What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [53]
“It’s the end of the world!”
“We’re all gonna die!”
A nearby cop leaped off his motorbike and tackled one of the naked men, pinning him on the ground in a fit of law enforcement fervor that would come back to haunt him for years.
“I totally got that!” said a nearby kid, holding his camera phone up as a trophy. “You’re gonna be on the Internet, you fascist homo!”
The gathering crowd jeered and the cop stood up, only to have the naked guy leap up and wrap his arms – and legs – around him. Two of the marchers broke off and tried to help the policeman, swinging the butts of their rifles at the naked man, but the cop lurched and spun, staggering all over the place as he struggled with the man’s weight. One of the helpful marchers ended up nailing the cop in the gut with the butt of his gun. The policeman doubled over, and Naked Man leapt off, hooting and waving his arms as he left the cop to collapse in the middle of the street. The parade continued, the militia men streaming around the disabled cop.
Liam and Festus continued slowly down the street, walking sideways as they watched the insanity unfold.
“The car is just over there,” said Liam. But Festus was busy watching two more streakers sprint up the street. One stole a rifle from one of the paraders, hooting as he waved it in the air. The man was surprised a few seconds later when the gun, which he’d assumed was merely a prop, discharged, shattering the windshield of a nearby automobile. He paused, looked around with a kind of worried, surprised expression, and then hooted again and unleashed a barrage of bullets at a nearby hot dog stand. Hot dogs and buns exploded, and the vendor dove for cover. A group of the marchers took off after him, but the man turned and threw the rifle at them before taking off down the street.
“Oh my god,” said Festus. “It’s like it really is the end of the world.”
Another gaggle of naked guys ran by, apparently in pursuit of the marchers who were in pursuit of their trigger-happy comrade. Three of them broke off from the larger group and ran up to Liam.
“Master!”
“Master!”
“Yes, Master!”
The men bleated the words like relieved and slightly weepy sheep as they collapsed onto their knees.
Two of the men knelt at an appropriate distance, while the third edged his way up, and with another impassioned “Master!” threw his arms around Liam’s feet.
“Um,” said Liam. “Stop that.”
The man looked up, his lip trembling, but did not let go.
Liam gave him a helpful kick. “Get the fuck off me.”
The man rolled back, ending up curled up on his side. He stared up at Liam with the sad, naked-guy equivalent of puppy dog eyes. “Yes, Master.”
Liam looked at Festus, and Festus looked back at Liam. They made WTF faces at one another until Liam finally spoke.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They picked their way through the increasingly disorganized parade, and headed toward the parking lot across the street. They made it to the other side, and Festus turned for one last look at the parade.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. “It’s—it’s just nuts.” Liam didn’t respond, so he turned back toward the parking lot. “Liam?” But Liam was oblivious. His sights were fixed on the vision before him. Festus shook his head and kept walking This is what always happened when they approached Liam’s car.
The automobile was the about only thing that he ever really seemed to get excited about these days. It was a hot-rodded, 1969 Camaro, with black paint that, if you got close enough, had nice little sparkles in it. It was, in a word, bitchin’. He’d spent most of the last five years since he’d retired and most of his money fixing it up, and it now had a power-to-weight ratio just short of a Saturn V rocket. He’d also worked with a local shop to tweak the chassis and replace all of the suspension components. Between that and some very expensive tires, it lobbed its nearly two-ton weight around in ways that tended to elicit furrowed brows from innocent