What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [82]
The Tank watched for a few seconds as a circus of expressions played across Satan’s face. He turned to Eli, his palms out as if to say, “What the hell is this?” Eli shrugged. Satan stayed lost in his thoughts, oblivious.
So, he was an angel. But what on Earth was he doing here? He glanced at the mean-looking little shit of a man in front of him. The man needed to go, that much was clear. He was, after all, intensely irritating, though Satan couldn’t put his finger on exactly why that was. Sure, the guy was a jerk, although Satan wasn’t entirely certain that that was really what was bothering him. But whatever the source of his irritation, Satan knew that he’d been put here to take the man out. He knew it with every fiber of his poorly-dressed being. He was here as an avenging angel, sent to dispense Divine justice and kick the crap out of bad guys like this. It was just so clear; so perfect. But then, if that were right, wouldn’t he have a flaming sword? Wasn’t that kind of standard equipment? No matter, he’d figure that one out in a minute. Right now he had bigger fish to fry – a bigger, fatter fish in a track suit.
Satan stood erect and opened his mouth, baring his teeth. But he wasn’t going to eat the Tank or anything. He was just smiling. It was a broad, infectious smile.
The Tank tried to keep his angry face on, but then apparently couldn’t help it. He let a tiny bit of a grin slip.
“I am the Morning Star; the Son of the Dawn,” said Satan. He stood tall, with his shoulders back, and breathed expansive, epic breaths. He turned to the side – just slightly – like a kicker lining up for a field goal. And he kept smiling a bug-eyed smile that would have made CDC staff members reach for their plastic, air-tight apparel. “I am the Sun and the Moon and the stars that dot the Firmament. I am the light of the breaking dawn.” He took another step toward the Tank – kind of a swooshing (but still very manly and menacing) sashay of a step. “But to you,” he said, “I think I may just be bad news.”
The Tank didn’t seem to know what to say in response to all of this. He managed to wipe the stupid grin off his face, replacing it with kind of nasty, skeptical look. But then the Lord and Master of the Underworld and All Kinds of Other Bad Shit just stood there, shining the kind of endless, spotlight smile that usually only preachers and politicians can manage. And so the Tank’s angry expression melted, bit by bit, and was replaced at first by a face that made it look like he was trying to speed things up on the toilet. He fought, his head shaking a little even, but in the end he couldn’t help it, and smiled again – a real smile this time, big and ebullient.
“Arnie,” said Satan.
The Tank’s happy face dropped at the sound of his name.
“You’re an evil-doer, Arnie.” Satan took another step toward the man. “Your heart is wicked, and filled with vile intentions.” The Devil’s smile was still all lightness and warmth. He waited and smiled and watched the various emotions fighting for air time on the Tank’s conflicted face.
The silence between them was just about to get awkward when the Devil took a smooth, impossibly quick step toward the Tank. He wrapped one hand around the man’s throat, and grabbed a handful of his hair with the other. At the same time, he stepped a quick, short step around the Tank, thrusting one leg behind the man, and then lunging forward, as if the two were doing some super-sexy and aggressive Latin dance.
The Tank reeled – which is perfectly normal, well-adjusted behavior that is not at all unusual for someone whose head is being yanked backward by the Prince of Darkness. He tripped over Satan’s foot and toppled back, his arms doing the double-take, flailing thing that arms do when people fall backwards, and collapsed back against Satan’s forward leg.
All of this happened in less than a second as part of a single, deft move. The Tank lay perfectly still for an instant, his eyes wide and darting as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.