What Would Satan Do? (10 page)

“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.