What Would Satan Do?

by Anthony Miller

  “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!”

&n
bsp; “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 ought
a—”

  “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.