut up,” said Jimmy.

“Would you get off me, you dang cretin?  That hippie just went inside!” 

“Sheeyat.”  The two men set aside their differences for the moment in favor of the bigger problem of Festus P. Bongwater having an unsupervised visit at headquarters.  They jumped up, each covered in dust and sporting what looked very much like sex hair, and ran after the hippie who was loose inside Driftwood Fellowship Church.

Chapter 36.           Why Aren’t There Any Naked Ladies?

When one naked guy jumps out in front of your car, you think, “Huh, that’s strange,” and hope that he doesn’t leave any of his nastier, more personal bits stuck in the radiator grill.  When the road is filled with naked guys cavorting, frolicking, and otherwise doing unseemly, naked things, you begin to realize: Something is up.

“Something is up,” said El Jefe, chomping his cigar.  The three other old men in the car nodded in agreement.  Actually, only Angus and Virgil nodded in agreement.  The third – Josiah – had this old-man thing where he kind of nodded all the time, so it was hard to tell whether he was agreeing or not. 

In the middle of the back seat, the Lord of the Underworld and putative angel of divine vengeance did not nod.  He sat quietly, bopping slightly to the swing of the big-band music coming from the car’s cassette deck, looking this way and that as the unclothed hordes cavorted.

“Are those men – do they – are they naked?” asked Josiah.  He was the eldest of the group, and his sight wasn’t great.

“No, Josiah,” said El Jefe.  “They’re just wearing flesh-colored body suits.  It’s one of those new-fangled fads.”  It wasn’t good for a man of Josiah’s age to get too excited. 

“What?” 

“Flesh-colored suits.”

“What?”  Josiah couldn’t hear real well either.  It happens.  Most companies, militarized or not, have mandatory retirement ages, and can therefore avoid problems like the deafness or general crabbiness or grade-A, goat-shit senility that accompanies aging.  This, however, was the militant wing of a group whose minimum age for eligibility was the trigger for most groups to start distributing gold watches and bus tickets to Florida.  Compounding this problem was the fact that advancement through the Krijgsheren Wijsheid was via seniority, which meant that all the guys in charge were themselves too addled to realize that something ought to be done about all the old, addled guys running around in the group.  Josiah hefted his large, military-issue shotgun and started ranting and mumbling nasty, old man things at all the whippersnappers out there in the street in their weird goddamned clothes.

In the front seat, Virgil, a spry 78-year-old, did kind of a slow, contemplative head bob as he watched the world through the windshield.  Something was definitely up – there really were a lot more naked guys than usual.  They seemed to be appearing out of nowhere (but then, to really old guys, lots of things seem to appear out of nowhere), and their numbers seemed to be increasing.  In fact, it looked as if El Jefe was piloting the Town Car directly into the naked guy hive or something.

“Jesus,” said El Jefe.  He navigated the land barge around an up-ended garbage can and then slammed on the brakes to avoid running down a couple of the flesh-colored-suit guys.  “First the burned-up sports car, and then the—” he glanced in the rearview mirror, scowling at the most recent addition to his compliment of passengers, “—and now this.”  He gestured at the windshield, beyond which naked guys were busy cavorting.  “What the hell is all this?”

Virgil turned to El Jefe, a surprised look on his face.  “I told you already, it’s the end of the world.”

“Oh, shut up.  We’ve had enough of your nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense, you … asshole.”  Virgil pronounced the epithet in the halting manner of someone who is still trying to un-learn a lifetime of using polite language.

“A bunch of goddamned naked people running around—” El Jefe spun the steering wheel with the base of his palm, “doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.”

Virgil shook his head.  “You just need to accept it.”  He turned to look out the window, muttering half under his breath.  “Jesus will be here soon.”

“Shut up.”  El Jefe didn’t just have the beak of a bird of prey, he had the keen hearing too. 

Virgil whipped his head around.  “And he’s going to kick your ass.”

El Jefe ignored the threat by tripartite-God proxy.  “It’s probably that damned Cadmon.”

“What?” asked Virgil.  “You think that preacher has something to do with all these naked men?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well.”  Virgil rubbed his chin.  “I don’t know.  He never struck me as being a homo.”

El Jefe gave Virgil a Look.  “No, I think he hired them to make people think it’s the end of the world.  Just like he hired those guys with the snake hats to play trumpets on the lawn of the Capitol Building.”

“What?  You think he’s trying to stage the end of the world?”

“He’s been selling that crap for years.  Brings more people into his church.”

“Who is Cadmon?” asked Satan.

El Jefe seemed to have a lot of Looks to dispense.  He gave one to Satan.  “He’s a preacher.  A rich, television preacher.  Dumb as a post.”

Virgil turned to face the Devil, resting his arm on the back of the seat.  “He’s got a huge church,” he said, gesturing to indicate the hugeness of the church and nodding, apparently to try to impart some enthusiasm to his audience.  “Used to be a stadium.  And he’s got an army.”

Satan perked up.  “An army?”

“Yeah!  He and Governor Whitford—”

“Shut up, Virgil,” said El Jefe.

“—they’ve got a whole—”

“Shut up, Virgil.”  El Jefe looked at Virgil with the long, sober face and droopy eyelids of someone who is either giving a warning or is very, very tired.

Josiah joined the living for a moment.  “We should shoot the bastards first, before they can attack us.”  He brandished his shotgun.

El Jefe glanced back at Josiah in the rearview mirror.  “Josiah?  Josiah!”  Josiah finally seemed to notice El Jefe.  “You were supposed to put that thing back into the trunk.”

“What?” asked Josiah.

“You were supposed to put your gun back into the trunk.”

“What?”

“Oh, never mind, you dumb old fuck.”

Josiah either ignored or just didn’t hear El Jefe, and continued to stream quiet epithets and loathing at the world he saw through his window.  It was a confusing place, that world, mostly because his vision had gone to hell and he could barely differentiate a person from a stoplight.  Didn’t matter though.  They were all screwy anyway.  Young, immoral, and screwy, the goddamned blurry bastards.  He hefted his gun a little higher.  He might not be able to see or hear anything anymore, but he could still heft the hell out of a weapon. 

El Jefe glanced at Satan, who suddenly looked as if he were having indigestion problems.  He snapped his fingers at Virgil, and pointed at the glove box.  “We got reflux.  Get the pills.”

With speedy familiarity, Virgil smacked the glove box, which dropped open.  He grabbed a plastic bottle and proffered it to Satan.

“What is this?” asked Satan.

“Uh, Tums?” said Virgil, leaving off the word, “dumbass.”

Satan regarded the bottle in his hand.  “I don’t need this,” he said, and handed it back.

“It’ll help,” said Virgil.

Satan shook his head a tiny bit, but it looked less like “no” than like he was trying to erase an image from his mind. 

“What’s wrong with you?” asked El Jefe.

Satan’s breathing was not the calm respiration of someone who was sitting on the comfortable, overstuffed couch in the back of a Town Car.  “Nothing,” he said.  “I guess I just need to remember my anger management exercises.” 

It was at that instant that something clicked in Satan’s mind.

A curious, slightly worried look came over El Jefe’s face, as he watched in the rearview mirror.  The eyes of the weirdo they’d just picked up had grown quite large, suddenly taking on the aspect of someone who has just put the family dog in the oven and is wondering whether to choose “bake” or “broil.” 

Virgil didn’t notice.  “Why aren’t there any broads?” he demanded from the front.

“What?”  El Jefe tore his attention away from the backseat.  “How the hell should I know?”  He swerved the car away from the curb, narrowly avoiding a man who dangled from the top of a bus stop shelter by one arm, and eased the car to a stop at an intersection. 

“Why aren’t there any women?” continued Virgil.  “That’s what I want to know.  Why is it all just men?”  He waved his hand, gesturing at the lack of naked ladies among the unclothed hordes. 

“I don’t know,” said El Jefe.  “Maybe it’s because naked ladies lead to temptation, and Jesus didn’t want anyone to be too tempted at the end of the world.  You’re the one who knows all about this crap.  You tell me.  “

“Well, that’s just it.  There’s supposed to be a lot of … debauchery at the start.”

“The start of what?” asked El Jefe.

“The start of the end of the world.”  Virgil turned to face the window again so that he could get some more muttering done.  “Dumbass.”

El Jefe smacked him. 

“Ow!”

El Jefe continued the conversation casually.  “I’m not sure,” he said, “that all the bad stuff that precedes the arrival of your Lord and Savior is supposed to be entertaining.”

“Yeah, but a few naked ladies couldn’t hurt.”

They waited at the intersection as a long line of naked guys paraded through the crosswalk.  El Jefe glanced in the mirror back at his new passenger, who now seemed calm, almost serene, even.  He opened his mouth to speak, but one naked guy carrying a sign threw himself onto the hood of the car.  His sign flopped onto the windshield, along with the more dangly bits of his anatomy, obscuring the passenger side of the glass and putting an end to Virgil’s hopeful scanning for naked ladies. 

“We’re all gonna die!” said the nudist hood ornament.  He let out a savage, animal scream and then turned over sideways, chomping at the air like a shark on the deck of a boat.

“That’s disgusting.”  El Jefe turned on the windshield wipers and squirted the man with wiper fluid.  One of the wipers got tangled up with some of the more sensitive parts of a man’s anatomy.  He yelped, and there was a lot of ooh-ing and sucking air between teeth inside the car.  Ultimately, it took an extended horn blast, along with a couple of taps of the gas pedal to lurch the man off the hood.  Finally, the guy rolled off the side, and El Jefe hit the accelerator, letting the sound of an enormous, American V8 discourage any further attacks.

They rode in silence for a few moments before El Jefe turned his attention back to Satan.  “So, those kids back there.”

Satan glanced over his shoulder to see which kids El Jefe was talking about.

“No, no.  The couple.  Back at the apartment complex.”

Satan looked forward again and tilted his head in a non-committal gesture.

“Those kids back there,” continued El Jefe, now negotiating a wonky freeway entrance – of which there are many in Austin.  This one required El Jefe to head south and loop back around in order to get into the north-bound lanes of the Mopac Expressway.  “They really seemed to believe your parlor trick.”

“It wasn’t a trick.”  Satan evaporated Virgil.  “See?”  Dust swirled around the car.

“Holy shit!”  The hardened edge of El Jefe’s demeanor vanished, and he immediately ceased to convey his usual sense of authority and ass-kicking-ness in favor of something altogether more like shock.  The car, apparently sensing the lapse, started veering all over the place, pretty much in whatever the hell direction struck its fancy.  The tires left thick trails of rubber along the pavement in large, Z-for-Zorro shapes as it hurtled northward.

“Aaaaaaahhh.”  Josiah screamed in the loudest, most enthusiastic voice his old lungs could muster as the car careened back and forth across the freeway.  He fired a shotgun blast through his window, presumably to punctuate his exclamation, which was really kind of the rhetorical equivalent of using twelve-molar hydrochloric acid to get a stain out.

“Jesus!” said El Jefe, moving from mere shock to Def-Con 5.  The Town Car careened some more, and a beat up old econo-box covered in stickers exhorting other drivers to save something or other departed the freeway unexpectedly.  The remaining old guys hollered and yelped. 

Satan snatched the gun out of Josiah’s hand.  He regarded it for a moment, twisting it this way and that, and then lit it on fire.

“Regard the Flaming Shotgun of … Retribution,” said the Devil.  He stifled a little giggle.  “What do you th—?”  The car changed directions abruptly, causing Satan’s aged seatmates to lurch and flop around in the back seat.  Josiah ended up in Satan’s lap. 

“Stop that,” said Satan, smacking Josiah with the butt of the gun.

Josiah sat up immediately.  “Ack!  I’m on fire!” he said.  “Put me out!  Put me out!”

Satan scowled at his seat mate, and then attempted to comply by putting the man out the open window.  This involved a lot of pushing and a few judicious smacks with the fiery butt of the gun.  It’s not easy to toss an old guy out a car window, even if you are the Devil, and even if the tossee was nice enough to shoot the glass out already.  Satan watched the man tumble and roll as he hit the pavement, and then turned his attention back to El Jefe, who had finally managed to get the automobile pointed in the right direction, and was trying to bring it to a halt on the shoulder of the freeway.

“Keep going!” bellowed Satan.  He scooted over to the larger, more comfortable seat that had recently been occupied by Josiah, and bared his teeth against the buffeting wind that streamed through the shattered window.  He sat back and smiled. 

Angus, the last remaining old guy passenger, stared at Satan with the stoic, calm eyes of a man who knows better than to try to raise a stink in the face of whatever supernatural bullshit had just transpired there in the automobile.  He held his chin high, and looked Satan right the eye.

A moment later, anyone who had continued to follow the Lincoln down the Mopac Expressway after Josiah’s untimely expulsion and tumbling routine down the freeway (and there was, in fact, a truck full of fraternity boys who had not stopped) was treated to the sight of a very stoic rooster hurtling out the rear window of the Lincoln Town Car that had been careening all over the place. 

Satan extinguished the flaming shotgun and settled further down into his seat.  “So,” he said, “tell me about this army.”

In the front, El Jefe sat hunched over, and was apparently too busy gripping the hell out of the steering wheel to notice that Satan was speaking to him. 

“Your friend,” Satan gestured to the front passenger seat, “said something about that preacher having an army.”

“I—”  El Jefe stopped, and with a tiny shake of his head, shut his mouth tight.

“Speak to me,” said Satan.  “Nobody is going to hurt you.  You’re safe now.  Very safe.”

The hardened look on El Jefe’s face melted away.  His eyes drooped and his head lolled slightly.  “The boss.  He’s in cha—in charge.  He’s— the boss.”  The tires made a rumbling sound as the car began to drift into the next lane. 

“Steady now,” said the Devil.

A hint of a comfortable smile escaped the corner of El Jefe’s mouth.  He held up his hand and dropped it again, as if he were waving off an offer of help.  “No big deal.”

“So tell me, what’s all this about an army?”

El Jefe slurred his words together.  “Cadmon.  Bill Cadmon’s got an army.  ‘S dumb.  Bunch of damned rednecks.  Secessionists.”  He made a snakey, ‘s’ sound, stretching the word “secessionists” much, much further than is really considered to be appropriate in polite company. 

“Why does he have an army?”

“Dunno.  Doesn’t need ‘em.  Whitford’s got one.”  El Jefe thumped the steering wheel arhythmically and burbled a tuneless ditty.  “Got one.  He already – got one.”

“Wait, what?  Whitford?”

“The …” he stretched this word out too, and then kind of sneezed out the rest, “Governor.  He’s the Governor.”  He waved on hand in the air as if to say, what can you do?  He’s the Governor.  Yep, the Governor.  ‘S weird, you know?  Whitford already had an army.  And it’s a big one.  So now they got one whole army they don’t even need.  ‘S crazy.  But you know what?”

“What?”

“We got one too.  Big army.  Lots of guns.  Lots n’ lots.”

“You—” said Satan.  El Jefe’s head lolled and the car began to swerve.  “Steady now.”  Satan breathed for a pensive moment.  “You were taking me somewhere.  Some kind of headquarters?  Yes?”

“Uh, yeah.  HQ.  Right on up the way.  Meet the boss.  Meet the honcho.  He’s the big boss.  Big, big boss.”  El Jefe pointed northwards.

“Good,” said the Devil.  “Take me to your leader.”

Chapter 37.           The Rain Is Disgusting

They – “they” being those folks who seem to be responsible for all the bits of wisdom for which nobody else wants to take credit – have a saying: If you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait a few minutes.  It’ll change.  They probably say that sort of thing in a lot of places, but Texas is special.  The weather lurches about in fits of contradictory indecision so extraordinary and unpredictable that it might lead a reasonable weatherman to throw up his hands in disgust and denounce the local weather god (or gods) as “Just plain nuts.”

It started to rain.  Liam flipped on his windshield wipers, but the blades just smeared the water around in big, blurry streaks, as if the window were very dirty.  This was odd, because the car wasn’t dirty at all.  In fact, Liam was fanatical about keeping the car clean.  He glanced over at Lola, who was on the phone with her boss.

“No, no.  Not goats.  Sheep.”  Lola pressed the phone to her ear, trying to hear over the sound of the car’s engine.  “That’s what he said: It was just sheep.  Right.  No, the guy’s name is Festus.  Festus.  No, Festus.  It starts with an ‘F’.”  Lola pulled the phone away from her ear, and turned to give Liam a nasty look.  Tiny but clearly audible barking sounds emanated from the handset.  “He wants to know who Festus is and why he was there.”  She thrust the phone at Liam.  “You get to explain that.”

Liam frowned and took the phone.  The stream of barky noises continued unabated as he held it up to his ear.  He turned the wipers up a notch.  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, downshifting and pulling into the oncoming lane to pass a school bus.  “No, that’s right.  His name is Festus.  He’s a friend of mine, and—”  Lola tried to explain that they needed to go after Festus, but all Boehner seemed to care about was sheep vs. goats and why the hell Festus had been there.  Typical Boehner.  “They took him.  Yes.  Yes.  Correct.”  He dropped the phone as he swerved to avoid an oncoming military convoy.  The train of military trucks finally roared by, and Liam downshifted again, gunning the car into the oncoming lane.  He reached over to take the handset from Lola, who’d grabbed it off the floor.  She turned around in her seat, trying to get another look at the bus, but it was already well behind them.

Lola said, “Was that a school bus—?”

“—full of naked guys,” said Liam.  “Yes, it was.”  He stared straight ahead, a look of grim determination on his face as he listened to Cas Boehner rant. 

“Huh,” she said.  “Odd.”

