What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [111]
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.