What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [86]
“And you were successful?” asked Lola, her voice indicating that she doubted they were.
“Oh well, you know. I don’t like to brag.” He placed one hand across his chest and looked away demurely. After a sufficiently humble pause, he continued. “We had a measure of success.” He took a dainty sip of his tea.
“Was this that thing where you guys killed goats?” asked Lola.
Preston threw up one hand in exasperation. The other stayed put, holding on to his tea un-exasperatedly. “What, my dear, do you have against goats? Why does everyone want to kill goats? The goat is a noble, willful creature that neither can nor should be killed using brain power alone.”
“Oh, sorry. Ramón said it was goats.”
Preston shot a dirty look at Ramón. “You told them it was goats? You? Oh, Ramón.” They stared at one another for a tense and sexually-charged moment, and then Preston returned his attention back to Lola. “No, no. It wasn’t goats at all. It was sheep.” He sipped his tea, calmer now.
“And you killed these animals… with your—”
“With our minds.” Preston made his eyes big.
“Ah … ha,” said Lola.
“But it was just sheep,” he said, looking at them over the edge of his teacup. “Well, not just sheep. There were a few cats, and a dog. Quite a few smallish quadrupeds, actually. One time there was even a horse.” He had a good chuckle at this, sighed, and wiped a tear from his eye. When he spoke again, his voice had a gravelly, wizardy quality to it. “Alas, my dear, it was mostly just sheep.”
“So, what you’re saying is that this was a caprine shenanigan?” asked Festus. The words burst out of his mouth. He’d clearly been holding them in, waiting for the first pause to make his joke. Everyone turned and looked at him. Preston made a face like he’d just taken a whiff of three-day-old milk.
“I think,” said Preston, “that the word you’re looking for is ‘ovine.’ ‘Caprine’ means goat-like and, as I have attempted to make entirely clear more than once already, there were no goats involved.”
Ramón shook his head, disgusted.
Preston shuddered and looked back to Lola. “They were never really sure of the mechanism, you know. Of course, you give any sheep, or horse for that matter, that much LSD, and well…” He took another sip of his tea. “Sadly,” he said, “that isn’t the sort of thing that garners a lot of funding.”
“Can’t imagine why,” said Lola.
“Oh,” said Preston, peering over his cup, “you’d be surprised at what the United States government will pay for.”
“Even so,” she said, “we’d like to get copies of anything you still have.”
“I’m sorry,” said Preston, “but there’s nothing left. They destroyed everything. Burned it all.” He shrugged.
“Who is ‘they’—?” She stopped though, and turned to watch Liam, who suddenly seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. He stood up, and walked slowly toward the front door, craning his neck this way and that to look through the gauzy curtains that covered the windows on either side of the entry.
Lola left the couch, following Liam toward the door. “What’s up?”
Liam hushed her with his hand, and pulled one of the curtains to the side. Through the window he could see a pickup truck, the body of which sat perched precariously on absurdly-large tires. It was covered with lights, metal guards of various sorts, and stickers proclaiming the driver’s allegiance to the Republic of Texas and the National Rifle Association.
“Alistair, are you expecting additional guests?” called Liam, over his shoulder.
“None other than you, my dear.” Preston made his way toward the front door.
A car door slammed, and Liam peered back through the window.
“Who is it?” asked Festus, helpful as ever.
Outside, walking from the truck toward the house, was a man who Liam judged not to be very nice. He based this judgment in part on the amount of flannel the man was wearing, which was a lot – far more than would normally be found covering a person with whom one might expect to strike up a pleasant, polite conversation that didn’t touch on things like the alleged shortcomings of certain ethnic