“It’s not the first group of naked guys I’ve seen today.”

“I’m sorry.”  Lola settled back into her seat.  “What’s wrong with your wipers?”

Liam ignored her question.  “No, Cas, I wasn’t talking to you.”  The tiny, angry noises coming from the phone speaker came louder and faster now.  “No, I’m not going to do that.”  The little voice grew ever more frantic.  “No,” said Liam, “I have no idea.  No, I don’t know that either.”  He sighed and switched the phone to his other ear so that he could use his right hand to shift.  “No.  Right.  No, that’s not corr—”  He snapped the phone shut.  “Asshole.”

“You just hung up on my boss?” asked Lola, her eyes wide.

“Uh, no.  He’s on hold.”  He handed the phone to Lola.

She looked at the handset, seeing that it was clearly off, and that her boss was not holding the line.  Lola shot him a nasty look, but only for an instant because the phone started buzzing, her boss’ name lighting up the caller ID display.

“Hello?  I’m so sorry.  I don’t know—”  She glared at Liam again.  “I know, sir.  Right.  Okay.  I will.  We will.  Goodbye.”  She flipped the phone shut.  “He wants us back at the office.  What the heck is up with the rain?  It’s red.” 

Liam’s windshield wipers flapped back and forth in a frantic, almost maniacal fit of ineffectiveness, smearing what looked like dirty – maybe muddy – rainwater around.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think—?  Is this that supposed to be ‘blood rain,’ like on the news?”

Liam glanced up at the top of the windshield, then at the side windows.  “I guess.”  He shrugged.

“It’s disgusting.”  Lola cracked the window open a bit, and ran her finger along the edge.  “It is blood.  Ew.”

He sighed.  “It’s fucked up, is what it is.”

They sat in silence for a moment  “Liam, Cas says we’re supposed to head back to the office.”

“Your office?”

“Yes.  He says Whitford’s closed the borders entirely.  Shut down the airports.  Something’s going on.”

He downshifted, and they passed another bus.  “I’ll drop you off at the shop so you can get your car.”

“No, we need to do what Cas says.”

“He’s your boss.  You need to do what he says.  And I’ll drop you off at the shop so that you can do that.”

“Fine,” she said, and turned to stare out the window.  “You know,” she said after a few minutes, “it’s kind of hard…”  Her voice trailed off. 

“What?”

“Well, it’s just … all this stuff – the earthquakes, the weird rain, the locusts, the frogs—”

“Toads.”

She glared at him.  “Anyway,” she said.  “It’s getting harder and harder to avoid the conclusion that something is going on.”

“Well, yeah,” said Liam.  “Something is going on.  It’s raining fucked up rain.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“What, so now you believe Festus?”

“I didn’t say that.”

They sat in silence for a couple of awkward minutes before Lola spoke again.  “What the hell happened in there?”

“What?”  Liam shot her a confused look.  “Back there?  Preston’s?”

“Yes.”

“Um, well, I got hit in the head with a frying pan.  Sucked.”

“Right,” she said, but Liam just nodded and kept driving.  “So…” 

Liam glanced over, surprised to find that the conversation was still going.  “So.  Uh, it sucked.  Still hurts, in fact.”

“Yeah, but—  I thought you were supposed to be some kind of superman or something.  I heard all sorts of stuff—something about you and Whitford…”

He gave her a grim look.  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

Chapter 38.           Running Wild as a Dog in the House of the Lord

Festus hurried as quietly as he could down a dimly-lit passage.  The painted, cinderblock walls and well-scuffed flooring made him think he was probably in a utility hallway of some sort – probably for deliveries.  This hypothesis found strong support from the fact that he’d already passed a sign with an arrow and the word “Deliveries” printed in bold, five-inch tall letters.  He paused to listen.  There were voices, lots of them, coming from somewhere up ahead.  It sounded like a crowd of people shouting, or maybe even cheering.  Maybe there was a sporting match going on?  Not being a particularly sporty type, he had no idea whether that was even a plausible idea.

“Hippie!”

Festus twisted around and saw the two hillbillies, Jimmy and Wayne.  Apparently they’d settled their differences.  He marveled at the awkward gaits of two men trying to run in cowboy boots, but then, realizing that this wasn’t just an academic exercise, he turned and ran.

“Get back here, you dirty hippie!” yelled Jimmy.

“Yeah!” said Wayne.

After a couple of turns and a staircase, Festus emerged, huffing and puffing, into a larger hallway that opened onto the main bowl of the arena.  His lungs burned, and he struggled to catch his breath – and not sound like an industrial-grade wind machine – as he looked out into the warmly lit space.  The seats on the bowl were completely empty.  The floor, however, was full of guys who looked like they’d visited the paramilitary-gear booth at a western wear convention, along with a handful of guys who looked like actual soldiers.

Behind him he heard a dull thud.  Festus glanced back and saw Jimmy sprawled out against the wall – presumably the consequence of trying to run around a corner in boots.  Wayne toppled into the frame half a second later.  Festus shrugged and strode out into the main arena.

He strode purposefully, assuredly, confidently.  Like a man who is ready to tell people just what the F is up.  This lasted about three and a half seconds – about the time it took Festus to survey the scene.  There really seemed to be an awful lot of the hillbillies, none of whom looked amenable to getting told anything.  He ditched the confidence and quickly ducked down behind a railing. 

To his right, on the main stage, the television preacher Bill Cadmon talked at the audience of paramilitary cowboys, exhorting them to something or other.  There were three big screens behind him that, presumably, usually showed giant Cadmon heads talking about love and faith and sin and all that kind of crap.  But the screens were off, and the cowboys had only the actual, life-sized Cadmon to keep them entertained. 

Festus paused for a second to watch, peeking over the top of the railing.  Cadmon seemed to be going on and on about bringing about the Kingdom of God, which didn’t seem to Festus to be all that unusual.  It seemed like a fairly normal sermon, aside from the fact that the entire audience was male, and looked as if they could probably recite the Second Amendment by heart. 

“I mean it.  He will literally walk among you.  Soon,” said Cadmon.

Then Festus noticed that there were soldiers – real soldiers – standing just off to the side of the stage.  They were pulling black, rubbery things out of giant cardboard boxes.  He couldn’t tell what they were.  Gas masks?  S&M gear?

He suddenly had that feeling of being watched – the one that doesn’t register until, without thinking, you turn your head and find yourself looking at someone whose gaze is bouncing around between various inanimate objects as they feign interest in a random plant or a pole or something.  He was disappointed to find himself being watched by Wayne and Jimmy, and not some curvy hottie who wanted him.  They were still standing in the hallway, just out of sight of the people in the arena.

Jimmy cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled at Festus in an exaggerated stage whisper.  “Get back here, you dirty hippie!”  The well-coifed man of God at the front of the auditorium stopped talking, but Jimmy didn’t notice, and continued in his unsubtle non-whispering.  “Hey!  Hippie!”

Festus ducked back down and scrambled the rest of the way across the floor on his hands and knees.  He glanced back just in time to see Wayne whack Jimmy on the arm and point to the stage. 

“Gentlemen!” said Cadmon.  “You’re late.  But come on down here and have a seat.  We’ve just started.”  He opened his mouth into a wide, spotlight smile full of improbably white teeth.

Wayne, still frozen, stared at Cadmon like a deer caught in headlights, or, more accurately, like a dumbass.  Jimmy’s glare remained fixed on Festus.

“The Lord is wondrous and patient, gentlemen, but I do not have all day.”  Cadmon did the teeth thing again, this time flashing it at the rest of the members of his audience.  They murmured appreciatively.

“Come on,” said Wayne, tugging at Jimmy’s shirt sleeve.  Jimmy, doing his best impression of a dog who has just chased a squirrel up a tree, stayed put.  “Come on!”  Wayne tugged harder, almost pulling Jimmy over.  Jimmy caught himself and started to walk, jerking his arm away from Wayne.  He turned his head back to give Festus a death stare, but Festus was gone.

Festus made his way down a tunnel that led from the auditorium, moving slower now as he tried not to fall over dead from cardiac arrest.  The black, rubbery things were definitely gas masks.  Festus was sure now.  Had to be.  After all, hadn’t one of the soldiers been trying to fit one over his head?  Technically, that didn’t rule out the possibility that it had been S&M headgear, but it just seemed unlikely. 

He needed to get out of the church, or at least find a phone to call Liam.  But then, Liam refused to carry a cell phone.  Could he call the guitar shop?  Would Liam head back there?  Should he call the cops?  No, he didn’t think he could stomach that. 

There was a noise – voices.  He stopped and listened.  There were at least two people coming.  Festus panicked, turning this way and that, until he noticed he was standing more or less right in front of a door.  He tried the knob.  It worked.  He opened the door and slipped into the room.

It appeared to be a closet – completely dark and musty.  He shuffled his feet and held his arms out in front of him as he groped around.  After just a couple of steps he touched a smooth metal pole, which turned out to be a rack with some clothes or curtains or other fabricky things hanging on it.  He climbed in to hide between them.

Festus waited, still breathing heavily but straining to make as little noise as possible.  After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only about fifteen seconds, the sound of the voices faded, and he stepped out from between the clothes and crept to the door.  He grabbed the knob and began to turn it, but realized that his other hand was resting on a light switch.  He paused for a second to assess the situation:  Risk going out into the hall, where crazy militia men would probably catch him and do bad things to him?  Or stick with the safety of the closet.  The choice was easy.  He flicked the switch, and turned to survey his hideout.

It wasn’t a closet – it was much too large for that – but it was clearly being used for storage.  There were big wooden screens, staffs, a smattering of random tables, shelves and chairs.  It almost looked to Festus like a prop room.  The metal pole he’d touched was indeed a rack, and the fabric where he’d hidden appeared to be a group of costumes.  He flipped through them absently – a shiny blue thing with stars, something that appeared to be a pirate suit, a peasant girl’s dress – until he noticed a desk in the back of the room.  It sat against the back wall, as if someone had intended it to be used, rather than just stored in the room.  In fact, there were stacks of papers and – Festus was thrilled to see – a phone.

He scampered over to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.

Chapter 39.           Wherein Satan Enjoys Dessert

The Town Car swayed and lurched as El Jefe flung it into an old restaurant parking lot.  He drove as if in a zombie trance, his movements – and those of the car – the jerky and abrupt motions of an automaton.  They skidded to a halt, sliding into a parking spot amid clouds of dust and bouncing gravel. 

El Jefe proceeded to stare straight ahead for about the next forty seconds.

“Hello?  Is this it?” asked Satan. 

El Jefe said nothing.

“Is this the headquarters?”

Still nothing.

“Well, let’s go in.”

El Jefe leapt out of the car, moving with an un-elderly burst of speed as he scampered around to open Satan’s door.  He stood at attention until Satan had climbed out, and then marched, with robotic efficiency, leading the Prince of Darkness toward the headquarters of the Krijgsheren Wijsheid. 

Satan paused for an instant to glance at the restaurant’s sign before following El Jefe inside.  The headquarters for the Krijgsheren Wijsheid, f/k/a the Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Society, was hidden in a Lucy’s Cafeteria?

Once inside, Satan was greeted by the soothing smells of fried okra and boiled things, along with less soothing smells of old people, of which there were many.  El Jefe led him past a cash register and some tables full of placid-looking geriatrics who sat spooning creamed corn and tapioca pudding into their faces.  A few eyes flicked over to glance at the Devil and his companion, but the faces of the customers betrayed only stoic impassivity, not unlike grazing cows as passing motorists moo at them.

El Jefe led Satan toward the back of the restaurant, past a row of sneeze guards under which various dishes passed the time steaming or chilling and attempting to look enticing.  A handful of old people shuffled along the railing, ordering various foodstuffs. 

About halfway down, Satan spotted an array of Jell-O desserts sitting on a bed of finely-crushed ice.  Each sat in a fancy, faux-crystal dessert cup, and was arranged relative to its companion treats in neat, orderly rows so as to create a rainbow.

“Ooh!”  Satan paused in front of the multi-hued array.  He dithered for a moment —watching as El Jefe continued his robot march through a pair of metal doors at the back of the eatery – and then scooted over to the silverware stand, plucking up one each of the forks, spoons, and knives.  He started back toward the desserts, but then thought better of it, and went back for a straw. 

Finally equipped with the right tool, Satan returned to the spectrum of gelatin desserts just as an old man in a nasty yellow sweater reached for a green Jell-O.  Satan slapped the man’s hand away and reached for the green Jell-O for himself.  But then he put it back, and grabbed a red one instead.  Then he set the red one down, and grabbed a yellow Jell-O.  He stopped, realized something, and looked around.

“I need a tray,” he said.

By this time, the line behind him had grown not quite to epic length, but long enough to disgruntle old folks who are used to getting their mashed potatoes and gravy in a timely manner.  The elderly gentleman whose hand Satan had slapped gestured over his shoulder to a stack of trays at the end of railing.  The old lady behind him let loose a stream of quiet, but very obnoxious old lady ranting.  Satan extended a long, warning finger at her, and she shut up.

“Give me your tray,” he said to the man, “and you go get another.”

The old man tilted his head and squinted at the Devil.

“Your tray,” said Satan.  “Give it to me.  This instant.”

The old man’s eyes changed from confused slits to wide-open orbs of surprise before ceding the stage to his eyebrows.  His eyebrows decided that the situation called for a little bit of dismay, and arched upward accordingly.  The man proffered his tray. 

Satan reached for the red-orange rectangle, but then yanked his hand back, as if he were afraid it might bite him.  “What is this?”

“Okra?” asked the man.  “Fried okra?”

“Get it off.”  He waved it away. 

The old man removed the okra.

The Devil grabbed the tray and help it up to examine it by the light of a nearby heat lamp.  “Very good,” he said, picking at an invisible speck of something.  He set the tray down and immediately returned his attention to the Jell-O desserts, piling two of each color onto his tray.

Then he stepped back to admire his handiwork.  “Hmm,” he said, looking around.  “I’m going to need more straws.”  He waited for a brief moment, and seeing the lack of scurrying or other hurried forms of locomotion toward the straws, he turned and raised an eyebrow at the old man, who was still busy being dumbfounded.  “Straws?”  Satan pointed at the silverware stand. 

“Oh!”  The old man hurried – or, rather, shuffled in a somewhat brisk manner – to get some more straws. 

“Wait!”  Satan held one hand up, indicating that his straw retrieval specialist should cease all straw retrieval activities immediately.  “What—?  Is that what I think it is?”  He tipped his tray up, dumping his collection of desserts back onto the ice, and headed off toward a large, metal machine near the cash register.

“I didn’t see this before,” he said.  “Where are the cones?”

The cashier was large and possessed an indefinite and lumpy shape, like a snowperson constructed by an inexperienced snowperson builder.  She didn’t answer the Devil immediately, but continued to converse with an old lady who was digging through a purse.

Satan stepped over to help speed up the transaction, which he accomplished by shoving the old woman toward the door.  “You!  Where are the cones?”

“I’m sorry?” asked the cashier.

“Oh!” said the old lady. 

“The cones?  Where are the cones?”

“What on God’s green Earth are you talkin’ about?”

Satan grabbed the cashier by her collar.  “I want some of that ice cream,” he said, “but…”  He breathed a calming breath.  “…there are no cones.”

The cashier made a sound like a duck might be expected to make if he were suddenly to find himself substituted for a football seconds prior to a kickoff or a field goal attempt.  Satan loosened his grip.

“They’re on the side.”  She pointed to the far side of the machine, and immediately leaned over to catch her breath.

Satan peered around the side of the machine, and saw that there were indeed cones.  “Oh good,” he said.  “Thank you.”  He grabbed one and took a step back to regard the flavor options.

“Sir?” a man in a white shirt with buttons and short sleeves tapped Satan on the shoulder.  His clip-on tie imbued him with an air of managerial authority.

Satan declined to look at the man, opting instead to treat him as a co-conspirator.  “What do you think?  Swirl, or just plain chocolate?”

“I’m sorry?” asked the manager.

“Or maybe I could start with chocolate, and then do the swirl, and then some more chocolate?  You know – kind of a chocolate-heavy mix.  Hmm…”

“Excuse me, sir,” said the manager, “but—”

Satan held up his hand, as if to instruct the man to cease speaking immediately, which he did, but only because he disappeared in a singular puff of blue flame.  This also shut up pretty much everyone else in the restaurant, but only for a moment.  The silence gave way almost at once to a flurry of activity and sound.

The word “flurry” is, perhaps, an overstatement.  It was really only a flurry in the same sense, for example, that the original super-continent Pangaea could be said to have engaged in a flurry of activity by breaking up into the modern array of smaller continents. 

This geologically-paced flurry, accompanied by a barrage of crotchety, half-hearted – in the I’ve-got-several-blockages-and-am-suffering-from-mild-mitral-valve-regurgitation-and-so-my-cardiologist-says-it’s-like-I-only-have-half-a-heart sense – screaming. 

The Devil pulled the lever that caused the machine to extrude a stream of chocolate-and-vanilla swirl ice cream, and then turned to watch the geriatric horde stream – again, an overstatement – out the front door of the restaurant.  This, however, required more patience than he was prepared or, indeed, equipped to give, so he took his ice cream treat, and went off in search of El Jefe.

He didn’t get very far before he found himself confronted by a line of gray-haired gentlemen in blue engineer’s coveralls.  All but one had black handguns, which they pointed at Satan.  The one unarmed man was busy fumbling with some kind of leather pouch attached to his walker.

Satan continued to eat his ice cream.

