What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [44]
“I doubt that a moron like yourself will ever be very sure of anything,” said Satan. “Nevertheless, I must insist that you try to answer my question.” He held the pointy bit of the poker toward Parker’s face.
“He wants your help.”
Satan glared at Parker. “Can we just assume that the next time you fail to provide a prompt response to one of my queries, I’ll put one of your eyes out with this?” He shook the poker for emphasis.
Parker’s face twisted as a variety of mostly negative emotions tried to express themselves simultaneously. Satan swung the glowing tip of the implement around, holding it under Parker’s eye.
“Y-Yes!” Parker stammered. He slipped off the stool, stumbling as he tried to get away from the red hot poker.
“Good. Now, sit back down.” Satan pointed, using the poker, at the stool as he settled back onto the edge of a stylish coffee table. “Now. Why does Mr. Whitford want my help?”
Parker did not answer immediately. Satan shot up, the brass implement making a wooshing sound worthy of a kung fu movie as its glowing tip tore through the air and plunged into the man’s thigh.
Parker screamed and, of course, fell off the stool again. Satan kicked him. “Get up!” But Parker just rolled on the floor, holding his leg. So Satan kicked Parker again. “Get up, you maggot!” He snatched Parker up by the shirt, hoisting him upright, and slammed him back down, bottom first, onto the stool. Parker let go of his leg and grabbed at his lower back.
Satan, holding Parker’s collar in one hand and the poker in the other, waited silently, fuming, for the man to stop making stupid faces.
Parker sat for a moment more and tried to catch his breath. Tears streamed from his eyes and his face was twisted. “I think he’s trying to take over the country.” He breathed awkwardly, mostly through his teeth, as he tried to bear the pain.
Satan dropped his hand. His plush carpet smoked where the tip of the poker touched it. “What?” he asked.
“After the storm—”
“What storm?”
Parker shook his head, confused. “The—the hurricane. The big one. Hit New Orleans a couple of weeks ago—”
Satan tossed the poker back into the fireplace and returned to his seat on the couch, sighing as he sat. “You,” he said, “will explain all of this to me.” He looked Parker in the eye. “Or I will press the tip of that poker into your flesh repeatedly – starting at your feet and moving by inches up your body – until you are dead.”
With a lot of pausing, sweating, and heavy breathing, Parker explained about Bill Cadmon’s prediction, the hurricane, and the steps that Whitford had taken after the storm, ostensibly for the purpose of providing relief. He told Satan about the angel he’d seen talking to Cadmon, and explained how Whitford had become worried about being a pawn in whatever scheme it was that Cadmon and the angel were cooking up, and how he’d then sought to level the playing field with whatever this Baphomet Project thing was.
“And then I saw you come out of the FBI building, and, well— that’s how I ended up here,” he said. “That’s everything I know.”
The Devil sat for a moment, rubbing his chin. When he spoke, it was as if he were alone in the room. “I think,” he said, “that I will have to go and have a talk with Mr. Whitford.”
Parker smiled – this seemed like a good thing – but then he saw the look in Satan’s eye.
“Now,” said Satan, “how about some water?”
Chapter 16. Klaxon Ducks
The telephone is naively regarded by many to be a modern convenience; a tool created to help folks overcome the accidents of geography that would separate them. This, however, is wrong. The real story of the creation of the telephone is actually a sad, sordid tale.
Alexander Graham Bell – a notorious prankster now incorrectly known to history as the “inventor” of this sadistic, infernal machine – actually conceived of the phone as a means of harassing and taunting his neighbors. The people in his community, aware of his predilection for stupid pranks, had taken to