“‘Her great, meaty knees wobbled, weak with horror,’” he reads, as if dictating my existence.
In fact, my knees are shaking.
The chauffeur reads, “‘Madison had served her maker well. She’d delivered billions of God’s children to the Devil’s clutches.’” He turns a page of his manuscript and continues. “‘Madison had betrayed even her own parents and condemned them to eternal damnation!’”
And, so it seems, I have.
Even Babette sidles up to savor my humiliation. To smirk at the sight of my defeat, asking, “How’s your psoriasis?”
“‘Little Madison,’” the chauffeur reads, “‘would soon render unto Satan every living soul whom the Almighty had labored to create. All that God loved, Madison had ensured that they would be given over for Lucifer to molest until the end of time….’”
The chauffeur pauses in his speechifying. He opens the rear door of the Town Car, and Mr. K readily climbs inside. The driver leaves the door open, and additional blue ghosts make a beeline for the car’s rear seat. The rapidly accruing spirits of Boorites burned to death, suffocated on toxic fumes, or drowned in the surrounding seas, these recently departed flock enter the door the driver holds ajar. They stuff themselves within. So many, so quickly that they blur, they pack themselves into this, this vehicle they think will ferry them to the heavenly hereafter.
“‘Madison thought she was so intelligent,’” the chauffeur reads. “‘But she was not. In truth, she was stupid. The silly cow, she’d brought about the downfall of all humanity….’”
Slowly, so as not to draw his focus, I shuck my cardigan sweater. Stealthily, I don the defiled shirt, doing up the buttons gingerly, lest my fingers come into contact with the crusty spooge that so richly patterns the stiffened bodice.
“‘Little Maddy,’” the driver reads, oblivious to my actions, “‘would have no choice but to submit herself for Satan’s repeated carnal pleasures….’”
Positioning myself to protect my aged grandparents from the Devil’s wrath, I pry open Mr. Darwin’s gummy book and display the defaced chapter about Tierra del Fuego. There, the sonorous travelogue remains unreadable beneath a thickish coating of horrors. Most prominent on those two facing pages is the outline of a squished ding-dong silhouetted in red.
“‘Poor, fat Madison Desert… whatever… Trickster Spencer,’” reads the Devil, “‘would soon become the dark lord’s concubine!’”
And although the satanic driver has yet to notice the open, bloodied book and its vile illustration, many others do take note. Nana and Papadaddy both peer at the dinger outline and commence to giggle. Likewise, the golden angel of Festus takes a gander and his eyes widen in mirthful recognition. Other souls, those burned-alive spirits in transit to the Lincoln Town Car, they also venture a glance at the gory exhibit I present, and they, too, begin to snicker.
Paying them no mind, the chauffeur turns to a new page of his missive. “‘Madison will serve Satan in Hades, and she will bear him many odious children….’”
Gathering my courage, I push the befouled book forward for his inspection. “How?” I shout. “How will mighty Satan consummate such an unholy union?”
His speech interrupted, the Devil looks up from his script. Reflected in both lenses of his sunglasses are the pages of the Beagle book.
“Mighty Satan,” I ask, “were you not jerked off by Darwin’s gore-slickened observations about the Cape of Good Hope?”
The driver slowly lowers his sunglasses, revealing yellow goat eyes, the irises running side to side.
Written down the outside margin in my nana’s hand, the words Atlantis isn’t a myth. It’s a prediction.
“Were you not,” I persevere, “in fact castrated by your only intimate encounter with the diminutive Maddy Spencer?” By now, Gentle Tweeter, despite all my decorous upbringing, in defiance of all my self-censoring social conventionality, I’m screaming. “Satan, oh dark one, does your wiener not ache at this proof that little Madison gelded you? Did she not reject your evil advances in the not-sterile environs of a public upstate potty?”
Stymied by my revelation, the liveried Devil can only stammer.
Gentle Tweeter, I have succeeded in my last-Halloween vow to kick some satanic ass. The damage inflicted at my chubby hands has far surpassed any I dream I’d ever had of my own ability. Here is proof that I exist as someone beyond Beelzebub’s sweaty pedophile fantasy. What mere fictive character could so cripple her author?
More telling than any verbal response, the driver’s crimson hide flushes even deeper scarlet. His horns elongate, lifting his cap. His claws lengthen, pushing off his gloves.
Heedless of the cataclysm taking place around me, I keep up my harangue. Immolating plastic mountains create a flaming skyline. All creation is this mix of tragedy and farce as a trio of people approach. The succubus, Babette, my former best friend, leads my mom and dad forward, prompting them with the murderous point of a large, ornate knife. It’s the same antique blade with which Goran executed the pretty Shetland pony.
The sight of my parents, brought forth in the Devil’s presence, clearly to be utilized as hostages, this unnerves me. Regardless, I boldly thrust out the corrupt book, asserting, “Show us, dark master, if anything remains of your butchered wing-wang.” Puffing my chest to showcase the gummy chambray shirt, I demand, “Is this not your demon seed?”
Livid and trembling, Satan dashes his script against the ground. He turns and reaches into the Town Car, extracting something pale. Dangling from his fist is an orange rag. Given a vigorous shake by his outraged arm, it emits a plaintive meow.
Ye gods. It’s Tigerstripe.
Before I can shush him, angel Festus seconds my challenge. “Yes, Prince of Lies, show us your chopped-off pee-pee.”
Nana escalates the chorus, shouting, “Show us! Let me see your twisted little wormwood!”
And in response, wicked Satan calmly turns to the demon holding my parents, and he says, “Kill them. Kill them both now.”
DECEMBER 21, 2:48 P.M. HAST
Satan, Enraged
Gentle Tweeter,
You think it’s going to be a breeze, watching your mother get murdered, but it’s not. I’ve witnessed my mom get lynched by redneck backwoods sheriffs, and I’ve watched her bludgeoned by the henchmen of Big Tobacco, and chomped on by the bulldozers of Big Coal, and garroted by the hit men of Agribusiness.
Once my mother was bitten in half by a renegade manatee. Blood poured out of her eyes. Blood gushed from her ears. Her guts pushed up and out of her mouth. That’s how I knew she was dead. It took days to film. It took an entire team of special effects wonks just to get the blood right. Easily a hundred people were present on set. Stylists and makeup people, grips, dialogue coaches. Caterers. You name it. All of these people stood around, yawning and eating potato chips, and watched my mom gasp and choke on her own gore.
The happy memories of ordinary kids might include their homemaker mothers phoning Bulgari to have jeweled tiaras sent ’round for approval, or Tasering the Somali maids, but my fond recollections include looking on as my mother was burned at the stake by a cabal of Big Pharma drug companies.
I’d sat in a folding chair and peeked between my chubby fingers while she was stoned by angry Puritans. I’d perched on my father’s lap and held my breath as her lovely face disappeared into a rank pool of quicksand.
And she never flinched, my mom. She never winced.