The man with the walker quit fumbling with the pouch – which turned out to have been a holster – and now raised a trembling, gun-laden hand.

“Put that damned ice creamed down,” said the old man in the center of the line.

“No,” said Satan.

“Do it.”

“No.”

The old man raised his gun to hold the barrel at Satan’s eye level.  “Do it.”

Satan locked eyes with the man.  He raised the cone, stuck out his tongue, and licked.

Usually, when a gun goes off, it makes a noisy sound that is a little like a cross between a pop and a snap, but much, much louder.  In movies, this is usually accompanied by the Doppler-induced “fwang!” or “kerpow!” that small, high-velocity objects – such as bullets – make as they travel a relatively large distance or ricochet off a rock.  In real life – particularly in smallish, enclosed spaces – all you get is the ear-splitting popping sound, which lasts about as long as it takes the bullet to lodge itself in a wall or a bit of someone’s anatomy.

The gun held by the old man in the center of the line made one of these high-volume popping/snapping sounds.  It did not go “fwang,” “kerpow,” or even “freeeeowwwnnn.”  Instead, the sound of the shot was accompanied by an intense flash – almost an explosion, really – of light.  And instead of seeing, as they no doubt expected, a gunshot victim writhing and bleeding on the floor, the old men found themselves staring at a very tall, very beautiful individual with wings.  The wings heaved backward and forward, slowly and gently, in what looked like the wing equivalent of breathing.  Satan did the licking thing again.

“Hello,” he said, and took a step forward, nudging his human body back behind him gently with the sole of his sandaled foot.

The old man in the center, who’d let his gun hand fall, now raised it up again.

“Don’t bother,” said Satan.  He held up his free hand – the other was busy holding the ice cream cone to his lips – and wind started to blow.  The old men started glancing around, this way and that, trying to figure out where the wind was coming from.  The man in the center reached up to touch the top of his head, and let out a soft, surprised grunt.  The other men turned their heads at the sound, and saw streams of dust that appeared to be coming off of their leader’s melon.  After a second, it became clear that it wasn’t dust at all.  In fact, the man’s head appeared to be disintegrating, piece by tiny piece, and blowing away in the weird, hot breeze.

“Help me!”  A panicked look came over the man’s face.  The other men stepped away.

Satan watched and ate his ice cream.  His wings continued to beat slowly.

The disintegrating man stumbled backward, his head jerking right and left as he looked to his companions.  He grabbed the arm of the man next to him.  “Help m—” but then his head had disintegrated entirely.  His body continued to move, and his hand remained gripped on the other man’s arm.  The other man jumped and shook his arm as if he’d just spotted a spider, and the hand turned into dust. 

“This is tedious,” said Satan.  There was a soft pop, and the disintegrating man exploded in a cloud of dust.  The wind subsided. 

The men stood very still, their eyes and eyebrows making them look as if someone had gone man to man with cellophane tape, taping each pair up and open.

“I’m going to get another ice cream cone,” said Satan.  “Would any of you like one?”

The old men, unsure of what they’d just witnessed, continued to stare wide-eyed at the Dark Lord of the Underworld.  The man with the walker raised his hand. 

“Ooh, good!  Chocolate, vanilla, or swirl?” asked Satan.

“Are you … an angel?”

Satan’s smile faded.  His wings drooped a little.  “Wait, you don’t want an ice cream?”

The man shook his head.

“It’s soft serve,” said Satan with a tempting lilt to his voice and a little hand flourish in the direction of the machine.

“Um…”

“Listen, you know you want one.  Just give in.”  Satan stared expectantly and then nodded to himself.  “Be right back.”

The old men watched Satan scoot over to the soft serve machine, and then spent the next few moments looking back and forth and making bewildered faces at one another. 

Satan came back with two cones, one of which had frozen yogurt piled nearly a foot high.  “Here,” he said, handing the smaller one to the man with the walker.  “I got you a swirl.”

“Um, thank you?” said the man.

“Okay.  Now.”  Satan paused to bite the curlicue swirl off the top of his dessert.  When he spoke again, it was with the consonant-free, garbled speech of someone who is attempting to eat cold ice cream without using his teeth.  “I wan kno whooz in char.”

“What?” said an old guy who had a goatee.

Satan shook his head to try to get rid of the cold.  “Brr,” he said, smiling.  He rolled his shoulders, causing his wings to kind of rotate and flutter.  “I want to know who is in charge here.”

The men turned to look at each other, and then resumed their startled staring at the angel.

Satan stuck out his tongue and rotated the cone to slurp up the melty bits that might otherwise drip down onto his hand.  He smacked his lips.  “I guess it’s none of you then?”

One of the men pointed in the direction of the doors through which El Jefe had gone earlier. 

“Right,” said Satan.  “Lead the way.” 

The man who’d singled himself out by pointing now gestured to himself and looked around, apparently confused.  The Devil raised his archangel eyebrows sarcastically and nodded, clearing up any uncertainty the man had.  The man nodded, turned, and pushed his way through the doors.  Satan followed right behind him, marching with his head sideways as he worked on his ice cream treat.  A moment later, the rest of the men fell into step behind them.

Behind the doors, the cozy restaurant décor gave way to a sterile, utilitarian hallway tiled pale green.  The group made its way silently – except for the occasional ice-cream slurping sound from the Devil – down some stairs and through a labyrinth of corridors until they came to an open doorway from which warm, yellow light streamed. 

“Here,” said the man who’d led them, half under his breath.

Satan looked back at the rest of the group, as if to confirm that this was the proper destination, and was met by several perfunctory nods.  He paused to bite a crunchy bit of the cone, and stepped inside.

The room was clearly some kind of antechamber.  There was a desk with a computer and a telephone, a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a tallish plastic tree.  More warm light streamed through a second doorway.  Satan bit off another piece of cake cone and peeked around the desk at the computer screen.

“Secretary’s out,” said a voice.  “Just come on in.”

Satan stood and peered around the edge of the doorway.  The next room was not unlike the one he was in, except there was no tree, and its computer-free desk was occupied.  Its occupant was a frail-looking skeleton of a man with translucent, liver-spotted skin and only a few wisps of snow white hair to cover his shiny dome.  He wore a dress shirt (and probably some pants, though this can’t be known for certain, since he was sitting), and his whole body quivered and trembled, making him look like he’d been awake for a week. 

The man looked up at Satan with eyes that seemed out of place – they were dark, piercing and alive.  He raised one knobby hand that seemed to have too much skin, and, with a quick jerk, motioned for the Devil to have a seat.  “Sit down, son,” said the man. 

“I want,” said Satan, popping the last bit of cone into his mouth, “to talk to you about your army.”

Chapter 40.    Dude, How Small Is Your Cat?

The little bell tinkled as Liam and Lola entered the guitar shop. 

“Maybe we should just go—”  Lola stopped at the sound of Raju yelling into a telephone. 

“You are talking too much!  Please explain me again, please, what the hell is going on.”  He stood behind the glass countertop, hunched over the counter, the phone pressed to his ear.  “Pinochle?  What?  I don’t understand.”  More listening.  “Ah, yes.  I am seeing this now.  But I don’t think that it’s good to dress like God.  No, no.  I don’t care.  It is bad karma.  Wery bad karma.”

Lola shot Liam an inquisitive look.  Liam shrugged and stomped off to the back room.

Raju continued his high-volume conversation.  “An army?  What you are talking about?  There is no army here.”  He waved at the racks of guitars with an affronted shake of his head.  “This does not make sense.”  He paused to listen.  “No, I don’t care.  You are wery stupid.  No, no.  This is not correct.  I am merely charming.  And you are wery tedious.”  Raju hung up abruptly, and pointed a dreamy look in Lola’s direction.  “What can I do you for?”

“Oh, I’m just waiting.  Thanks.”  She leaned over to pet an enormous cat who had slithered out from behind the counter.  “Oh, you’re a heavy one,” she said as she picked up the extra large feline.  She noticed that Raju was still staring at here.  “I love cats.”

“What a coincidence!  I love cats too.  That’s Roger and a Half,” said Raju.

“What?”

“Roger and a Half.”

Lola nodded as if she understood, but then stopped.  “Why—why did you guys name him—?”

“Roger and a Half?  Because he’s not quite as fat as two Rogers.”  He pointed behind her to another, skinnier cat perched on top of a stack of guitar cases.  “So, you like cats?  Do you have a cat?”

Lola fidgeted with a cell and then tilted it toward Raju to show him.  The photo showed what looked like a blurry hand holding a blurry flower.  Behind it, a few feet away in the frame, was a blurry gray cat. 

“Not a particularly good photo,” said Lola.  “But still.”  She smiled the affectionate smile of a pet owner who doesn’t yet have kids. 

Raju peered over her shoulder at the photo.  “I don’t see the cat.”

“He’s right there, to the side of the flower.”

“Oh, okay.  Holy shit, dude, how fucking small is your cat?”

Lola looked at the photo, then at Raju, and then at the photo again.  “No, it’s—”  She glanced at the stupid expression on Raju’s face, and snapped both her mouth and the phone shut.

“I think,” said Raju, “that your chakras might be kind of fucked up, but I might need to get a closer look at your root chakra to be sure.”

Lola smiled a sexy, disarming smile at Raju as she leaned over the counter, like she had something to tell him. 

“Raju...?” she said.

He smiled at her, dumbass that he was.

She grabbed his whole ear with her left hand, yanking his head down and forcing him to lean over.  Then she grabbed his arm and twisted it up, behind his back, and dragged him out from behind the counter. 

“Uncle!” he said.  “Uncle, uncle you witch!!”

She ignored this and walked Raju over to a wall.  As they walked toward the wall, Lola did not slow down.  Instead, she sped up, apparently on a collision course. 

Raju’s head hit the wall with a nasty thud.

“Ow!” he said.  “What the shit?”

But Lola wasn’t done.  She tweaked Raju’s arm and dragged him backward from the door.

“Ready?” she said.

“Uncle!  Damnit you crazy witch!  I said ‘Uncle!’  Did you not hear me?  You must release me already!  Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!”  Lola, however, was apparently unfamiliar with the unwritten rules of Uncle.  The thieving whore.

“I know that ‘root chakra’ means ‘vagina,’” she gave his arm an extra little bit of torque. 

Liam came out of the back room with a black backpack on one shoulder.  Lola let Raju go, a slightly guilty expression on her face.  Raju sprang out of her arms, propelled, presumably, by the force of his arm springing back to a less improbable position.  He rolled his neck and shook his arms out, like a boxer approaching the fighting ring, and then moved to stand behind Liam.

“Witch,” he said.

“Get your hands off me,” said Liam. 

“Okay,” said Raju.  “Oh, Festus called.  Said he’s over at some church.  And there’s military vehicles and guys with gas masks.”

Liam and Lola exchanged glances.  They spoke in unison.  “What?”

“Festus – that was Festus on the phone when you came in.”

“You talked to him?” said Lola.

“Well, yeah, you know?  He called.  I answered the phone.  We talked.  Pretty normal stuff, really.”

“When?” asked Liam.

“Just now.”

“That’s who you were talking to just now?” asked Lola.

“What did he say?” asked Liam, he swung his backpack up and set it on the counter with a clunk.

“Vell…”

“Enough with the accent, already.”

Raju cleared his throat.  “Well,” he said, “I think he was kind of excited.  He said, ‘Hello’, and then—”

“Where is he?” asked Liam.

“Oh, holy shit!  That’s a gun!  Why do you have a gun?  What else do you keep in that backpack?”  Raju reached for the front flap and tried to peer inside.  Liam slapped his hand. 

“Focus, Raju.”  The gun made clicky gun noises as Liam held it up and checked it.  He put it back in his bag and slung it over his shoulder.  “Where did Festus say he was?”

“At a church.  Or some kind of stadium.  It was a little bit confusing.”

Liam and Lola exchanged glances.  “The TV preacher,” said Lola.

“What’s his name?” asked Liam.  “Camdon?”

“Got me.”

“Okay.  That’s where I’m headed.”

“Liam, wait,” said Lola.  “We need to call Boehner and let him—”

“You do that,” said Liam.  And he left.

Chapter 41.           What Would Festus Do?

Festus had made his call – hadn’t got Liam of course, but he had tried.  And that was the best he could do.  Now, he was on his own.  Alone.  In this giant friggin’ church filled with madmen paramilitary cowboys.  And real military dudes.  And that guy from TV.  And lots of gas masks.  It sucked.

Festus sighed and slowly spun around, taking in his surroundings.  Clothes, props, desk, telephone – what to do?  What he wanted to do was just to leave; to get the hell out of here.  But he didn’t think he had much of a shot at getting out of the church, let alone past all the soldiers surrounding the building.  He figured he should probably stay put, and wait for the cavalry to arrive.  But – he thumbed through the costumes, lifting the sleeve of a coarse brown cassock, rubbing the fabric between his fingers – he had zero confidence that his message would actually get from Raju to Liam. 

He lifted the sleeve of the cassock and looked closer at it.  It was made of a rough material, its edges worn and frayed.  Jesus would have worn something like this, he thought.  He stopped, and let the sleeve fall from his hand.  Festus now knew exactly what he should do – what he had to do.  He tore the cassock off its hanger, and put it on.

Back in the auditorium, Cadmon had gone, replaced by a man and woman decked out in shiny silver, tassels, and topaz.  The man had a guitar, and the couple stood in front of a microphone, swaying with the stilted, awkward rhythm of two white people who – culturally and politically – were as far from the streets of Motown as it is possible to be.  They sang a duet with disturbing overtones about the woman being married to the Lord. 

The militia men milled about the bowl.  Jimmy and Wayne were hunched over in a conspiratorial huddle at the back of the group.

“What the hell are we gonna do?” said Wayne.

“What do you mean, ‘What are we gonna do?’  We ain’t gonna do shit,” said Jimmy.

“We can’t just let that hippie run around the church!”

“The hell we can’t.”

“We gotta stop him!”

“You go stop him.  I’m fixin’ to go listen to this song.”  Jimmy straightened himself and headed toward the stage.  He stopped, mid-step, when he heard one of the other men yell out.

“Holy shit!  It’s Jesus!” said the man.

“What?” said the soldier beside him as he spun to face the stage.

“It’s Jesus!” said the first man.  (For those non-Texan speakers of Her Majesty’s English, “Jesus” is pronounced “Jay-zuhss.”;  “What?” sounds like “Wut?”; and “Apotheosis” – n., def. “elevation to divine status; deification” – also sounds like “Wut?”)

The music stopped.  One hundred and fifty rednecks and a handful of soldiers, most of whom wore gas masks, turned to face Festus.  “Ooh!” said some.  “Ahh,” said others.  There were also one ‘oh hell yes,’ two more ‘holy shit’s and at least one ‘fuck yeah.’  The musicians, looking confused and a little disappointed, left the stage.

In the years since he’d left the seminary, Festus had, for the most part, allowed himself to be pretty nutty.  But he’d always held something back.  He’d danced and skipped his way right up to the line, but had never quite crossed over into full-blown insanity.  There were, of course, a lot of folks at local churches – and in the City of Austin generally – who would disagree, but so what?  Fuck them. 

Whatever those church bastards thought, he’d figured he’d always had a ways to go before he reached the stage of certifiable.  Of course, he’d always known – or at least suspected – that the day would come when he’d take that last step, and cross over all the way.  Today, he thought, might very well be that day.

“My people!”  Festus held his hands up in the air, fingers pressed together in the stiff, karate-chop pseudo-wave that royalty and dictators use to acknowledge those who occupy the lower social strata.  He said it again, apparently having forgotten that he was impersonating the Son of God, rather than a Latin American dictator.

“Oooh!” said the audience.

“Behold!” said Festus, trying to think of something for his people to behold.  Nothing came to mind, so he said it again.  “Behold!”  He spread his arms out wider, looking at the mix of surprise, wonder, and mild suspicion on the faces of the militia men.  “I,” he said, “am here now.”  And he let his arms fall.

That seemed to do it.  A bunch of the men toward the front went wild, whooping and hollering.  A cowboy hat arced its way up toward the rafters where the scoreboard had once hung, and landed on the stage with a hollow clomp.

“Men!” said Festus.  Someone in the lighting booth decided to turn a spotlight on him, and Festus tried to think of what to say next.  “Men!”

There were a couple more celebratory whoops.  One man, in his apparent exuberance at the arrival of the Savior, punched another, and a little brawl broke out at the back of the crowd. 

“Men, I want to talk to you about your gas masks.”  He looked out over the crowd and watched as the half that wore gas masks turned sideways to look at the other half.  It looked like a sea of confused ducks, looking this way and that with their big, black rubbery beaks.  He saw several skeptical faces, and anyway he figured that this last thing might not be a very Jesusy thing to say, so he decided to inject a bit of Bible-speak.  “Verily, I say unto you…”  More confused looks.  Festus girded up his divine nether bits.  “Take off your masks, and throw them away!”

“Huh?” 

“You needest them not!  Cast them away from thine ownselves!  Lo, I shall keep you – uh, thee – safe!  Verily!”  He raised his arms in a gesture of Messianic victory.  If Cadmon and Whitford were going to start gassing people, these fuckers were going to go down, too.

“Jesus f’ing Christ,” said Jimmy, shoving and swaggering his way up to the front of the crowd.  He called up at Festus, “Get down from there, you dirty hippie!”

A soldier standing nearby turned and smacked Jimmy on the side of his head.  “Wront wront wront wront wront wront!” he said.

“What?” asked Jimmy.

The soldier removed his gas mask.  “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain.”  He lowered his voice to a whisper, and pointed to the stage, “‘Specially when he’s standin’ right there!”

