What Would Satan Do? by Anthony Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

Liam shook his head, “now has the most powerful country on the planet by the balls.”
    “Dude,” said Raju, sitting down on the arm of the couch, “how do you know all this stuff?”  This was the most serious conversation he’d had in years – at least since he’d started working at the guitar shop.
    Liam returned from Angry Land for a second to stare at Raju.  “I used to do some work for the CIA.  You know that,” he said.
    “I thought you were in the military,” said Festus.  “I just told Raju—”
    Liam glanced over at Festus.  “Right,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  He slumped back on the couch, ranting quietly to himself.
    Festus and Raju just stood there, looking around, not sure what to make of Liam’s sudden weirdness.  He was usually the sane one in the guitar shop. 
    “That man,” said Liam, pointing at the screen, “is a bad man.  And now he’s put himself in a position—”
    “What?  Position to do what?”
    “I’m not sure.  Whatever it is, it’s not good.”
    They watched in silence for a moment. 
    “Wouldn’t it be cool,” asked Raju, “if there was one of those locust clouds right now, and they ate the president?”
    “What?” asked Liam.
    “Who?” asked Festus.
    “Locusts!  The president!”  Raju pointed to the screen.  “They eat him up.”  He put his fingers to the sides of his mouth to demonstrate locust mastication.
    “He’s the governor,” said Liam.
    “Whatever,” said Raju.  “It would be cool, and you know it.”
    “Yeah,” said Festus.  “Or maybe some frogs.  That would be so—” 
    Raju jumped off the couch and levitated, Scooby-Doo style as he pointed to the screen.  “Holy shit, dude!  It’s bugs!”
    On the screen, the picture of Dick Whitford cut away to the hair-helmet woman.  She expressed some uncertainty as to the exact nature of what was transpiring at the Governor’s press conference.  Over her shoulder, the little screen-within-a-screen showed the Governor flailing and waving his hands wildly, and then being ushered off the stage.
    “It’s bugs!” said Raju.  “They’re there.  Right now!  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”
    “Calm down,” said Festus.  “It’s not bugs.”  He leaned in for a closer look.  “It’s not—”  He squinted, leaned even closer, and then touched the television screen as if that would help.  “Wait a minute.  I think it might be…”  He turned to look at Liam, but Liam had stood up and was headed out of the room.
    “Liam?” said Festus.  Raju turned to see what the hell was wrong with Liam that he didn’t want to stay and watch the Governor get eaten by a swarm of locusts.
    “I’ll be up front,” said Liam.  “Got some … guitar stuff to take care of.”

Chapter 7.                  Shirley Is a Merciless, Automaton Whore
    Washington, D.C. is a crappy place to live.  Sure, the monuments and museums are nice, and the idea of tooling around a city that occupies the top spot on Russia’s list of “Cities to Pulverize and Obliterate with Nuclear Weapons” is cool, but actually living (or trying to live) in the Nation’s Capital sucks.  One of the main problems is the climate. 
    For most of the United States, climatologists use labels like “temperate” or “subtropical,” but for D.C., they had to carve out a special and unique zone called “Ass.”  The problem is that the Founding Fathers decided that the best place to build the capital was a swamp, which in terms of city planning is just one, small step away from actually building a city under water.  All that moisture in the air acts like a multiplier for temperature, except that it somehow works both ways.  When it’s hot, the humidity makes it hotter.  When it’s cold, the humidity makes it ass-tastically cold – hence the climatologists’ nomenclature.
    The Devil was in a foul mood.  He held the telephone at arm’s length.  “Do you understand