What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [59]
“Isn’t that—the Antichrist? You’re saying that I’m the fucking Antichrist? Goddamnit Bill!”
“I don’t know for sure!”
“You’re a goddamned moron, you know that?” said Whitford. He looked down at the desk where his hands were spread out flat. He almost seemed hurt. Vulnerable. “Why me?” he said.
“Because I didn’t know anyone else—”
“You chose me to be the goddamned, mother-fucking Antichrist? Why do I have to be the bad guy? I’m always the bad guy!”
“Well, it’s not as if—”
“Not as if what?!”
Whitford’s bulk, spread out as it was over the seat, made the man look a little like a volcano in a suit. He seemed to tremble a little as he stewed in his anger, and Cadmon amused himself by imagining Whitford’s head exploding upward, on top of a column of lava.
“Look,” said Cadmon. “It’s not like that.”
“No? How is it then?”
“You’re not actually the antichrist. You’re just playing a role. You can’t really be a bad guy if an angel comes down and asks you to do it.”
Whitford’s eyes narrowed and a low grumbling noise seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within his bulk. Cadmon wasn’t sure if the man was mulling something over or just experiencing an unpleasant gastrointestinal moment.
“Wait a minute,” said the Governor, “is that why asked me if I could get my hands on some sarin gas?”
Cadmon’s eyes went wide. “So,” he said, “did you—? Did you get it?”
Whitford started to speak, but was interrupted by an ear-splitting grinding, screeching, buzz-saw noise. Like the sound of a giant electric hair clipper trying to break the sound barrier.
“Hello, Dick Whitford,” said the angel. “I am the Angel Ezekiel.”
Chapter 22. Bonus Taco!
There were a lot of reasons why Liam liked Festus. He was intelligent (though he seemed to do his best not to show it), thoughtful (though the majority of his thoughts seemed to be very strange), and just generally a good guy to hang around with (if you like hanging around guys who are, more or less, completely nuts). There was one trait, however, that, if he were asked, Liam would have refused to acknowledge, even to himself: Festus’ batshit antics made Liam feel relatively normal, and helped to remind him to keep his own oddball tendencies in check. It was like being in a grocery store and seeing a morbidly obese guy straining and sucking wind as he reaches up from the seat of his electric shopping cart to pull down a pack of “diet” cookies. It makes you think twice about the package of Oreos you’re just about to drop into your own cart.
Festus stopped making snarfing sounds and grunts and came up for air. “Oh my God,” he said, wiping his face on the sleeve of his black T-shirt. “I think this is the best breakfast taco I have ever had. In my life.”
“You say that every time.” Liam reached for more hot sauce. He could hardly fault Festus for the repetitive comment though – they were damned good tacos.
The two sat outside a small shack on the Drag, just north of the University, reveling in the manly camaraderie that only comes with the shared enjoyment of tacos. The shack was not fancy – just a closet-sized building with a window and a sign that read, rather prosaically, “Taco Stand.” They sat on a porch, which was really just a section of parking lot fenced in by an old, crumbling brick wall, with a couple of rusty, wire chairs and tables tossed in. There were a few clouds off in the distance, but they were far away, and so Liam and Festus enjoyed the bright sunshine and the occasional breeze that came in and took the edge off the humid winter heat.
Liam finished his breakfast and sat back, stretching out his legs and placing his hands back behind his head. Loading one’s arteries full of coma-inducing grease first thing in the morning wasn’t brilliant. But it was awesome.
“So tell me about your new Hawaiian friend,” said Liam.
Festus glared at Liam. “What you need to hear about is this other guy. Dude was wasted. Had some crazy stuff to say about the Governor.”
“Did you pump him for information?”
Festus made a face that said something along the lines of, “I’d kill you,