Jimmy regarded the man as if he were trying to see him through a fog.  A couple of others nearby made hushing sounds and gestures.

“He ain’t Jesus.  Goddamnit.”

The soldier smacked Jimmy again.  “I told you not to do that!”  Another whack.  The man seemed intent on beating the sin out of Jimmy. 

Jimmy threw up his arms.  “Okay!”  Behind him, Wayne pretended to be totally engrossed in staring at a random point in space.  Jimmy stepped back from the soldier and rubbed his head, and pointed to the stage.  “That,” he announced, “ain’t Jesus!” 

Now more of the soldiers and cowboy types turned to look at the doubter.  Jimmy glared at Festus, and spoke in a low, but still very audible voice.  “You ain’t Jesus, you dirty hippie.”

Up on stage, Festus paused and shook his head.  “Woe unto us, verily.  We have a doubter in our midst.  It breakest my heart.”  He crossed his hands over his broken heart and pointed a pained, beatific expression up toward the ceiling.

“Get him!” said one of the men, pointing at Jimmy.

“Yes,” said Festus.  “Gettest thou him.”  He bowed his head and raised one hand to make the sign of the cross.

A group of angry patriots and soldiers surrounded Jimmy, closing in, in an ever-tightening circle.  He did that thing that surrounded people sometimes do, which is to try to back away in one direction, only to bump into someone else who is just as hostile as the person he was backing away from.  The circle of redneck friends drew closer, and Jimmy seemed to sink down into the middle of the group, his arms flailing above him. 

“No!” he said.  “Wait!  He’s not Jes—”  But the rest sounded like gargles.  Whatever it was that Jimmy was trying to tell his compatriots was lost – though at least one witness would state later that he was sure he heard a “Help me Jesus!”

After smacking him around a bit, they stopped, and rejoined the rest of the men cheering on the putative Jesus.  They left Jimmy there on the floor by himself to think it over.  He lay very still, moaning just a little bit.  The soldier who had smacked Jimmy earlier turned and gave him a good, hard kick. 

“Quit your whinin’, you heathen,” said the soldier.

“Good job, men,” said Festus with a holy fist pump.  “Now, I want you all to take off your pan—”  Festus noticed then that everyone seemed to be looking at something behind him, so he turned to see what all the fuss was about. 

There, standing behind Festus on the stage, stood Bill Cadmon.  The be-tasseled musicians were with him.  Cadmon stared at Festus with the idle curiosity of a crow watching a happy, oblivious caterpillar. 

“What,” said the preacher, “is going on here?”

Chapter 42.           I’ll Take Your Army, Please

“Who are you?” asked the old man.  Satan glanced over to the corner of the room, where he noticed El Jefe slumped in a chair, looking spent.

“Does that really matter?” asked the Devil.

The old man answered quickly – almost before Satan had finished speaking.  “It does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does!”  The old man slapped his hand on the desk.

“Well, I’m not telling.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked the old man.

“I’m here for your army.”

“What army?”

“Whatever army you’ve got.”

“I don’t have an army.”

“Don’t lie to me, Harold.”

“How do you know my—”

“Do you see these?”  Satan pointed to the large, wing-shaped things on his back.  “Imagine for a moment, if you will, that they’re not part of a costume.”

Harold shrugged.  “So, what?”

At that moment, El Jefe decided, apparently, that it was time to try to contribute to the conversation.  He began by making kind of a keening noise, which quickly rose in volume and intensity until it became more of a guttural howling sound.  And then it stopped.  He levered himself up from his chair, shaking with effort, and stood for a moment, wheezing.  It almost looked as if he had something to say, but then he flung his arms out awkwardly, as if he’d been hit in the chest by something large and heavy.  He gulped, hiccupped, and gulped again.  His eyes bulged, and for a second he looked as if he were about to revisit his lunch.  Then there was a popping sound, and El Jefe disappeared in a puff of smoke.  A lone, blue feather wafted down onto the floor.

“What the hell was that?” said Harold from behind his desk.  He didn’t seem shocked or surprised so much as just grumpy, old, and pissed.

Satan raised his eyebrows, and looked at something behind the old man’s head.  There was a squawking sound, and the old man kind of levitated and turned and blurted out a consonant-free exclamation, all at the same time.  Behind him, clinging awkwardly to the frame of a black and white photograph of some young-looking guys in front of a Word-War-II era bomber, was a blue and gold macaw.

It wasn’t the best looking macaw ever, or even the runner up for that prize.  In fact, were one to rank all of the macaws in the world from the best and “most stunningly beautiful” all the way to “abomination that should probably be incinerated before any kids get emotionally scarred,” El Jefe would have come in at about 7 Million.

The macaw squawked again, and the old man turned back to scowl at Satan.  “Where did he go?”

“Right there.”  Satan pointed to the bird.

“That’s … El Jefe?”  Harold looked back and forth between Satan and the precariously perched bird of paradise.  “You turned him into a bird?”

Satan made a “duh” face.  “I can also do other things.  Fire.  Pain.  Really awful, bad stuff.  Just say the word.”

“No, no.  That’s not necessary.”  Harold paused a moment to get in a little bit of head shaking and sighing.  “If you can do that, why do you need us?”

“So you admit it!”

“What?”

“That you have an army.”

Harold shook his head, as if to clear it.  “Well, yeah.  Sure.  Whatever.  The point is, you don’t need us.”

“I don’t.  I’m here because, you see, more than anything, I like to do things with style.  Panache.”  Satan gave Harold a winning angelic smile.  “I also want that ice cream machine.”

“What?”

“The one upstairs.”

“What?  You can’t—  Are you insane?”

“What are you trying to suggest?”

“That you’re insane.”

Satan opened his mouth to speak, but then looked up at the ceiling, to the spot where folks look when they’re trying to remember something or realizing something, and shrugged.  “Either way,” he said, “I want that ice cream machine.”  The Devil nodded, satisfied, but then added, “and your army too.”

“It’s really not much of an army.”

“I don’t care,” said Satan.  “Look, I’m going to go back upstairs to get my body.”  Harold squinted, evidently mystified by this statement.  “And then I’m going to head to the parking lot, where, I expect to find you, everyone you can muster, armed and ready to travel.  Understood?”

“Okay,” said Harold, with a weary shake of his head.  “Okay.”

“Alright then.”  The Devil turned to go, but then stopped.  “I’m going to grab an ice cream.  Would you like one?”

Harold looked as if he might cry.

“I’ll get you a swirl,” said Satan.

Chapter 43.           A Van Powered by Love

Cool air and the smell of ozone poured into the guitar shop through the open door.  Lola stood in the doorway, her cellular telephone pressed to her cheek, and watched the last few red raindrops fall as she tried to get a word in edgewise with her boss.  “I know,” she said, “but—” 

She had her back turned to Raju, but that didn’t stop him from attempting to contribute to the conversation.  “Festus said there’s a bunch of military guys there, too,” he said.

“Hang on a sec.”  Lola covered the mic on her phone.  “Wha—?  Would you please shut up?” 

“Festus said something about gas masks.  Soldiers wearing gas masks.”  He paused, his eyes glazed over with a far-away look.  “They look rubbery, you know.”

“Cas, can I—this idiot here is saying something about gas masks and military trucks.  Yeah, okay.  I’ll call you back.”  She stepped back into the shop.  “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Raju shrugged.  “They’re rubbery.”  Wasn’t that perfectly obvious?  Didn’t everyone know that?

“Raju,” said Lola, “Tell me about the gas masks, or I am going to stab you with my phone.”  She held the phone up.

“What?  That’s not going to work very well.”

“I’ll make it work,” she said.

So Raju told her.  He told her all about the gas masks, and the military trucks, and all the uber-patriotic, Independent-Texas-Now! paramilitary types that Festus had described.  And then he told her he loved her.  And that he wanted to make babies with her.  And that they should start immediately, just as soon as he could get his pants off, if she was up for it.  He tried to tell her some other stuff, but she punched him in the face and left the shop.

Fifteen seconds or so passed, and Lola came back in.  Raju, of course, saw this as a sign from God. 

“Where the hell is my car?” asked Lola.

Raju popped up from the stool and ran around the counter to stand before her.  “You are a vision,” he said.

Lola ignored the compliment.  “My car?”

Raju’s expression changed from adoration to confusion.

“It’s gone,” she said.  Still no response.  “My car is gone.”

“Oh, no!  Your car is missing?  That is terrible.”  Raju went outside to see for himself.  Lola followed him out.  “Where was it?” he asked, staring at her bottom.

She smacked him and pointed to the side of the parking lot.  “Over there, on the side,” she said.

He folded an arm across his chest, and scratched his chin, and thought.  “Hmm… What did it look like?”

“It was a purp— maroon sedan.”

“Yes,” said Raju.  “I see the problem now.”

“What?”

“I had this car towed away from here.”

“You what?!”

“I love you,” said Raju.

Lola spent the next two minutes acting out the “hate” part of her love-hate relationship with Raju.  Once he was incapacitated and on the ground, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed, and started to pace.  “Hello?  Yes, I need a cab.  I’m right next to Holy Land Coffee on Guadalupe.  Right.  That’s the one.”  She walked back over to where Raju was still curled in the fetal position and kicked him.

“Stop it, you heartless witch!” 

She turned and paced some more.  “No, sooner than that.”  She listened.  “You can’t get someone here any faster?  All right.  Thanks.”  She snapped the phone shut and walked back over to where Raju was now sitting up.  “Apparently it’s going to take twenty-five minutes to get a cab here.”  She kicked him again.

“Ow,” said Raju, as he fell over onto the ground again.

Lola sighed and glared at him, her hands on hips and one toe tapping.  “Do you have a car?”

Raju sat up.  “Yes!  Yes, I do.  And it is sweet.”

“Where is it?”

“Somewhere.”  He started looking around on the ground, as if he’d dropped a coin.  Suddenly his head shot up, like a superhero’s might on detecting a cry of distress somewhere.  “I think it is parked to the back of the shop.  Perhaps.”

“Give me the keys.”

“I don’t have them.”

“Where are they?”

“There are no keys.”

“What?”

“It is powered by love.  Keys are unnecessary.”

Lola paused to let her palm and face enjoy a moment together, and to do some sighing she’d apparently failed to take care of earlier.  “Alright,” she said, “let’s go.”  She grabbed him by the collar and shoved him forward.

They walked around the side of the guitar shop and into the overgrown jungle of garbage and weedy colonizer plants behind the shop. 

Lola stopped.  “Where is it?” she asked.

Raju stopped short and went into sort of a crouch.  “What?  What’s wrong?” he said, scanning.  He very nearly did a dive roll to take cover under a nearby bush, but then noticed that Lola was standing with one hand on her hip.  That looked pretty hot, he decided, and so he stood back up and began nodding to the beat, a slight, sly smile on his face.

“Raju?  Can you please stop dancing so we can find your car?”

Raju looked lost for a minute.  He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, and then opened and shut it once more.  He squinted at Lola.  “Wait, what?”

“Where is your car?”

He pointed an uncertain finger at a large, van-shaped topiary.

“That?” she asked.  “That’s a car?”

Raju nodded.  “Uh-huh.”

“That’s not a car.  That’s a Chia Pet.”

“Right.  You are so right!”  Raju did his nod-dancing thing again, this time to a tune that had a heavy, funk emphasis on the downbeat.

“Why is your car covered… in plants?” 

Raju looked at the van.  If he were being honest, it really did have an unusually large amount of foliage.  “It’s earthy.”  More nodding.  “Man.”  Another sly smile. 

“Give me the keys, and zip your pants back up, right now.”

“Okay.”  He tossed her the keys.  “It’s kind of tricky to drive.”

“What do you mean?”

He grabbed the keys back, and opened the door, revealing an interior held together with a larger quantity of duct tape, clothes pins, and bungee cords than would be expected in, say, a Mercedes Benz. 

“You kinda gotta…” he said, bracing himself with one arm as he jiggled a lever back and forth.  “And you gotta watch out for…”  He bounced up and down on the seat as he put all of his weight into pumping the gas pedal.  “And once it starts…”

“Raju?”

He stopped.

“You’re driving.”

“All right!”

“Leave your pants on.”

Raju paused mid-zip.  “You sure?”

“I’m sure.

“Okay.”  He shrugged.  “I could take off my sh—”

“No.”

“All right.”

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Where are we going?”

“To church.”

Chapter 44.           There Are a Lot of Weirdos Here

Once upon a time, back in the day, some enviro-Nazis showed up in Austin with charts and graphs and all sorts of other crap, and tried to persuade the Governor that the State of Texas should invest in viable public transportation. 

“Trains?” asked the governor, incredulous.  “Communal transport?  Funded by the state?  Sounds like Communism to me, boys.  I think we’ll just build more freeways instead.”  He tipped his ten-gallon hat, nodded congenially, and moseyed off to get in his enormous convertible Cadillac with the steer horns on the hood.  Then he drove straight over to the Capitol Building, marched into the Senate chamber, and announced a plan to “pave the hell out of everything.” 

So now, every free and independent-thinking, non-Communist Texan needs a car, preferably with really big tires and terrible fuel economy.  Texas may be famous for its big skies and wide open spaces, but all too often, those wide-open spaces are filled with horseless carriages.

The parking lots and fields surrounding the Driftwood Fellowship Church were overflowing with trucks of all shapes and sizes.  There were green military Humvees, less-imposing, but similarly green military Jeeps, and an apparently random sprinkling of pickup trucks.  Most of the pickups sported stickers advertising their drivers’ fondness of guns and regret about the outcome of the War of Northern Aggression, along with tires large enough to house a family of eight in some countries.  There were also a lot of men milling around, many of whom wore gas masks.  The men appeared to have been scattered liberally and more or less at random around the church – on the grass, driveways, in what used to be shrubbery beds – and they all seemed to be waiting for something. 

Liam found a parking spot about three light-years from the church, and made his way past disgusting puddles of blood rain, trying to look casual as he made the long trek toward the sprawling Driftwood Fellowship compound.  He was a little worried about standing out, seeing as he was a pair of boots, a shiny belt buckle, and maybe a gas mask short of looking like everyone else.  On the other hand, he was wearing pants, which was more than could be said for the sprinkling of naked guys who were also making their way toward the church.

The sound of so many trucks, and so many men – groups of whom were taunting and engaging in intermittent, light skirmishes with the naked guys – was great and cacophonous.  It would have been difficult, for example, to enjoy a quiet picnic lunch or meditate.  The situation was compounded by the presence of a largish lawn crew that, for whatever reason, had concluded that this was an ideal day for botanical ministrations and leaf-blowing. 

Liam watched some of the military men watch as a couple of gardeners with leaf blowers held a couple of naked guys at bay.  The streakers appeared to want to traipse through some pansies.  The two men from the lawn crew appeared not to want the naked guys to do that, and had instigated a standoff.  The naked guys squinted and squared their jaws.  The lawn guys cranked their leaf blowers up to the highest setting, brandishing them at the naked guys. 

Each side juked and faked and made jerky movements this way and that to try to throw the other side off balance.  Finally, one of the naked guys faked left, while another ran right.  The gardeners tried to follow the naked guys with their blowers, but then one of the crew tripped, and it was all over.  A horde of other naked guys noticed the breach, and began streaming through, trampling the lawn crew and pansies alike. 

A group of soldiers and secessionists immediately swarmed the area where the naked guys were getting through, presumably to avenge the gardeners or the pansies, which they did by yelling and hooting and stomping both to bits.  Most of the naked guys ended up escaping the throng and hoofing it up the street toward more of their unclothed comrades.

Liam shook his head and strolled up one of the sidewalks that led to the church, hoping that the nearby battle between clothed and unclothed idiots would serve as enough of a distraction for him to slip by unnoticed.  But this was not to be.

“Hey!  You!”  A small group of soldiers spotted him, and stepped out onto the sidewalk to block his path.  One stood in front the others – the leader, apparently.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m just trying to visit the church,” said Liam. 

“The church is closed to visitors.”

“Are you sure?  Who are they?”  Liam pointed to one of the larger group of patriots milling about in the parking lot. 

“That’s a well-relegated militia,” said one of the other soldiers. 

“What about them?” he asked, pointing to another naked-guy intrusion force.

The leader of the soldiers scowled.  “You’re not going in,” he said.  He raised his gun a little.  The other soldiers followed suit.

Liam let a quiet, skeptical laugh escape his lips.  “Seriously?  You guys realize that what you’re doing is illegal, right?”

The soldiers just stared at Liam.  The leader of the group said, “Our orders come from the Governor himself.”  He paused before adding, with a smug head bobble, “So there!”

“Yeah…” said Liam.

“And you,” the soldier continued, “are not going in there.  Put your hands behind your head.”  He used the barrel of his gun to knock Liam’s backpack off his shoulder, and then poked the weapon at Liam’s chest.

“All right,” said Liam, his eyes fixed on those of the soldier who’d done all the talking.  “If that’s how you want it.” 

What happened next was quick and, with the exception of a couple of grunts by the soldiers, silent.  The first clue that any of the military men had that something had happened was the fact that they were all disarmed and on the ground.  One soldier rolled over onto his side and groaned.  Another sat up and rubbed his head.  Their leader lay face down, his body smoking slightly.

“Sorry, guys,” said Liam.  He leaned over to scoop his backpack up off the ground, and trotted off in the direction of the church.

Bill Cadmon looked the Messiah Festus up and down.  “What’s going on here?” he said.

Normal, rational Festus took a moment to gibber and look around in a panic, but then cuckoo Jesus-impersonator Festus came back and pulled himselves together. 

