What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [93]
“Liam— “ Lola paused. “We don’t even know where they went.”
“Oh, of course we know. Or we can guess. We’ll just start with the Governor’s Mansion.”
“We can’t just barge into the Governor’s Mansion.”
“You can’t, maybe.” He handed the frying pan to Ramón and stepped toward the door.
“Oh, okay,” said Lola. “We’ll just march right in. Good plan. You figure that out before or after you got clobbered with the frying pan?” Liam didn’t answer. “You know, your shoot-from-the-hip approach hasn’t been real successful so far today.”
Ramón put his hands on his hips, cocked his head to the side and watched the drama unfold. He looked as if he might start snapping his fingers or bust out a “You go, girl!” or “Amen, sista!” at the first hint of an opportunity.
Liam rubbed his eyes, and gave Lola a bleary look. “Well, I’m not going to sit around here.” He gestured at the lack of Festus or bad guys in the room.
“We need to call Boehner.”
“Call him if you want. I’m going.”
“Well, wait. We need to—”
Liam walked out.
“Jou know, I think he’s leabing,” said Ramón.
“Yeah,” said Lola. “Thanks.”
Chapter 35. God is a Violence Junkie
Festus slowly nodded his head in approval. It was, after all, his first trip in a monster truck. At least, it seemed like a monster truck. It had the biggest tires he’d ever seen in real life, and the view he had of the road and all the rest of the cars was fantastic. If he ever got a set of wheels, it would be one of these for sure.
He sat in the middle of a long bench seat, wedged between two guys he thought were total wackos, which is saying a lot really, since Festus tended to be a pretty open-minded guy – and, of course, kind of a whack job himself.
He’d managed to get their names – Jimmy and Wayne – but other than that, the passenger compartment had been filled only with silence and awkwardness. “So … uh, nice monster truck,” he said, trying again to make some conversation.
Neither man responded. Jimmy stared straight ahead, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. On Festus’ other side, Wayne had adopted the posture of a sullen teenager, sitting slumped down on the seat, his arms crossed, and eyes staring up and kind of off to the right. He sighed repeatedly, getting louder each time.
“Are you guys having some kind of a spat?” asked Festus. “A lovers’ quarrel perhaps?”
Wayne ceased his moody, tight-lipped staring to goggle at the bearded weirdo sitting next to him. Jimmy, not aware that Wayne was already on top of the situation, reached out to smack the freak, but Festus was sitting too close for Jimmy to get a good whack at him. It is, after all, kind of hard to strike at a target just inches from your armpit. In fact, this spot is known among professional fighters as “the null zone,” and there have only been a few short Japanese guys with a fondness for sneaking around in pajamas who’ve mastered the art of attacking a victim located in the null zone. But Jimmy wasn’t a ninja, and even if he had been, there really wasn’t room in the truck to attempt a spin move (especially since he was driving). So he smacked – or rather, attempted to smack – Festus a few more times, using his elbow at one point, before finally opting to slap Festus’ knee.
If Jimmy had been a ninja, he’d probably have got kicked out of the ninja coven (or swarm or gaggle or whatever ninja teams are called) for executing such a wussy move. Festus – also not a ninja, but perfectly able to see that the slap had been completely lame and more than a little girly – didn’t even bother saying, “Ow.” But that’s not to say it wasn’t a scarring event. Getting kidnapped by the Unabomber’s cousins had been bad enough. Having one of them actually slap him on the leg – the upper thigh really – was borderline shocking.
“Damnit, Jimmy,” said Wayne. Festus couldn’t tell if Wayne was about to rant about whatever had been pissing him off before, or was just preparing to pass judgment on the ineffectual, slightly bi-curious beating Jimmy had attempted to deliver.
“What?”
Wayne crossed