What Would Satan Do?

by Anthony Miller

  “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 s
et 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 w
ill 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.