“Hi, I’m Jesus.”  He reached down and grabbed Cadmon’s hand, shaking it vigorously. 

Cadmon regarded the hand as if someone had just given him a week-old, gasoline-soaked rat.  Festus dropped Cadmon’s hand and twirled around, taking in the cavernous space around him.  “Nice work you’ve done here.”  He waved in the direction of the rear of the church.  “It’s… pretty.”  He nodded, beaming contemplatively off into the middle distance.

“Who the hell are you?” asked Cadmon.

Festus turned around to face the preacher.  “I told you.  I’m Jesus.”

“You are not.”

“You doubt me?”

“Yes.”

“Heretic!”  Festus pointed an accusing finger at Cadmon, his eyes wide.  The preacher stared back at Festus, tilting his head and squinting, his mouth hanging open slightly, as if he were trying to decide whether this was a practical joke.  They stood, staring at each other, while seconds oozed by in slow motion, like rubberneckers creeping past an accident to try to see whether there are any heads in the road.  And then Festus did what any normal Christ-impersonator would do in that situation.  He bolted.

He brushed past Cadmon as he headed off stage right, away from the crowd of cowboys and soldiers. 

“Hey,” said the man with the guitar, after Festus had already gone.

Cadmon spun to face his army.  “Well?”  He did a little head shake and shrugged and pointed in the direction where Festus had gone.  His audience shrugged right back.  “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

“Who, Jesus?” asked a man down in the front.

“What?” asked Cadmon.

“You want us to chase Jesus?”

“He—” Cadmon glanced over his shoulder.  “That man was not Jesus.”

“Unbeliever,” muttered the man.

Cadmon shot him a withering look, and then scanned the audience for some men who were less annoying.  “You.  And you.  And you two.  Go get that man.”  The men glanced around and shuffled their feet, as if they weren’t sure they hadn’t just heard the boss crack an off-color joke.  “Go!”

Liam made his way up toward the main building of the church, concealing himself behind ginormous tires and truck beds as he went.  He recognized the monster truck from the ranch house, and grimaced as he made out what looked like the imprint of arms and a torso in the dust covering one of the fenders.  They’d apparently been rough on poor Festus. 

“I ain’t wearing it,” said a voice. 

“Aw, it ain’t that bad,” said another.  “B’sides, ‘s’not like it’s gonna be forever.”

Liam ducked behind a tire – which is to say that actually just leaned over a little so that his head and shoulders were no longer visible over the treads – and waited until the men passed.  Then he straightened up and, seeing no other soldiers or militia men between him and the church, went in.

Inside, the church was quiet.  A sign over the door he’d come through indicated that he’d come in via the entrance for deliveries.  He padded down the broad hallway, paused to listen, and slipped around a corner just in time to see a bearded weirdo scamper through a doorway.

“Festus!”  Liam hurried down the hall toward the door.

After a second, Festus’s head popped out.  “Liam!  Hey!”

“Jesus Christ,” said Liam.  “Why are you dressed like that?”

Festus just smiled sheepishly.  “Well…” he said, picking at his cassock, “I—”

“Shhh!” said Liam, turning to look over his shoulder.  He turned back a second later and shoved Festus back through the doorway.

“Hey!”

“Shut up.”

They waited and listened to the sound of men walking up the adjacent hallway.

“I think we ought to beat the crap out of him before we take him back,” said one of the men.  His name was Danny Ray.

“I don’t think we should do that,” said his friend, whose name was Cletus.  “Mr. Cadmon said we’re just supposed to get rid of him.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind if we beat him up a little bit first.”

“They’re coming this way,” said Liam.  “Get ready.”  He reached into his backpack and pulled out the gun.

“Get ready?  What the fuck does that mean?” hissed Festus.  Liam waved the gun at Festus to hush him up.

“I don’t know.  I mean, you can’t just beat the crap out of Jesus,” said Cletus.  “That’d be wrong.”

“I told you already!” said Danny Ray.  “He ain’t Jesus.”

“He looks like Jesus.”

“He ain’t!  That’s the whole point, doofus.  That’s why we’re supposed to get ridda him.”  And the soldiers lapsed into silence. 

“They’ve stopped,” whispered Liam.  He tilted his head and squinted, which accomplished little other than to indicate that he was listening real hard.  “Sounded like there are at least three of them.  Maybe four.”  He stole a peek around the corner, and whipped his head back.  “They’re right there.”  He pointed over his shoulder, through the wall, toward a spot just a few feet away.

“They just stopped?  What’s – what are they doing?” asked Festus.

Liam shrugged.

“I don’t know.  It just don’t seem right somehow,” said Cletus.

“Hey,” said a third man, whose name was Buford.  “How do you know that, when he said, ‘Get rid of him,’ he didn’t mean ‘Rub him out’?”

“What the hell?” asked Danny Ray.  “Are you queer?”

“What?”

“I ain’t rubbin’ nobody.”

“No!”  Buford smacked Danny Ray.

“We should jus’ crucify him,” said an extra large cowboy who’d been standing off to the side.  He let the last part of the word ‘crucify’ linger until it was about four syllables long.  His name was Bubba, and pretty much everybody was afraid of him.  Rightly so, because he was giant, and actually had guns in holsters on his belt.  He leaned up against a wall, a sneer on his face. 

“Okay, let’s go,” said Liam.

“What?” asked Festus.

“We’ll have the element of surprise on our side.”

“Element of surprise?  Fuck the element of surprise!  I prefer the element of continuing to be hidden.”

Liam stepped out into the hall, gun in hand.  Festus stayed put until Liam glanced back and gave him a nasty look.

“Holy shit,” said Cletus.  “It’s Jesus.”

“Hi, guys,” said Liam.

“Are you Jesus’ friend?” asked Cletus.

“Um, yes,” said Liam.  “As a matter of fact, I am.  And you guys need to stand aside now so that we can leave.”

“What?” asked Cletus.

Liam smacked his Messianic friend.  “Uh, yes!” coughed Festus.  “Verily, I say unto thee, get the hell out of the way!”  He blessed them each with little cross gestures.

“Well,” said Cletus, backing up, “I guess we oughta—”

“No, you idjit,” said Danny Ray.  “He’s an imposter.  We’re supposed to kick his ass.”

“Are you sure?” asked Cletus.  “I mean, he really looks like Jesus.  Maybe he’s reincarnated Jesus.”

“That’s not how it works, dumbass,” said Buford.

Cletus ignored his critics.  “Mr. Jesus, do you feel like you can perform a miracle?”  He looked around for miracle-performing opportunities.  “Is there a pond nearby?  Somebody get this man some water.”

“Okay…” said Liam.  “Let’s go.”  He started to push his way past the militia men.

“Yeah,” said Festus, “let’s get away from these ass hats.”

And just like that, Cletus was no longer on their side.  “Did Jesus just call us... ass hats?” 

“That’s what I heard,” said Danny Ray.  “And I don’t like bein’ called an ass… hat.”  There were several grunts confirming that this sentiment was shared by the rest of the men.

“Look, guys,” said Liam.  “We—” 

Nobody heard whatever it was that Liam said next, because at that moment, Bubba stepped forward, tore the gun out of Liam’s hand, and buried his fist in Liam’s gut.  Liam doubled over, and staggered around for a few steps.  Then he stood up straight and put his hands behind his head as he tried to catch his breath. 

Most of the militia men stepped back, content just to watch Bubba do his thing.  Bubba stepped toward Liam and gave him a shove.  Liam staggered again, but caught himself quickly.  He turned, breathing heavily.

“We’re leaving now,” he said. 

“The hell you are, pussy.”  Bubba – behemoth of broad shoulders and beer-guttedness that he was – made his best mean face, and leaned over a little, his right hand hovering by his side as if he were about to draw.  The other patriots stood back, watching for the ass-whuppin’ they expected Bubba to deliver.

Liam regarded Bubba almost entirely impassively – he let a tiny hint of a smirk escape his lips. 

“You want a piece of me?” asked Bubba.

“Not really.  No,” said Liam.

Now it was Bubba’s turn to smirk and scoff.  “Didn’t think s—”  He failed to finish his taunt, having been interrupted by Liam’s delivery of three quick punches to his nose, ear, and throat.  These seemed to startle and confuse Bubba, at least inasmuch as he appeared incapable of deciding whether to grab his neck, his face, or the side of his head.  He hunched over, trying to do all three, and putting his head within range of Liam’s knee. 

Liam did not hesitate to take advantage of this.  He grabbed Bubba’s head, forcing it downward as he brought his knee upward.  There was a nasty snapping sound, and Bubba flopped back, crashing into the wall behind him.

Festus backed Liam up with a karate chop to the air and a victory grunt.

The other soldiers were stunned by the sight of Bubba going down, and failed entirely to notice as Liam grabbed Danny Ray’s rifle, smashing it into the man’s chest.  Danny Ray made a high-pitched chirping sound as all the air was expelled from his lungs.

Liam tore the gun out of Danny Ray’s grip, spun, and swung it like a club, clocking Danny Ray in the noggin.  The man collapsed in slow motion, like a dynamited building.  Before he had even hit the ground, Liam had aimed the butt of the gun at Cletus’ neck.  Cletus stood wide-eyed, and held his hands up in the air as he aimed a startled look down his nose at his attacker.  Liam hesitated for an instant, but then decided that having one less soldier to deal with was a good thing.  He jabbed the butt of the gun up, causing the Cletus’ head to smack backwards into the wall.  Liam pulled the gun back, and the man slid down the wall.

“Liam,” croaked Festus.  Liam turned and saw that Buford had Festus in a head lock, a hand gun pointed at the side of Festus’ head. 

“Put that gun down,” said Buford.  He tightened his grip on Festus’ throat.

“Ack!” said Festus.

Liam let his hand fall, so that the gun pointed at the ground.  But he did not let go.  Instead he sighed, and shook his head.  He closed his eyes and rolled his neck and took a deep breath.

“Put do—”  Buford did not finish his sentence, having decided, apparently, that his breath would be better spent on a high-pitched scream.  He let go of Festus, and ran around in little circles, which may have had something to do with the fact that his head was on fire. 

Liam gave Buford a good crack in the gourd with the butt of the rifle.  Buford’s legs went out from underneath him, and the man collapsed.  Liam tore off his shirt, and used it to smother the flames on Buford’s head. 

“Holy crap!” said Festus.  “That was amazing!  How—?”  He gestured at Buford, who smoldered on the floor.

“Come on,” said Liam.  “Let’s go.”  He tossed the rifle aside, and headed for the exit, trying to look casual.  Festus scrambled after him.

The morass of soldiers and patriots and trucks outside the church had expanded, and now included a lot of naked guys, most of whom seemed to be flocking together close to where Liam and Festus exited the church. 

“What the hell, Liam?  How did you—?  Whoa!”  Festus stopped and pointed.  “That’s disgusting!”

Liam ignored Festus, and kept walking.

“Hey!  Liam!  Stop!”  Liam finally turned to see what Festus was going on about.  “It’s Lola.  In the middle of … that.”

There are times when it is necessary to give a voice to your thoughts; times when you cannot just think a thing – you must say it.

“What the fuck?” said Liam. 

Chapter 45.           Lola and the Men Who Love Her

Liam and Festus goggled, gaped, and stared (Festus goggled and gaped; Liam stared) at a swarm of naked guys.  There were at least fifty of them, huddling together in what appeared to be a free-love rugby scrum, less than twenty yards from the delivery entrance of the Driftwood Fellowship Church.  Lola stood in the middle, a flash of red and purple and blonde in the middle of a whole lot of pale hairiness, looking very much as if she did not want to be there.  A few groups of soldiers hovered around the edges of the throng, looking vaguely disgusted and mounting desultory forays into the naked horde, which the nude guys fended off with ease.

“What do we do?” asked Festus.

“Well,” said Liam, “I think we should…”  He didn’t finish.  Sometimes, when you’re staring at a hundred naked guys, and someone you know is stuck in the middle of the gymnosophic mob, it’s hard to engage in any kind of proactive decision making.  It’s like when you realize that you somehow dropped your wedding ring into the commode, and that it’s now resting among some other things you dropped.  You know, on some level, that you want to reach in there to get it back, but then, you really, really don’t want to do that at all.  The resulting cognitive clash can be paralyzing. 

Festus also seemed to be suffering from a mild case of rigor mortis as he regarded the naked horde.  “Seriously, what is up with all of the friggin’ weirdos running around without clothes today?  I have so exceeded my quota for witnessing flaccid dongs for like, the rest of my life.  Seriously.”

“You prefer turgidity?” asked Liam, still staring straight ahead. 

Festus grimaced. 

They watched through the crowd as Lola turned in slow circles, her hands held out in front of her as she plead with the men who surrounded her.  Through a fleeting gap in the Brownian throng, Liam saw that a bunch of the men toward the center of the group were either squatting or on their knees, bowing down and raising themselves up, their arms extended toward Lola. 

“Are they … worshipping her?” he asked.

“Well, she is pretty hot,” said Festus.

“We need to get her out of there,” said Liam.

A horrified look came over Festus’ face.  “What?  How do we do that?  We’d have to go in there.”

Liam nodded.

“Did it ever occur to you that she might want to be surrounded and worshipped by a bunch of naked guys?”

“No,” said Liam, tilting his head as if he were really pondering the question, “I don’t think she’d want that.”  He marched into the horde, shoving and elbowing his way in as he headed toward Lola.

Festus didn’t move.  Whether this was because he was not able to goggle and walk and let his jaw hang open at the same time is uncertain.  Whatever the reason, he stood perfectly still as he watched Liam enter the mass of hairy, pale flesh.

Liam continued his march into the throng.  “Um, hello,” he said to a particularly obstructive individual.  “Please get out of the way.”  The naked guy, however, appeared to be completely oblivious to Liam’s presence.  Liam shoved the man and he fell awkwardly on top of another man.  Dangly bits and bad places got together in NC-17 ways.

“Ooh, that’s not right,” said Festus, as he threaded his way through the crowd behind Liam.

“You know,” said Liam, “for an enlightened Son of God, you sure are homophobic.”

The Lola-worshippers seemed not to notice or care about Liam or Festus, even as they pushed and shoved their way toward her.  Liam would shove or give a gentle kick to a naked guy, and the naked guy would just grunt and move out of the way.

“Look,” said Festus, stepping over a guy who, apparently overcome by the whole situation, was laying on the ground doing his best impression of frying bacon.  “I like homos just as much as the next guy.  I just don’t want to have any contact with another dude’s wang.”

“Fair enough.”  Liam strong-armed another clothes-free individual.  They finally reached Lola, who was turned facing away from them, berating one of her followers.

“You will not—”

Liam tapped her on the shoulder.  “Uh, hi,” he said.

She spun.  “Oh my god!  Liam!” she said, and then added, somewhat less enthusiastically, “And Festus.”

“What are you doing?” asked Liam.  “What is this?”

“I– I don’t know,” said Lola.  “They just surrounded us.”  She waved her hand in the direction of some of her followers.

“Us?”

“Raju is here … somewhere.” 

Raju poked his head out from the headlock of one of Lola’s followers.  “Hi.”  Raju gave a perfunctory, limited-motion wave through the half-removed sleeve of his shirt.  “Help.”  His captor renewed his grip with a shake, while another man tried to pull Raju’s shirt off. 

“Are these men troubling you, Mistress?” asked one of the naked men.  His eyes were fixed on Lola, but it almost looked as if he were staring through her.

“No, no,” she said.  “They’re my friends.”

“Very good, Mistress.  Please tell them to undress.”

“What?” asked Festus.

“They want you to get naked,” said Raju, flinching as one of the men waved some hairy, dangly, unpleasant things way too close to his face. 

“Not happening,” said Liam.  “Come on.  Let’s go.”

“They won’t let us,” said Lola.

“Why not?”

One of the naked guys stood awkwardly, swaying back and forth.  He had kind of a vague smile on his lips, and kept sighing long, satisfied sighs.  Finally, he cleared his throat, held up one classically-trained, Shakespearean hand, and announced in a clear voice that rang out over the droning of the other men.  “We have found her!”

Liam looked around to try to locate the man’s intended audience, but it didn’t look as if he’d directed his pronouncement to anyone in particular.  In fact, the rest of the men seemed just to ignore the man.  “I’m sorry?  You’ve … found her?” 

“Yes!” said the man with another manual flourish.  A couple of the other men stopped and looked up.  “She,” he said, “is the Whore of Babyon!”

The entire throng went bananas, whooping and hollering, high-fiving, and doling out triumphant fists pumps as if there weren’t a shortage of such things – which there isn’t, but still. 

One of the men stood suddenly, his body rigid.  He thrust his finger out in front of him, where it waggled crazily, as if it were a herring and he was trying to shake it to death.  His lips moved as if he were mumbling something to himself.  Finally, he seemed unable to hold back.  “Whore of Babylon!” he screamed. 

Festus spun to face Liam.  “See?  I told you!”

“What?” said Liam.  “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.  I said I know who she is.”

“I didn’t hear you say anything about the Whore of Babylon.”

“You weren’t listening,” said Festus, stroking his beard. 

“I heard everything you said, and you didn’t say that.”

“I thought it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Well…”

“Not the same thing,” said Liam.  “And you need to stop stroking your beard before I yank it out.”

Lola, meanwhile, had spun to face her accuser.  “I’m not sure what that means,” she said, “but it sounds really bad, and I want you to take it back right now.”

“Mistress?”  A surprised and worried look came over his face, as if she’d just pointed out that he’d killed her dog.  “You want me to … take it back?”

