What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [34]
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.
The elevator dinged and Satan stepped out onto the twelfth floor into a semi-circle of twenty agents armed with automatic weapons, all of which were pointed directly into the elevator. Agent Robertson stood behind the other agents, his hands on his hips.
“Don’t move,” he said.
Chapter 12. Grandma Was Secretly a Velociraptor
It was sunny, breezy, and fairly cool as Festus P. Bongwater stood outside the enormous church doors of St. Crispin’s Catholic Church. The monstrous old building looked like a holdover from back in the days before Texas had won its independence – when vaqueros, empresarios, and Spanish missions abounded.
It sat on Guadalupe Street – “the Drag” – on the western border of the University of Texas, and its three-story, whitewashed walls were utterly devoid of windows or other decorative frivolity. The plainness of the edifice stood in stark contrast to the graffiti-strewn record shops, whimsical toy stores, and hip clothing vendors frequented by students, and yet, for most people, the building somehow managed to blend into the background.
Festus shot surreptitious glances up and down the sidewalk, checking for cops and other ne’er-do-wells. His long hair, unkempt beard, and overcoat, however, actually worked to his benefit for once. The other pedestrians gave him a wide berth and avoided making eye contact, just as they did with all the other weirdos on the drag who looked like they might ask for spare change or start ranting about hellfire.
Festus had planned a dramatic entry, but found that the doors were much too heavy for him just to burst in. The huge doors were as imposing as the rest of the façade, and appeared to have been hewn from some sturdy old tree or six. The wood was studded at intervals with huge metal rivets that might have been stripped from an ironclad during the War of Northern Aggression. He put all of his weight into it, and one of the doors creaked open.
The congregation was lined up in the center aisle, where the priest had just started handing out the communion wafers. They appeared not to notice Festus’ entry. He took a deep breath, and pulled an over-sized water gun from the folds of his coat.
“Step aside, fiends! I’m here for Jesus!”
The music stopped, and fifty horrified parishioners turned to face the intruder.
The water gun was a high-tech model, with dual-pump action and a two-liter reservoir. He held it up above his head. Shock and awe, he thought. Shock and awe. “Put. The Jesus crackers. Down,” he said.
Nobody moved. The congregation was