What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [30]
The party got very quiet. None of the Hollywood types were strangers to tough negotiations or other dramatic tomfoolery, but even they were excited by the sight of a thin, distinguished-looking gentleman in an expensive suit ranting at another man while holding him suspended three inches off the ground. The political crowd was less enthusiastic.
In any room full of politicians there will be a certain (i.e., large) number of individuals who secretly spend their free time collecting child pornography, visiting airport restrooms in Minnesota for anonymous gay sex, or even just, you know, murdering people. Those same politicians however, generally do not like to mingle with the hoi polloi, especially when the unwashed masses do something like – gasp! – raise their voices in public. Satan’s noisy interruption was awful. Just perfectly awful. The elderly wife of some ambassador or other nearly fainted.
Agent Bob Robertson did not faint. Instead, he stared right into the eyes of the man holding him in the air. “You are under arrest, and you should put me down,” he said. “Right now.”
Satan finally noticed that all of the politicians and Hollywood hacks had gone into silent mode. He felt their eyes on him and looked around, realizing that becoming unhinged right here, in the middle of the party, probably wasn’t going to help his chances of meeting The Creator. He set the man down and patted his lapel. “Nice to see you!” he said, as he tried to step around the impertinent little speed bump.
Robertson took a step back and pulled out a pistol, holding it low and close to his body. “I’m Agent Bob Robertson, FBI,” he said. “And you are under arrest for the bombing of the Washington Gas Company. And a movie theater. And a hotdog stand. And for setting a man on fire.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Satan.
“The parking attendant,” said Robertson. He glanced to one side, then to the other, nodding to each. Then he looked back to Satan. “Lie down on the ground. Now.” Men in black suits began to converge, threading their way through the crowd toward Satan and Robertson.
Satan exhaled. He wasn’t going to get a Death Star, and that was pretty damned disappointing. It wasn’t as if he really needed one, of course. He had no intention of blowing up the Earth. The moon, maybe, but that wasn’t really the point. It was really just the idea of the thing. Now, however, he needed to focus. There were several burly men in tacky windbreakers headed his way.
He grabbed Robertson, spun, and started backing toward the exit, away from the men. Old ladies and men in tuxedos yelped as he shoved his way backward. The men in windbreakers suddenly produced hand guns, and the crowd went into a panic.
Satan gave Robertson’s ear a hard yank and then whispered in the man’s ear. “You will tell your men to back off,” he said, “or I will tear your ear from your head. And then I will incinerate everything and everyone in this room. You’ve seen my handiwork, have you not?”
“Go fuck yourself, you freak,” said Robertson.
“Wrong answer,” said Satan. He moved faster now as the crowd streamed out of the ballroom, but the men with guns were closing in. One of Robertson’s agents screamed as he burst into flames. Another shot up into the air, sailing across the room before smashing into a wall. He made a chirping sound as he hit and the air rushed out of his lungs. His limp body slid partway down the wall, and then flopped forward onto the ground.
Robertson’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wide as he watched yet another of his agents go flying across the room. Satan yanked his ear, hard enough that the man let out a yelp of pain.
“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