“Yes, I want you to take it back.  Right now.”  She folded her arms across her chest, which had the dual effect of indicating her level of seriousness, and depriving the men of a view of the Promised Lands.

“Um, okay,” said the guy.  But then, under his breath, he muttered, “Whore of Babylon.”

The Whore of Babylon hesitated, and then, apparently deciding on an altogether different tack, attempted to put her pointy-toed Jimmy Chu into the guy’s abdomen, by way of his crotch.  Her well-motivated foot – being rather larger and rounder than, say, a knife or an ice pick – was hindered in its progress toward the man’s abdomen by a grouping of obstructive and rather sensitive anatomical components – to wit, his ‘nads.  The man’s internal organs were therefore preserved intact, and continued to function normally.  His external organ, on the other hand, suffered severe blunt trauma, and the man promptly fell over.  The other streakers turned to regard their fallen comrade.

“Come on,” said Liam, shoving the last naked guy between him and Lola out of the way.  Lola nodded and reached for his hand.  They threaded their way out of the crowd, with Raju following a few steps behind.

“Mistress, no!”  Three of the men threw themselves at Lola’s feet, grabbing her ankles to prevent her from disabling any more of their brethren.

The men began to chant.  “Whore of Babylon!  Whore of Babylon!”

Lola raised her eyebrows at Liam.

Liam pulled out his gun, and held it up in the air, pointing it straight up as if to suggest that, if they didn’t let go, he might shoot the hell out of the sky, or maybe kill a cloud.  “Okay, guys,” he said.  “It’s time for the Whore – uh, her – to go.” 

The men called Liam’s bluff, swarming him and smacking the gun out of his hand.  They moved quick for naked guys, which is to say that they moved without the awkwardness that might encumber more self-conscious naked people.  Liam fell backward, and only avoided smacking his head on concrete because there were fleshy, uncovered bits in the way. 

One of the naked men grabbed the gun, and stood over Liam.  He pointed the weapon at Liam’s head, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.  There was a pop, and then everything got very quiet.

Chapter 46.           Blasted Bits and Way Too Many Ralphs

“Liam!” screamed Lola.  She tried to claw her way through the throng.  “Liam!”

“It’s okay, Mistress,” said the man who’d pulled the trigger.  “It’s okay.” 

“No!  Fuck you!  It’s not okay.”  She grabbed a hunk of his hair and yanked his head down while bringing her knee up.  There was a disgusting cracking sound, and the man collapsed, holding his face.  The gun clattered to the ground. 

Raju picked it up, and then glanced around as he were looking for something.  He hesitated for a second, and then shot one of the guys in the crotch.  The man’s nethers exploded into a fine mist that sprayed all over his companions.  That – being coated in blood and bits and pieces of the guy’s bits and pieces – and the sound of the panicked, frantic screaming and wailing coming from the shot guy seemed to break the spell over the amorous, nude guys.  It was also very disgusting.  One of the soldiers vomited.  Then Raju urped up a bit of whatever he’d had for lunch.  That set off a chain reaction of gagging and full-blown vomiting all around, which only compounded the disgustingness of the situation.

“Liam!” said Lola.  She shoved past naked guys, many of whom were still engaged in post-Ralphing coughing, sputtering, and gasping for air, and made her way toward where she’d seen Liam fall.

“What’s up?” asked Liam.  He shoved aside the naked guy who lay on top of him and stood, looking a little dazed, but completely free of bullet holes in his cranium.

“Oh my God!”  She threw her arms around him.  “You’re okay?  How did—?  I don’t understand.  He shot you!  I saw it!”

“Holy shit, dude!” said Raju.  “That was magical!”

Festus just stared, open-mouthed, and shook his head.  “How—?”

Liam let go of Lola, and turned to his Messianic friend.  “I don’t know.  I saw the bullet.  I actually saw it.  But … I’m okay,” he said.  “I’m fine.”

Festus hugged him.  And then Raju joined in.

“Enough,” said Liam.  Raju let go, but then decided he wanted more, and embraced his boss again.  “Raju, please stop.  We need to get out of here.” 

They exited the throng and picked their way around military trucks, trying to keep away from the clumps of soldiers.  The naked guys suddenly all seemed to be a little more concerned with their nakedness than with dealing with their Mistress and her friends, so Lola, Liam, and the two losers were quickly able to put a few meters between themselves and the horde.

“Man,” said Festus, “that was harsh.  You shot that guy.  In the – in the dong!”

“Dude, wasn’t that amazing?” asked Raju.

“Um, no,” said Festus.  “It was the most fucked up thing I’ve ever seen.”

“No, dude.  It was cool.”

“You fucking shot that guy,” said Festus.  “And dude!”  He flung his arms out to his sides and turned to look back at the throng of naked guys just as a group carried their wounded friend away.  “You fucking shot someone!  With a gun!  You can’t – you can’t do that!  You can’t just shoot someone.” 

“It was pretty disgusting,” said Lola.

Raju shook his head.  “Dude, whatever.  It was awesome, and you all know it.”

The corner of Liam’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

“It was not awesome, Raju,” said Lola.  “It was gross.”

“No, not the shooting.  The hurling.  It was like a nuclear reaction.”  Raju immediately started a pantomime chain-reaction of vomiting.  “Ralph, Ralph, Ralph…” 

“Please shut up,” said Liam.  He took a couple of double-time steps to catch up with Lola, who was striding ahead as they threaded through a group of military vehicles.  “You didn’t tell me – what are you doing here?” he asked.

“Well,” said Lola, “I just figured I could help out.”

“By acting as a magnet for all the naked guys?”

Lola smirked.  “Yes,” she said.  “That was my plan exactly.”

“But I thought you needed to go back to your office,” said Liam.

“Well, Raju told me about—” she glanced around at the trucks and the soldiers and the naked guys, “well, about all of this.”

Raju scooted up right behind Liam.  “Dude, she totally wants you,” he said.

Lola turned and smacked the palm of her hand into the side of Raju’s head.

“You witch!  Don’t you know?  I have a gun!”  He waved the gun in her direction. 

She took it, and smacked him again. 

“That was my gun, you heartless witch!”

Lola checked the pistol, popping the magazine out and back in, and pulling the slide back to chamber a round.  She stuffed it into the waist of her pants and then turned her attention back to Liam.  The three men paused to stare with slightly shocked looks on their faces as they realized that, as disturbing as it sounds, watching an attractive woman tuck a gun into the front of her pants is a lot hotter than you might expect.

“That was my gun,” said Liam. 

“I need one,” she said.  “They took mine.  Besides, you just got shot in the head.  You’re in no condition to carry a gun.”

Liam smiled and nodded.  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

She gave him a meaningful look.  At least, it was probably a meaningful look.  Liam wasn’t sure what it meant, or even if it meant anything at all.  It just seemed like one of those looks that people give each other when they mean things.  He had no idea what to do, so he smiled.  Lola returned his smile with a half-smirk, half-smile of her own, and looked down at the ground.  She ran her hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear.

“Me too,” she said.

“Well, okay,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” said Raju. 

Lola ignored him.  “Look,” she said, pointing out across the parking lot full of trucks and soldiers.

“What?” asked Liam.

“A whole fleet of limousines just pulled up.” 

“Those aren’t limos,” said Festus. 

“He’s right,” said Liam.  “They’re Town Cars.”

“Whatever,” said Lola.  “That one has something sticking out of its trunk.” 

“It looks like a metal box,” said Liam.

“Oh,” said Raju.  “That’s one of those frozen yogurt machines.”

“You know, I think you’re right.”  Liam sighed and shook his head.  It wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d seen today – not even close – but still. 

The group enjoyed a moment of silence, there among the trucks and naked guys and soldiers and mayhem.  They watched as soldiers scrambled this way and that – some charging toward the new arrivals, while others ran away.  The soldiers closest to the Town Cars started attacking the cars and their occupants.  At least one Humvee actually ended up on top of one of the Town Cars.  Shots rang out periodically over the sound of men shouting.  The gun fire was intermittent – almost casual in its sporadic report.  One guy held down the trigger on his automatic weapon.  He was too far off to tell whether he was shooting at the cars or just firing at random, but he quickly ran out of bullets – the clip on most automatic weapons holds maybe one tenth as many bullets as movie makers seem to believe – and the noise stopped. 

“Is that—” asked Festus, moving his head this way and that and squinting.  “Shit,” he said.  “That’s the KW.  We need to leave.  Now.”  But everybody ignored him.  They were too busy being knocked to the ground by the shockwave of a rather large explosion.

Chapter 47.           Our Heroes Run Away

“Wow,” said Liam.  He’d landed on his back, and was now propped up on his elbows, as if he were just enjoying a casual afternoon in the park.

“What the shit?” asked Raju, his arms and legs wrapped around a tree.

“What was that?” asked Festus.

The four started to get up, dust off, and stagger around – as people who nearly get exploded often do – but were immediately knocked back down to the ground by the force of a second explosion.

“Huh,” said Liam, from where he lay prone. 

“Perhaps we ought to consider,” said Lola, “heading in the other direction.”

“Yes,” said Liam.  “Perhaps.”  He continued to lie where he was, listening to the bustling sounds of men and equipment set against a backdrop of sporadic gun fire. 

“Oh,” said Raju, “that sucked.”  Festus moaned his concurrence. 

There was a third explosion, but Liam, Lola, Festus, and Raju saved themselves the trouble of having to fall over by not having got back up in the first place.

“What the hell is going on?” asked Festus.

Liam spoke to the grass and dirt immediately in front of his face.  “I think that someone is blowing shit up.”

“Oh,” said Festus. 

Lola stood and brushed herself off.  “We need to move.  Now,” she said.  Liam concurred to the grass.  The others moaned a bit.  Lola kicked Raju and then turned to nudge Liam with her toe.  “Come on.” 

“Okay,” said Liam, his face still pressed to the grass. 

Lola nudged him again, and then turned back to deliver another good kick to Raju.  Festus received something between a nudge and a kick.  “Let’s go back the other way,” she said. 

Liam slowly climbed to his feet.  “Agreed,” he said.  “Let’s go.”

The group headed back toward the Deliveries entrance, and went into the church.  Inside, things were surprisingly calm – in stark contrast to the madness outside.  The hallway leading from the deliveries entrance was cavernous and empty.  There were no noises other than their own quick footfalls and the sound of Raju, tagging along in his own time, humming a tune that could have been from a porn movie.

“Where are we going?” asked Festus.

“Shhh!” said Lola.

Liam slowed and leaned over to Festus to whisper.  “We can just walk around to the other side, and try to find a different exit.”

“Shhh!” said Lola, again.  The urgency of her shushing, however, was diminished somewhat when, as they came around a corner, they ran straight into Bill Cadmon and Dick Whitford.  The two men were engrossed in conversation, and were accompanied by a handful of soldiery types, each of whom wore or carried a gas mask. 

“Well, they shouldn’t have burned down my goddamned mansion,” said Whitford.

“But I can’t have your military guys all over—”  Cadmon stopped, and the surprised expression on his face made it look as if he hadn’t been expecting to find a Messianic doppelganger and his cabal of friends, which wasn’t that odd, really, because he had not, in fact, had that expectation at all.

“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.

Satan turned back to Festus.  “Where’s the other one?”

“Uh…?” said Festus.

“The preacher,” said Satan, “who was just here a minute ago?” 

“He left,” said Lola.

Satan threw his hands up. 

“Wait a minute!” said Raju.  He stepped forward, shaking his head and looking disgusted at the Devil.  “That’s it?  That dude was so – so evil?  And you didn’t do anything to him!”

Satan turned to stare at Raju in a not very nice way.  Raju plowed ahead, oblivious.  “That was so wussy, dude.  I mean,” he said, holding up one of his palms, apparently undaunted by the fact that he was getting a full dose of the Evil Eye from the guy who invented the Evil Eye, “that guy sucked.  You should’ve, like, tortured him first or something.”

Satan pondered this.  His eyes grew less evil, and more contemplative, which caused his eyebrows to creep up his forehead – presumably in disgust at the diminution of evil in his eyes.  “Yes,” he said, nodding and stroking his chin as if it featured a trim little Satanic chin beard – which it did not.  “You are correct.”

Dick Whitford popped back into existence, making a kind of robot, zipper sound (“Zworp!” for those unfamiliar with cyborgian clothes-fastening devices) as he reappeared.  He swayed and nearly fell over, but then caught himself, and looked surprised at everyone.  Everyone – other than Satan and Raju, who were busy directing satisfied nods to one another – stared back, just as surprised. 

“What the hell just happened?” he said, swaying slightly.  He reached up and felt his throat. 

“Dick,” said Satan.

Whitford stopped fondling his now-healed throat and glanced up at the Devil, looking haggard, but – in the scheme of things, i.e., as a man who’d just been evaporated and then brought back to life moments later – fairly well.  “What do you want from me?”

“You’re not allowed to try to end the world!” said Satan, sounding a little bit like a little girl complaining about a breach of her rules for having a make-believe tea party with Mr. and Mrs. Bear.

Whitford smirked.

Satan grabbed him by the collar, and lifted the enormous man off the ground with just one hand.  The Governor seemed less affronted by this than just genuinely amazed that the Devil had managed to get him up in the air. 

“I came here to avoid all of this.  I’m not going to let some regurgitated shite such as yourself screw things up.” 

“Regurgitated shite?” asked Festus.

“Poop that gets eaten and thrown back up,” said Raju.

“Oh, yeah.  Of course,” said Festus, nodding.

Whitford’s mouth hung open for a second, and then closed, and then opened again, making him look a little bit like a big, fat fish out of water.  “But you can’t.  I— I just…”

“Yes,” said Satan.  “I can.  Watch.”  Satan now held him with both hands and somehow began to shake the man up and down.  He shook faster and faster.

“What the hell are you—?”  The Devil shook him faster.  “Arrgh!” said the Governor to indicate that he wasn’t enjoying the ride.

And then Satan stopped, and set Whitford down.  The Governor immediately plopped down onto his bottom, seeming a little dizzy, but otherwise unharmed.  Then he began to breathe short, sharp breaths, and started shifting around on the floor as if it were burning.  The skin on his face and on top of his bald head started to bubble and sizzle.  He let out an inarticulate yelp, having apparently lost the ability to use consonants, and held up one of his hands.  The skin sloughed off like a glove.

Whitford collapsed sideways, and the sizzling sound grew louder as he offered up his own whimpery accompaniment.

“Oh my God!” said Lola.

“What?  Where?” asked Satan.  He glanced around in a bit of a panic. 

The others kept their eyes glued to Whitford.  In front of them, the Governor lay on his side, curled up in the fetal position, steaming and fizzling.  His whole body heaved as he gasped for air.  The remains of his clothes clung in strips and tattered shreds to the hulking mass of his body, revealing two things: first, that there really was a lot of him, and second, that very little of his bulk was covered in skin.  And this epidermal paucity did little to aid his already grotesque appearance.  Weak, sad-kitty-cat sounds seeped from his mouth.

“Ooh!  So, that’s what you look like without skin,” said Raju.  “Gross.”

“Whoa,” said Festus.  “Look at his penis.”

“Uh … no?” said Raju.  He turned to look Festus up and down disgustedly.  “Fag.”

The group just stood and stared at the pile of smoldering, heaving flesh for a moment.  Somewhere off in another part of the building, there was a rumbling, staticky roar that lasted a couple of seconds and then began to fade.  The walls rattled and shook.  Liam, Lola, and Festus exchanged quizzical glances and shrugs at the noise. 

Raju was otherwise engaged.  “Can I kick him?” he asked.

“What?” said Liam.

Raju pointed to the vile nastiness heaving and being disgusting on the floor.  “Can I kick him?”

“No,” said Liam. 

Even Festus gave Raju a look.  “Do you really want to get that on your shoe?”

“What is your problem?” asked Lola.  “Hasn’t he been through enough?”  She gestured to the slimy lump of ex-governor.  “I mean, he’s got no skin.  Let it go already.”

Raju made a face as if she’d just asked him to clean out underneath a refrigerator using only his tongue.  “What?”  Then the unpleasantness drained out of his face.  “I love you.”

Lola glared at him.

“So, gentlemen,” said Satan.  He turned, holding his hands out like a circus ringmaster.  “How was that?” 

Festus nodded appreciatively and, when the Devil just stared at him, gave a polite golf clap.  Then he realized that Satan was staring at Raju.

Raju sucked air in through his teeth.  “Yeah…” he said.  “I don’t know…”

Satan’s shoulders slumped.  His eyes grew dark and his lips turned into a very thin line.  But then he brightened.  “I’ve got an idea!” he said.  “Watch this.”  He held his free hand up high over Whitford and made a fist, spilling individual drops of clear liquid down onto the Governor’s body. 

Whitford screamed as each tiny droplet splattered on his skin – or, rather, the acres of slimy, anatomical nastiness where his skin had so recently been.  This went on for almost thirty seconds before the Devil finally tossed the spent lemon wedge aside.  The governor whimpered and made inarticulate animal sounds.

“Better?” asked the Devil, turning back to his audience.  “Hey, wait!  Where are you going?”

Liam, Lola, Raju, and Festus stopped and turned. 

Raju made puppy dog eyes, and pointed back over his shoulder.  “They say we have to go…” 

“You can’t go!” said Satan.  “I still have to do the preacher.”

Liam grabbed Raju.  “Come on,” he said, and the group turned to leave. 

They didn’t get very far.  At that moment, Bill Cadmon came back around the corner, nearly crashing into Lola.  He paused, gave her a sly smile, and then shook his head as if to clear it.  He stepped around her and into the middle of the hall to stand in front of the Devil. 

