What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [31]
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.