What Would Satan Do?

by Anthony Miller

  “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 Eucl
idean 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 Whitf
ord 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.