Satan turned.  “Ah!” he said.  “There you are!”  He stepped toward the preacher with his arms out, as if he were about to embrace the man. 

Cadmon just smirked and glanced back over his shoulder.  As he did so, a very tall, very well-lit man with wings came into view.  Cadmon looked back at Satan and smirked again.

Satan’s eyes got all slitty.  “You,” he said in a low, gravely voice.

“Yes,” said the angel Ezekiel, his wings and robe all glowy and radioactive looking.  “It’s me.” 

Chapter 49.           Satan and Ezekiel

The angel was friggin’ huge.  And standing there, with his angry face on, he totally dwarfed and overshadowed the Prince of Darkness. 

Satan glared up at him.  “What are you doing here?” . 

Ezekiel glared right back.  “What are you doing here?”

“I asked first.”

Ezekiel scoffed.  “So?  I asked second.”

“So,” said the Devil, scoffing right the hell back, “that means you have to answer first.”

“Make me.”

Liam, Festus, Raju, and Lola watched the supernatural standoff with the weary and wary eyes of people who’ve already met their quota of really weird shit.  Cadmon, on the other hand, watched enthusiastically, flipping back and forth to stare at Satan and Ezekiel like an amphetamine addict at a tennis match.  He was therefore the last to notice the two men in military uniforms who clomped up the passageway in their heavy soldier boots.

The two soldiers skidded and stumbled to a stop, and, breathing heavily, clicked their heels together and stood ramrod straight to salute the preacher. 

“Mr. Cadmon, sir!” said the first.

“Sir!” echoed the second.  He stood as still and rigid as his companion, but sneaked a peek at Lola.

Cadmon either ignored or simply didn’t hear them, and so the soldiers just stood, their steely eyes boring in the back of the preacher’s well-coifed gourd.  They continued to stand for a few, long seconds, waiting for the preacher to take a break from his manic imitation of a sprinkler head.  Satan and Ezekiel paused in their argument and turned to stare at the preacher, who looked confused for an instant, and then turned to see what they were looking at.  There, ten inches from his face, was an emphatic man dressed in camouflage.

“Sir!” said the man.

Cadmon stepped back and wiped spittle from his cheek.  “Not now,” he said, shooing the soldier away, and turned to smile at the Devil and Ezekiel.

The soldier would not be shooed.  “But, sir!”

Cadmon spun as if powered by a spring.  “What is it?” he snapped.

The soldier finally seemed to notice that everyone there in the passageway was watching him, and he wilted a little under the weight of everyone’s stares.  He glanced around sneakily and then switched to stealth mode, sidling up closer to Cadmon.  “Shir,” he said, whispering out of the side of his mouth and through clenched teeth, “da wefon uz rey tabeh reweez.”

“Wh—?”  Cadmon shook his head very slowly, mystified. 

The soldier tried again, this time bouncing up and down on his heels and nodding his head with each syllable, as if he could make Cadmon understand through the sheer force of unconquerable, soldier-iffic will.

“Da wefon.  Uz rey.  Tabeh reweezd.”

Cadmon took a moment to pause and reflect on the soldier’s words and to place his palm over his face.  Finally he surrendered.  “Just say it,” he said.  “Spit it out.”

The soldier’s eyes darted back and forth.  Satan and Ezekiel, apparently bored with the soldier, resumed their bickering.  The other soldier, also apparently bored, opted to smile and wink at Lola.

Raju was not bored.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  He scrambled toward the soldier, shoving Liam out of the way.  “Dude, I can’t stand it!  Tell us already!”

The soldier who’d done all the talking – whose body had become so tense and clenched that he had actually started to shake – let out a percussive burst of breath and seemed to deflate.  When he finally spoke, it was with the grit and effort that generally only accompanies certain tasks, like lifting a crashed car off of a body or forcing a stubborn bowel movement.  “The weapon is ready to be released, sir!”

“Weapon?” asked Lola.

“Oh, tell them to go ahead,” said Cadmon, waving his hand and turning back to watch the supernatural fight club.

“Sir?”

“What weapon?” asked Lola.  Cadmon ignored her, and waved off the soldiers again, trying to ignore them too.

“But we need the key, sir!” 

The preacher let out a testy sigh, and then reached into his collar and removed a necklace, from which hung a single, small key.  He looked at it, and started to raise his arm to hold it out to the soldier, but paused, apparently distracted.  Satan and Ezekiel’s discussion was starting to get a little bit testy.

“Why didn’t you say something?” asked Ezekiel.

“I knew I couldn’t trust you,” said Satan.  “And that you’d never agree.”

“So, what?  You just walked out on us!” said Ezekiel.

“What?” asked Cadmon.  “Walked out on who?  What are we talking about here?”

“You little shit,” said Satan, completely oblivious of the irony of a normal-sized person saying that sort of thing to a giant guy with wings.  “Don’t you understand?  We were never going to win!  I left to avoid,” he waved the flaming shotgun around, “all of this.  But now you’ve gone and started it up anyway!”  He smacked Ezekiel, which was a little weird, because, due to the size disparity between the two supernaturals, the smack landed at about Ezekiel’s waist.  Between that and the glowy, other-worldly appearance of the angel, it came off a bit like someone from the Lollipop Guild walking up and hitting Glenda (the Good Witch).  “You screwed everything up!”

“Wait just a goddamned second.  What the fuck is all this?” asked Cadmon, stepping away from his soldiers, the key dangling from his hand. 

The soldier, still waiting for the key, turned and finally seemed to register the fact that there was a large angel in the room, at which point he began doing a pretty good impression of a statue.  His companion continued to wink and nod and smirk and wobble his head at Lola.

Raju snatched the key from Cadmon’s hand.  The preacher, whose attention was focused on Ezekiel, just let go, apparently thinking that the soldier had grabbed it. 

The more erect of the two soldiers saw Raju.  “Hey!” he said.  “Give me that!”  He tackled Raju.  Liam skidded over to pull the him off Raju.  Festus stayed put and offered unspoken moral support.

The other soldier did not join the fray, opting instead just to keep smiling at Lola.  He continued to do that until Lola punched him in the face.  He promptly fell backward onto the floor.  It is not clear whether this was solely due to the force of Lola’s punch.  It could have been that, but it also could have been the fact that the stadium began to shake and rumble – nothing too serious, of course – but the floor was definitely moving more than would be expected on, say, pretty much any other day ever in the history of Austin .

“Why did you do that?”  The soldier sat, holding his nose, which now appeared to be leaking a fair amount of blood.  “I loved you!” he said.  “I loved you!”  Lola kicked him.  “Ow!”  She kicked him again.  “Ow!”  She kicked him a third time, and he fell over and didn’t say anything.  Lola brushed her hands off and turned her attention to Liam, Raju, and the other soldier.

“Uncle!” said Raju.  “Say ‘uncle’!”  Liam sat, straddled across the other soldier’s back, tying the man’s hands together with his belt, while Raju kicked him and urged him to say, “Uncle.”

Cadmon finally turned, exasperated, to see what the hell all the ruckus was about.  He looked first at the soldier on the ground, who was doing little other than bleeding from his face, and then at Liam.  Then he saw the key hanging from Raju’s hand.  “Hey!” he said, lunging for Raju and tearing at his shirt.  “You can’t—” 

Lola pulled the gun from the waist of her pants, and she stepped over to Cadmon.

“Let go,” she said.  He ignored her, so she cocked the weapon.

He turned and seemed surprised, as if he were seeing Lola for the first time.  He ran his eyes up and down her body.  “Ooh,” he said, his eyelids droopy and a sly smile on his face.

She pointed the pistol at the his head.  “Don’t touch them,” she said.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, staring down at her chest.

“Not those,” she said.  “Them.”  She waved the gun at Raju and Liam.  “Put your hands up.”

“Oh,” he said.  All of the allure drained from his expression, and he put his hands up.  He glanced over at his soldiers.  “Can you guys do something about this, please?” 

The bleeding soldier moaned, “But I loved her,” and tried to sit up.  “I think I still do.” 

The soldier who’d done all the talking mumbled something, but it wasn’t clear what he said, mostly because he was lying face down on the ground with this hands tied together behind him. 

“Hello?” said Cadmon. 

The bleeding solder managed to sit himself upright and stared at Cadmon with a somewhat confused look on his face.  “What?”

“Uh … the gun?”  Cadmon gestured to the pistol that was pointed at his head.

The soldier glanced at Lola, who narrowed her eyes and slowly shook her head.  He sighed a dreamy sigh.

“The gun, yes?” asked Cadmon.

The soldier shrugged. 

Lola just stared at him, shaking her head with her mouth hanging open slightly.  “You are an idiot,” she said, and popped him on the head with the base of her pistol.  He fell over sideways.

“Holy shit!” said Raju.  “He’s got a sword!  And it’s on fire!”

Chapter 50.           Ezekiel’s Fiery Sword of Death

Raju was correct in his assessment.  Ezekiel had a sword.  It was very large, and appeared to have been made from metal that hadn’t ever cooled down after being pulled from the blacksmith’s fire.  And by the time everyone looked, he’d used that sword to chop about eight inches off the barrel of Satan’s shotgun. 

Ezekiel yelled and screamed at Satan, as he swung the sword impossibly fast again and again.  The Devil staggered backward, trying to avoid the ceaseless strokes.  The stadium shuddered and rumbled.  This did not help the Dark Lord of the Underworld as he struggled to remain standing.

“Get him!” said Cadmon offering a fist pump of encouragement to Ezekiel.  Lola waved the pistol to remind Cadmon of the fact that he had a firearm pointed at his head.  “Oh,” he said, straightening.

Ezekiel continued swinging the sword, trimming the Flaming Shotgun of Divine Retribution bit-by-bit, and actually took off a largish chunk of the Devil’s hand.  The Devil did not scream – he just regarded the bloody stumps of fingers with kind of a confused expression on his face. 

“Hey,” said Liam.  “Wait a minute.”

Ezekiel ignored him and conked the Prince of Darkness on the noggin with the butt of the sword – which did nothing to improve Satan’s befuddled state – and then held his sword up high above his head, preparing to deliver the killing blow.  Satan put up his remaining hand, either because he wanted to discourage Ezekiel from any further attack, or because he was trying to do the Macarena.  The fact that he also staggered backwards while making vague moaning sounds suggests that the latter is unlikely.  On the other hand, at least some of the staggering was probably attributable to the movement of the floor.  The stadium had gone from rumbling and shaking to more of a rolling, swaying movement.  So, in summary, it’s a little hard to know exactly why Satan put his hand up, because while there are at least a few reasonable inferences that may be drawn, the question of intent is necessarily subjective, and Satan didn’t take the time, at that time, to tell anyone what he was thinking.

“You are weak, and a coward,” said Ezekiel. 

“What does it matter if he’s weak?” asked Cadmon.  Lola waved the gun more energetically this time.  Cadmon nodded and shooed her away. 

Lola had already waved the gun as much as she could without actually doing a dance, so she just shrugged.  She continued to point the gun at his head.

“Stop,” said Liam.

“We should stop him,” said Festus.  “He can’t win.”

“Nothing is inevitable,” said Ezekiel.  “Our victory is assured.  The only thing that could have prevented it was you, and your ineptitude; your weakness.  We never should have followed you.”  He smacked Satan with the broad side of the sword, and the Devil toppled backward to lean against the wall.

“What?” said Cadmon.

Festus was beginning to get a little bit agitated.  “We cannot let him win.”

Satan regarded Ezekiel with a confused expression.  His head lolled, and he sucked in air in huge, labored gulps.  He barely seemed to noticed as Ezekiel raised the sword up over his head, grasping the hilt with both hands. 

“You have…” Satan seemed to choke on the words.  His voice was a raspy whisper.  “You have to … stop this.  You will never succeed.  Not against Him.” 

Ezekiel lowered his hands, and laughed.  “It’s too late,” he said.  “It’s done.  And there is nothing you can do.”  He raised the sword up again.

“No!” shouted Festus.  He leapt onto Ezekiel’s back – or he tried to anyway.  He wasn’t in great shape – which is like saying that Antarctica isn’t terribly warm – and his vertical leap only merited the designation “vertical” inasmuch as he didn’t fall over sideways onto his head. 

Ezekiel twisted and spun as he tried to see who was holding on to his butt.  Festus held on for dear life and screamed.

“Help me!”

Liam, Lola, and Raju just stared, unable to move or think in the face of Festus’ heretofore unprecedented physical activity, which involved far more angelic buttock clasping than they were used to seeing from Festus.  Cadmon, who assumed that this was some sort of homo-erotic pinko liberal shit, looked on in disgust.  “Ezekiel, you need to explain something.  Right now!”

“Get off, you freak!” said Ezekiel.

“Help me, damnit!” said Festus.  “We have to stop him!”

“Um … okay,” said Liam, slowly and uncertainly..

“Ezekiel!” said Cadmon, oblivious to the fact that Ezekiel had at least two more pressing matters to attend to.  “I don’t understand what’s going on here.  What do you mean by ‘we never should have followed you’?  Ezekiel?”  He tugged on the feathers at the end of one of Ezekiel’s wings.

The angel whipped around, causing Festus’ legs to swing out wide and smack into the wall.  “Shut up.”

“I just don’t under—” said Cadmon.

“I don’t care!” roared the angel.  He grunted, twisting back and forth as he tried to dislodge Festus.

“Help!” said Festus. 

Lola looked at Liam and shrugged.  “What should we do?”  Liam shrugged back. 

Raju did not shrug.  He clapped giddily and jumped up and down.  “This is awesome!” he said.  “Hold on tight, dude!”

Lola smacked Cadmon in the head with her pistol, and redirected the shooty end to point at the whirling dervish that was Ezekiel.  “Try to be still, Festus!”  She stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, and adjusted her aim.  “I’m going to try to shoot the angel!”

Festus screamed louder.

Liam stepped over close to Lola.  “You know, I think you might want to—”

“Don’t distract me,” she said.  “This is hard enough!”  She squinted one eye and stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth.

“Oh my god!” said Festus.  “Liam!  Help!”

“Festus, you’re just in the way!” said Lola.  “Be still, damn it!” 

Raju ran forward and leapt onto the spinning angel to help Festus.  “It’s so firm!” he said, pressing his face against one of the angel’s glutes. 

Ezekiel seemed not to like this very much.  He stopped twisting back and forth, and instead began to spin in one direction. 

“Holy shit!  Ow!”  Raju’s legs now extended straight out as the angel spun faster and faster as if he, Ezekiel, and Festus were a kind of avant-guard, experimental ice dancing team.  “Ow!”

Festus’ vocal contributions were of the less articulate variety.

Lola finally fired a shot, but Cadmon jumped on her just as she squeezed the trigger.  Some feathers poofed up into the air and wafted away from Ezekiel, but he just kept spinning with his butt hanger-onners. 

Liam jumped on Cadmon, and the three of them had a good wrestle.  Cadmon tried to get the gun from Lola.  Lola tried to keep it, while also attempted alternatively either to bite the preacher or prevent him from being able to have children.  Meanwhile, Liam tried to pull Cadmon off Lola, and Cadmon tried to elbow Liam in the head.

There was an explosion of brilliant light and a grinding, roboty sound, as if somebody had accidentally uncorked a bottle of lightning inside a jumbo-sized dot matrix printer.  The brilliant flash was followed immediately by a concussive shock wave, which caused Ezekiel to stop spinning, and sent Raju and Festus crashing into the wall. 

Lola, Cadmon, and Liam stopped wrestling.  The tied-up soldier stopped writhing against his belt restraint, and the floor stopped shaking.

“Shit, man,” said Raju, standing and brushing himself off.  “I been knocked down too many times today.  I’m tired of that shit.  It sucks.”  He looked to Liam for some affirmation of the suckiness, but Liam was busy looking in Ezekiel’s direction, so Raju looked there instead.

Where before there had been one angel, there were now two. 

Chapter 51.           The Antichrist

If polled, the humans there in the Deliveries hallway all would have agreed that Ezekiel was pretty good looking, but that, compared to this new angel – well, there was no comparison.  It was love at first sight for all of them.  Only Festus would have admitted it, of course, and maybe Lola, because neither was particularly worried about being accused of being a homo. 

The new angel looked as if he’d been carved by Michelangelo.  In fact, he bore more than a passing resemblance to the famous statue of David, except that he less pale and stony, and also seemed to be alive.  He also had really big wings.  But other than that, the he could have been Michelangelo’s inspiration. 

“Moloch,” he said, and smiled a gentle smile.  “Brother.”

Ezekiel’s eyes shone red.  He put one foot forward and hefted the glowing sword.

“That wasn’t really a fair fight, now was it?” said the new angel.

“I can still destroy you,” said Ezekiel.  He swung the sword back, holding it high over his shoulder, as if he were just waiting for a pitch.

“No, you cannot.”  There was another flash of light, accompanied by a horrible, howling scream that seemed to echo and reverberate and rattle the entire building.  The sword clattered to the ground, and Ezekiel was gone.

“What the fuck?” said Cadmon.  “I mean really: What?  The?  Fuck?”  He stomped up to the new angel.  “Who the fuck are you?  And what did you do with Ezekiel?  Why’d you call him Moloch?  Where did that – where the Devil go?”

“I’m right here,” said the angel.

“What?  I don’t understand,” said Cadmon.

“I am Lucifer,” said the angel.

“Well,” asked Cadmon, “what about him?”  He pointed to where Satan’s broken, one-handed body lay slumped on the floor.

