What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [97]
“Jesus,” said El Jefe. He navigated the land barge around an up-ended garbage can and then slammed on the brakes to avoid running down a couple of the flesh-colored-suit guys. “First the burned-up sports car, and then the—” he glanced in the rearview mirror, scowling at the most recent addition to his compliment of passengers, “—and now this.” He gestured at the windshield, beyond which naked guys were busy cavorting. “What the hell is all this?”
Virgil turned to El Jefe, a surprised look on his face. “I told you already, it’s the end of the world.”
“Oh, shut up. We’ve had enough of your nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense, you … asshole.” Virgil pronounced the epithet in the halting manner of someone who is still trying to un-learn a lifetime of using polite language.
“A bunch of goddamned naked people running around—” El Jefe spun the steering wheel with the base of his palm, “doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.”
Virgil shook his head. “You just need to accept it.” He turned to look out the window, muttering half under his breath. “Jesus will be here soon.”
“Shut up.” El Jefe didn’t just have the beak of a bird of prey, he had the keen hearing too.
Virgil whipped his head around. “And he’s going to kick your ass.”
El Jefe ignored the threat by tripartite-God proxy. “It’s probably that damned Cadmon.”
“What?” asked Virgil. “You think that preacher has something to do with all these naked men?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well.” Virgil rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. He never struck me as being a homo.”
El Jefe gave Virgil a Look. “No, I think he hired them to make people think it’s the end of the world. Just like he hired those guys with the snake hats to play trumpets on the lawn of the Capitol Building.”
“What? You think he’s trying to stage the end of the world?”
“He’s been selling that crap for years. Brings more people into his church.”
“Who is Cadmon?” asked Satan.
El Jefe seemed to have a lot of Looks to dispense. He gave one to Satan. “He’s a preacher. A rich, television preacher. Dumb as a post.”
Virgil turned to face the Devil, resting his arm on the back of the seat. “He’s got a huge church,” he said, gesturing to indicate the hugeness of the church and nodding, apparently to try to impart some enthusiasm to his audience. “Used to be a stadium. And he’s got an army.”
Satan perked up. “An army?”
“Yeah! He and Governor Whitford—”
“Shut up, Virgil,” said El Jefe.
“—they’ve got a whole—”
“Shut up, Virgil.” El Jefe looked at Virgil with the long, sober face and droopy eyelids of someone who is either giving a warning or is very, very tired.
Josiah joined the living for a moment. “We should shoot the bastards first, before they can attack us.” He brandished his shotgun.
El Jefe glanced back at Josiah in the rearview mirror. “Josiah? Josiah!” Josiah finally seemed to notice El Jefe. “You were supposed to put that thing back into the trunk.”
“What?” asked Josiah.
“You were supposed to put your gun back into the trunk.”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind, you dumb old fuck.”
Josiah either ignored or just didn’t hear El Jefe, and continued to stream quiet epithets and loathing at the world he saw through his window. It was a confusing place, that world, mostly because his vision had gone to hell and he could barely differentiate a person from a stoplight. Didn’t matter though. They were all screwy anyway. Young, immoral, and screwy, the goddamned blurry bastards. He hefted his gun a little higher. He might not be able to see or hear anything anymore, but he could still heft the hell out of a weapon.
El Jefe glanced at Satan, who suddenly looked as if he were having indigestion problems. He snapped his fingers at Virgil, and pointed at the glove box. “We got reflux. Get the pills.”
With speedy familiarity, Virgil smacked the glove box, which dropped open. He grabbed a plastic bottle and proffered it to Satan.
“What is this?” asked Satan.
“Uh, Tums?”