What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [29]
And then a Lamborghini screeched to a halt immediately in front of the hotel, having somehow weaved its way through the automotive throng. An instant later, the door popped open and a distinguished-looking gentleman in a pinstriped suit climbed out. He scowled at the glitterati, flung his keys at the head of one of the valet kids (who responded by bending over and clutching his face), and strode off into the building.
Immediately inside, the entryway opened up into an enormous ballroom. A million tiny lights hung from the ceiling, sparkling and twinkling and shimmering like a starry nighttime sky. The regular lighting had been turned off, replaced by moodier illumination that painted the walls with deep hues of purple and blue. The fancy people gasped and giggled and pointed as they entered. Satan did not. His last trip to Earth had been before the Industrial Revolution, and he’d actually seen the night sky back before the air had been filled with burnt dinosaur juice and flooded with artificial light.
He shoved past the tuxedoed and ball-gowned herd as it oohed and ahhed its way into the ballroom, unimpressed by the array of high-ranking politicians, celebrities, and Hollywood powerbrokers who had crammed themselves into the building. He’d seen plenty of those in Hell, and when you’ve corrupted Eve, tempted Jesus, tortured countless Popes, and even turned your back on God (in person), who cares about a few Senators and a Supreme Court Justice or two? He threaded his way through the crowd, scanning the faces and muttering to himself about the bovine nature of the slow-moving party goers.
He carved an erratic path through the crowd, and finally made his way toward a large, graceful staircase that curved up toward a landing – an excellent vantage point. He hopped up on the lower steps, but then turned impatiently to have a look. Somewhere, out there in the crowd, was his quarry: George Lucas – the man behind Star Wars.
Satan thought of him as “The Creator,” feeling that it was a good title and far more apt for the man he sought than it was for that arrogant wanker who usually claimed it. One had only to watch the movies to know, to understand, nay, to feel that this was a man who knew exactly how to communicate myth. This was a man who understood. And besides, Satan – whose own supernatural capabilities had imbued him with a certain open-mindedness and concomitant inability to distinguish between science fiction shows and, say, news broadcasts – thought the Creator might know how to get a hold of a Death Star.
Lucas was apparently a big fan of the Senator for whom this party had been thrown, and he was, if Satan understood correctly, scheduled to make an appearance. The idea was to use his celebrity to help draw out other supporters. Satan suspected that he was not among those whom the Senator had hoped to attract. But whatever.
Satan scoured the room. Where in the hell was he? Patience, he told himself. He took a deep breath and scanned the room again, more slowly this time, searching for The Creator’s unmatched pilatory bouffancy. There! There he was. The silvery helmet of hair, so perfectly coiffed. The beard. It was definitely him. Satan stepped down off the steps, adjusting his cuff links as he strode triumphantly toward the Hollywood icon, shoving aside a couple of old ladies as he went.
A very large, very serious looking man next to Mr. Lucas turned and, noticing Satan’s speed and trajectory, immediately positioned himself between the two of them. The Devil considered his options, wondering how best to incinerate the man without causing a major scene, and didn’t notice when another, smaller man stepped into his path. Unfortunately, the smaller man was much closer – too close for Satan to be able to react before they collided.
“You fool!” Satan hissed. “How dare you!” He brushed frantically to get rid of the cooties and imaginary dirt on his pin-striped suit. With a little growl of frustration,