“Oh yes, I left that body,” said Lucifer.  He shrugged.  “Pity.”

“Oh,” said Cadmon, pondering this fact.  “Well—”  He scratched his chin.  “Well, that’s not very good.”

Lucifer smiled.

Cadmon continued to scratch his chin, and looked down at the floor.  “Not good at all,” he mumbled.

“William,” said Lucifer.

Cadmon decided to go on the offensive.  He put his hands on his hips and stuck out his chin.  “You know, you really fucked everything up.  Are you happy?” 

The soldier who’d been tied up had, while everyone was watching Satan and Ezekiel and Cadmon, wriggled his hands out of the belt that Liam had used.  He stood quietly, snuck over to Raju, grabbed the key, and made a break for it.

“Hey!” screamed Raju.  “He’s getting away!”

“So?” said Festus.

“He’s got the key!”

“Shit!” said Liam, jumping up. 

“Fuck this,” said Lola.  She shot the soldier.  He yelped and pitched forward, landing awkwardly against the wall.

“Hey!” said Cadmon.  “You can’t shoot my soldiers.” 

“Don’t give me that shit,” said Lola.  “I only shot him in the leg.  He probably won’t die.”  The soldier uttered a sound that was a cross between a moan and a scream, as if to confirm first that he had, in fact, only been shot in the leg, and second, that it hurt like a motherfucker.  “Raju,” said Lola, “go get the key.”

“I love you,” said Raju.  Lola aimed the pistol at him.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright, then,” said Satan.  “I guess we’re done here.”

“What?” asked Cadmon.  He was starting to seem a little overwhelmed, what with Satan destroying Whitford and Ezekiel and Lola shooting one of his soldiers. 

“I’m done here,” said Satan.  “Moloch is dead.”

“Why do you keep calling him that?”

Satan regarded Cadmon skeptically.  “Because that was his name,” he said.  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.  He’s gone now.  Goodbye.”

“Wait!” said Cadmon. 

“What?”

“I … uh …” the preacher thought it over for a moment, and then, without warning, struck a dramatic pose.  “Ha, ha, ha,” he said, attempting a not-at-all-convincing villain laugh.  “Didn’t you hear what Ezekiel – Moloch – said?  It’s too late.  It was out of his control.  You can’t change anything.”

“Hmm …” said Satan.  Cadmon had a point.  The ground was still shaking, and there was no telling what the hell kind of craziness was going on outside the stadium.  “Maybe I should try killing you?”

“No, no,” said Cadmon, holding up his hands.  “That won’t be necessary.”

“Let’s give it a shot anyway.”

“No!” said Cadmon.

“Oh, yeah.  It’ll be fun.  Ready?”

“No!” said Cadmon.

“Oh, come on now,” said Satan.  “Be a sport.”

Cadmon started to say, “No,” again, but stopped when Satan held up a finger.  He held it there for a moment, and then gave it a tiny wiggle.  Cadmon’s eyes appeared to be locked on the Satanic finger.  Satan flicked his wrist, and the preacher flew backwards.  He smacked into the wall and exploded, splattering nasty, bloody preacher bits all over the two soldiers, the wall, and Raju’s shoes.

Most of the folks there in the passageway who had to witness Cadmon’s demise found themselves completely unable to speak.  It was just too disgusting.

“Dude!” said Raju.  “My shoes.”

Liam regarded the Prince of Darkness with a mixture of disgust and disbelief.  “Was that really necessary?” asked Liam.

“Wait,” said Lola.  Liam glanced at her.  “That doesn’t matter,” she said.  “What I want to know is,” she gave the Devil a wry look, “did you just save the world?”

“You totally did,” said Raju.

Satan looked sheepish, inasmuch as it is possible for a giant, beautiful guy with wings to look sheepish.  “Well …”  He shrugged and let a tiny smile escape the side of his mouth.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Lola.

Satan quit looking sheepish.  “What do you mean?  Of course it makes sense.  Do I need to splat you against the wall?”

“Wait a minute,” she said, ignoring the threat.  “If you’re the Devil, aren’t you supposed to want the end of the world?”

“You could think of it that way, I guess.  But I prefer not to.  ‘Supposed’ is, after all, such a strange word – so full of unwarranted connotations and expectations.”

“Why don’t you want the end of the world?” she asked.

Satan spun to face her.  He seemed to grow and take on a vaguely minatory aspect.  She, on the other hand, seemed to shrink a little, and took a small step backward.  “It’s very simple, dear.  If the world is going to end, I want to win.  And if I can’t win – and I can’t, because He designed this whole universe thingy that way,” he waved dismissively at the whole universe thingy, “then I don’t want it to end.  See?”

“No, not really,” she said.

“Have you read the Book of Revelation?” asked Satan.

“No, I haven’t,” said Lola.

“I have,” said Festus.

Satan did kind of a bobble-head, smirk thing and threw up his hands, like, Yeah, he knows what I’m talking about.  “See?”

“Um … okay,” said Lola, clearly not seeing.

“It tells the story of how the world is supposed to end,” said Festus.  “It doesn’t turn out well for Mr. … uh … Lucifer, here.”

“Is that what you want?” asked Satan.  He put his hands on his hips, and gave her a no-nonsense smirk far more befitting of a matronly African-American lady than the Prince of Darkness.

“No,” said Lola, “I suppose not.”

“Okay, then,” said Satan.  “Me either.”  He nodded, glad to have that over with.

“Alright,” said Lola.

They all looked at one another for a bit.

“But why is the ground still shaking?” asked Lola.  “Isn’t that related somehow?”

“It’s not,” said Festus.  He turned his head to the side, like a dog listening for something.  “Oh, wait.  It is.”

“Yes, dude,” said Raju.  “Definitely still shaking.”

“It seems to me,” said Lola, “that if you really had saved the world, the building wouldn’t still be shaking.  I mean, isn’t that related to … to all of this stuff?”

Satan gave her a look.  “Nobody likes a smartass.”

“She’s right,” said Raju.  “It’s so not stopping.”

“But that angel is gone.  And Cadmon’s gone,” said Festus.  “Maybe the angel was telling the truth.  Maybe it really is too late.”

“No,” said Satan.  “I don’t think so.”

They all stood there for a moment, mulling it over, while the rumbling of the building got louder and louder.  A crack appeared in the wall, and wound its way down toward the floor.  The jagged line paused briefly at the seam between the wall and the floor, and then spread with redoubled vigor.  Halfway across the passageway, the crack spread, opening into a gaping, craggy mouth.  Liam and Lola had to step back to avoid the tear.

A frog hopped out of the crack, landing just inches from Satan’s foot – which, as it happens, was clad in what could only really fairly be described as “a Jesus sandal.”  It sat there for a moment, oblivious to either the situation it had entered or the stares it was getting.

As Satan watched the frog, his expression shifted, changing his face from statuesque beauty to something that would have looked more appropriate directing the flow of rainwater high up on the outside of a medieval cathedral.  The edges of his mouth curled downward, his eyes grew large and fiery, his nostrils flared, and his wings seemed to get bigger and somehow pointier. 

And then the frog croaked. 

The Devil started to shake, and then, without warning, he leapt into the air, his arms outstretched in front and behind his body like a Kung Fu angel.  He seemed to hang there for an impossibly long time – which is actually exactly what happened, since he was an angel – until he finally came down and, landing on his heel, splatted the frog into many nasty froggy bits.

“Jesus!” said Lola.  “What is your problem?”

Satan glanced around for a second, confused, and then looked sheepish again.  He shrugged and pointed at the frog, as if the fact that frogs needed to be stomped to bits was perfectly fucking obvious.

“He is the Devil, you know,” said Raju.

Lola whacked him.

“Ow!” said Raju.  “Witch!”

“Wait a minute,” said Festus.  “It’s him.”  Nobody waited a minute, or did anything else to acknowledge the fact that he had spoken, so he said it again.  “It’s him.”

“What?” asked Liam.

“Who?” asked Satan, administering a sly kick to another frog who’d appeared from the not-quite-gaping chasm.  He smiled, as if that would make his amphibicide somehow alright.

“Dude, what’s your problem, you weirdo?” said Raju.  “Don’t you—”

“You,” said Festus, turning to face Liam.  “It was you all along.

“What?” asked Liam.

“You!” said Festus.  “You’re a freak!  All that weird stuff!  All of it!  It always happens when you’re around.  It’s you!  All of this is your fault.”

“I had nothing to do with this shit!” said Liam.

“No,” said Festus.  “You are the Antichrist.”

“You just got shot!  But you didn’t.  You’re just fine!”  Festus was just shy of foaming at the mouth at this point.  “And… And I was Jesus.  I’m your companion and I pretended to be Jesus.  Just like in the Book of Daniel.  All of it.  Just like in the Bible.”

“Whoa, dude,” said Raju.  “Hold it right there.  You pretended to be Jesus?  That’s blasphemy, dude.  I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

Festus turned to look at Raju.  “What the fuck?  Shut up.”  He turned back to Liam.  “You are the Antichrist.  Everything fits.”

“Pssh…  nah.”  Liam waved Festus off.  “That’s crazy.”

“No, no,” said Raju, “he’s nowhere near that cool.”  He turned to Satan to explain.  “He just owns a guitar shop.” 

But Satan wasn’t looking at Raju.  His eyes were fixed on Festus.  They were kind of squinty too, like maybe he was posing for a poster for an action movie and needed to convey that sense of cool, jaded apathy that really hot movie stars seem to be so good at.

“The frogs…” said Festus.

Satan’s eyes narrowed a little further.

“The locusts…”

More ocular narrowing occurred.

“The earthquake, the nasty rain…”

At this point Satan was squinting so hard that it wasn’t clear whether he could actually see anything. 

“And you set that guy’s head on fire,” said Festus, turning back to face Liam again.

“And the cheese sauce,” said Raju, his eyes wide.

“What?” asked Festus.

“The cheese sauce, dude.”

“I,” said Festus, “have no clue what you’re talking about.  None at all.”

“Dude!  The fucking cheese sauce!  Are you stupid or something?  The fucking cheese sauce, dude!”

“You’re right!” said Festus.  “The queso!  I totally forgot!”  That seemed to clench it.  “You are the Antichrist!”

“Just because I can make queso appear?” asked Liam.  “Which is something I completely deny, by the way.”

“Totally,” said Raju.

“I am not the Antichrist,” said Liam.

The rumbling and shaking got louder.

“You are,” said Festus.

“So,” said Lola, mulling it over.  “That story about you and the vice president – that was true?”

Liam shrugged.  “This is crazy,” he said to Festus.

Festus pointed to the big, winged guy there in the hall way, and then to the splatted Cadmon.  “Crazier than that?  Or that?”

“Okay,” said Satan.  “Let’s kill him.”

“No!” said Lola.  She stepped in front of Liam and brandished the gun at Satan.  The building stopped shaking.

A wry smile came over Liam’s face.  “You’d defend me against the Devil himself?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, returning the smile.

“How about me?” asked Raju.  “Would you defend my honor, too?” 

Lola slapped him.

“You are the Antichrist,” said Festus.  He spun to face Satan.  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Satan nodded.  “We should kill him.”

“No!” said Lola.

“Alright,” said Liam.  “Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that I am.”

“You are,” said Festus.

“Fine,” said Liam. “Okay, so what do I do?”

“Probably die,” said Satan.

“Other than that?”

Satan crossed his arms, put his chin in his hand, and sighed.  “I don’t know.”  He cogitated, his lips pursed intensely.  “Probably best just to go ahead die.  I’m happy to help.”

“Wait,” said Festus.  “When does this … stuff happen?”

“What do you mean?” asked Liam.

“It’s when you’re angry, or upset, right?”

“Sure,” Liam nodded.  He heaved a weary sigh.  “Yeah, you know, weird stuff happens when I get pissed.”

“Ooh!” said Satan.  “I can help with that.  Watch this.”  He made some horsey breathing sounds.  “Helps,” he said in between breaths.  “Totally.”

Liam, Lola, Festus, and Raju just stared at the hyperventilating Lord of the Underworld.  He stared back.  Liam, Lola, and even Festus immediately found other, much more interesting things to stare at.  Raju kept on staring.

“Dude,” he said, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Satan’s respiratory distress came to an immediate and abrupt halt.  “It is,” he said, lingering on the hissing sibilant, “an anger management exercise.”

“Oh,” said Raju.  He nodded, and stuck out his lower lip.  “Cool.”

“Okay,” said Festus, “so don’t get angry.  Or control your anger.  Try breathing, like Satan says.”

“But I’m not angry right now.  Kind of tense, I guess, but not angry.”  The floor started shaking again as if to emphasize his point.

“Hmm…” said Festus.  He glanced at Satan.

Satan held up his hands as if Festus were about to shoot.  “You know what I think.”

“I guess,” said Liam, “that lately I’ve been feeling … I don’t know … out of sorts.  Like something just isn’t right.  I thought I was depressed.”

“Yeah?” asked Festus.  “For how long?”

Satan rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently.

“I told you!” said Raju, finally recovered from Lola’s most recent beat down.  “I told you!  I said your chakras all fucked up!  Didn’t I?  Didn’t I?”  He eyed everyone in turn.  “Didn’t I?”

“Raju, shut up!” said Liam, Lola, and Festus.

“Yes,” said Satan.  “Please shut up.”

Lola regarded Liam for a moment, and then tucked the pistol back into the waist of her pants and stepped over to where he stood.  She lifted her hand, placed it on his cheek, and stared straight into his eyes.  They stood like that for several seconds.

“Dude,” said Raju.  “What’s—?”

“It’s your choice,” said Lola.  “You have to choose.” 

He stared at her.

“It’s your choice,” she said.

She leaned in and gave him a soft kiss.

Liam stared at her for a moment, and then a look of recognition spread over his face.  He smiled, leaned in, and kissed her back.

“Dude,” said Raju.  “That’s awesome.  But wait, what are we going to do about—”  And then the rumbling stopped. 

“It’s done,” said Satan.

“What?” asked Raju.  “That’s it.”  He looked to Festus for support, but Festus was lost in his own thoughts.

“Neither shall he regard the God of his fathers, nor the desire of women, nor regard any god: for he shall magnify himself above all,” said Festus.

“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Raju.

“It means,” said Festus, “that there is no Antichrist here.”

“What?  Because she kissed him?” asked Raju.  “That’s so fucking gay!”

“No, it isn’t,” said Satan.

“That’s the prophecy,” said Festus. 

“Dude…” said Raju.  “Dude!”  He looked around, as if he were searching for something.  “What if—?  What if I were the Antichrist.  Can I get a kiss?  Please?”

“Hush,” said Satan.

They all stood there for a moment.  The floor and walls were still and quiet.

“So,” said Lola.  “That’s it?”

“Yes,” said Satan.  “I think it is.”  He smiled.  “Now,” he said, “would anyone else like to get some ice cream?”

About the Author

The author lives in Texas, and is the proud father of three little clones.  He likes mashed potatoes and shiny stuff.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1. The Apostles Were Dirty Cannibals

Chapter 2. Behold: Megachurch

Chapter 3. Enorma Was Round, Like Sputnik

Chapter 4. Holy Land Coffee

Chapter 5. Where You Can Stick that Parking Permit

Chapter 6. Magic Queso from Heaven

Chapter 7. Shirley Is a Merciless, Automaton Whore

Chapter 8. Asthmatic Dugong

Chapter 9. Liam Has Chick Issues

Chapter 10. Death Star and Swanky Hotel with Goldfish, Go!

Chapter 11. The Devil Went Down to Pennsylvania Avenue

Chapter 12. Grandma Was Secretly a Velociraptor

Chapter 13. Friggin’ FBI Agents Everywhere

Chapter 14. Wanted: Antichrist

Chapter 15. Clyde Parker Clogs Satan’s Commode

Chapter 16. Klaxon Ducks

Chapter 17. Texarkana

Chapter 18. Festus Is an Idiot Who Calls Too Early in the Morning

Chapter 19. I Love a Parade of Naked Guys

Chapter 20. Clyde Parker Mortuus Est

Chapter 21. Ima Eat Some BBQ, Bitches

Chapter 22. Bonus Taco!

Chapter 23. Whitford Flosses, Calls in the Secessionists

Chapter 24. A Second Date with Lola

Chapter 25. Beat Me Up, Scotty

Chapter 26. Rule No. 37: Always Take the Body with You

Chapter 27. Satan Wakes Up to Bunny Slippers

Chapter 28. Ramón

Chapter 29. Mean Dude in a Track Suit

Chapter 30. Satan Remembers that He Is Awesome

Chapter 31. Hells Bells

Chapter 32. Straight into the Frying Pan

Chapter 33. The Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Association

Chapter 34. Frying Pans Suck

Chapter 35. God is a Violence Junkie

Chapter 36. Why Aren’t There Any Naked Ladies?

Chapter 37. The Rain Is Disgusting

Chapter 38. Running Wild as a Dog in the House of the Lord

Chapter 39. Wherein Satan Enjoys Dessert

Chapter 40. Dude, How Small Is Your Cat?

Chapter 41. What Would Festus Do?

Chapter 42. I’ll Take Your Army, Please

Chapter 43. A Van Powered by Love

Chapter 44. There Are a Lot of Weirdos Here

Chapter 45. Lola and the Men Who Love Her

Chapter 46. Blasted Bits and Way Too Many Ralphs

Chapter 47. Our Heroes Run Away

Chapter 48. Whitford Flambé with Lemon

Chapter 49. Satan and Ezekiel

Chapter 50. Ezekiel’s Fiery Sword of Death

Chapter 51. The Antichrist