What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [72]
His thoughts shifted to the dull, throbbing sensation in his head, and the sting of something – blood? – running down into his eyes. That was certainly unpleasant. But then, there seemed to be a lot of unpleasantness right now. He seemed to be moving; sliding backwards. It was all very confusing. Something clicked and he remembered that he was being dragged somewhere by two men. Ah, yes, he thought. I’m being attacked by assholes. Assholes in need of killing, no doubt. He put his legs underneath him and twisted upward, trying to tear himself out of the grip of the two men. But it was no use – his body lacked the strength. He tried again, and one of the men kicked him.
“Ow! Why are you trying to—” he asked, and for the second time in less than a minute, something heavy and hard crashed down on his head.
When he came to a moment later, he was leaning up against a dumpster. Bolts of pain shot down his neck and back, and he felt as if he were going to split in two lengthwise. Standing in front of him were two men who looked as if they did all their clothes shopping at truck stops. They were arguing in urgent half-whispers, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. One of them had a gun, which he was waving in Satan’s general direction as he argued. Finally, the other man tore off his hat – a mesh baseball cap advertising some sort of bait and tackle shop – and used it to smack the man who was holding the gun. He shoved the gunman toward Satan.
“Do it already.”
The man with a gun hesitated, pointed the gun at the Devil, and fired.
Satan felt a searing, burning sensation in his belly that blossomed into a hurt that seemed to cover the entire spectrum of pain all at once. Layer upon layer of pain radiated outward – down his legs, up his chest. The muscles in his abdomen clenched up of their own accord, doubling him over onto his side. His throat tightened, and he let out a raspy groan as he struggled to breathe in. It was cold – terribly cold. He needed to get out – out from the body – so that he could get these – destroy these men—
The gun fired again, and Satan collapsed in a heap of spent flesh.
Chapter 26. Rule No. 37: Always Take the Body with You
Whitford’s mid-afternoon snack seemed to want to help out as he answered the phone. “Brr-r-r-ello?” His face was impassive as he listened to the tiny voice coming from the handset, but then a smile appeared and spread over the wide expanse of flesh. “You found him? Already? That’s—” He stopped, reining in his enthusiasm. “That’s good news. So, okay. Where’s the body?” He paused again, and then sat forward, smacking the desk with his hand. “What? They didn’t? Well, tell them to go back and get it. Get it.” The squeaky telephone voice got louder and more urgent. “No,” said Whitford. “I don’t care. Just get it.” He hung up.
Chapter 27. Satan Wakes Up to Bunny Slippers
It was bright. The sky was the kind of profound and enticing and cloudless blue that only seems to show up on Mondays, when it’s time to head back to work or school or jail or whatever. It was also hot. Unusually hot – unusual, that is, unless you’re from Texas and you’re used to fucked-up, hot days springing up suddenly in the middle of what is supposed to be, but never is, the cool season.
In the middle of the enormous sky, the midday sun lingered, blinding and oppressive, and beat down like a giant, 2-nonillion kilogram ball of incandescent, boiling gas parked a mere 93 million miles away. A very slight breeze blew in, offering a tantalizing hint of cool relief, but then