What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [90]
A breeze blew through, bringing with it the smell of a nearby taco stand, and then flitted off in search of some place with more action.
Satan glanced at Eli, who now looked very worried. Eli shrugged. They turned back to watch the car. The tinting on the windows made it impossible to see who was inside. And so they just stood there, watching and waiting as the land barge did nothing, and, occasionally, smelling the tacos.
Finally, right when everyone was just about to return to their regularly-scheduled programming, the driver door opened. A foot, just visible under the lower edge of the door, stepped out onto the ground. The foot was wrapped in one of those soft-leather, orthopedic tennis shoes that old people wear. It shifted slightly, and a second, similarly-clad foot appeared next to it. There was a grunt (presumably of exertion), and the head of an elderly man appeared over the top of the door. The head was probably connected to the feet by a neck, a torso, and some other body parts, but it’s hard to say, because all of those body parts, if they were in fact present, were completely obscured by the door of the automobile.
The old man squinted and peered around, taking in the scene, in much the same way that an eagle might scan a bit of prairie before streaking down out of the sky to capture and eviscerate a bunny. His face was tanned and etched with deep lines left there, presumably, by years of hard days spent out in the sun dealing with cows or doing some other badass thing that would have withered lesser men. His name was Herbert. His friends called him Herb, but then, his friends were all dead. Younger, still-alive types usually referred to him as, “El Jefe.”
El Jefe slapped the roof of the car and instantly the three other doors opened. More grizzled, bird-of-prey-esque old men appeared. Each stood watch, like a sentry, at his car door, scowling and glaring and sneering at anyone and everyone who dared metabolize oxygen in the immediate vicinity. There weren’t all that many people around though, so the men contented themselves by aiming dirty looks at trees, birds, bits of litter, and other things they apparently found distasteful.
The two old men from the back seats locked eyes, nodded, and turned simultaneously toward the back of the car. One – the taller, more upright of the two – popped the trunk. The shorter man leaned in – just a little at first – and then reached further and further, until the whole top half of his body actually seemed to be in the trunk. For a second it appeared that he might have become permanently lodged, legs dangling, in the cavernous hold at the rear of the automobile. But then he emerged with two very large firearms of the sort generally favored by guys who also like wearing ragged, makeshift bandanas and hunting Commies in lesser-known Asian countries. He handed one of the weapons to his tall partner. Then they closed the trunk and resumed their respective positions by the open back doors. They nodded at El Jefe, who turned to face Satan.
“Who are you?” barked El Jefe. His face had the steely aspect of an angry, weather-beaten fighter pilot, or maybe an old leather bag. The old feet poking out from underneath the door shuffled a bit.
Satan placed an affronted hand to his chest and cocked his head as if to say, “Me?”
“Yeah, you,” said El Jefe. A hand (presumably belonging to El Jefe) appeared above the door, holding a cigar. It placed the cigar to El Jefe’s lips. He clenched it in his teeth and squinted at the Devil.
“I…” Satan puffed up dramatically, preparing to deliver a self-introduction of oratorical grandiosity sufficient to suit an avenging angel. But El Jefe interrupted.
“Are you with the property company?”
Satan paused and looked around for an answer. There didn’t seem to be one anywhere nearby. Fortunately the little old woman came to his rescue.
“Oh, no. No, sir,” she said. “He helped us.