Jeremy Bushnell - The Weirdness

This, maybe, is as good a thing to do as anything. Someone saves your life, you save his. It seems fair.

And so he says to Lucifer: “Yeah. Sure.”

Lucifer nods the tiniest nod, indicating satisfaction at Billy’s choice, maybe even the faintest glimmer of something bordering on respect.

And without further preamble, Billy kneels. It’s sort of an astral kneel, or something, because he can’t move, because Lucifer is doing his thing with time, but Billy wills himself to kneel and can feel himself psychically go down in submissive prostration.

“Like this?” Billy says.

“That’s good,” Lucifer says. “Now, repeat after me. I, William Harrison Ridgeway—”

“I prefer Billy,” says Billy.

“I know,” Lucifer says. “But just this once. It’s important.”

Billy considers this. Sure. Why the fuck not. “I, William Harrison Ridgeway—”

“Do solemnly swear fealty to Lucifer Morningstar, Lord of Hell—”

“Do solemnly swear fealty to Lucifer Morningstar, Lord of Hell—”

“To whom I cede agency over my will and my being—”

“To whom I cede agency over my will and my being—”

“And whom I agree to serve as my master, and, in doing so, return to the purpose for which I was bred and born.”

“And whom I agree to serve as my master, and, in doing so, return to the purpose for which I was bred and born.”

“Amen.”

“Amen.”

And when Billy says that — that satanic amen — he feels something happen in him. There have been times in the past when he’s said I just died a little inside but he’s never actually felt it happen, not for real, not like this: he’s never actually felt a whole wing of his spirit — in this case, the entire part of him that wants to kick and fight and resist — just crumble and expire without so much as a gasp. He wants to feel sadness for it but he can’t even find the way to that anymore, as it would be in violation of his vow. He has returned to the purpose for which he was bred and born. He serves the Devil. Period. There is no reason to be sad about it. It is simply a valueless fact, like 70 percent of the earth’s surface is covered by oceans .

“So,” Lucifer says. “Let’s get back to it, shall we?”

He releases the invisible mote of time he’d been holding onto and everything speeds up again. Anil, still ablaze, crashes into the wall. Lucifer slowly closes his open hand into a fist, and completion of the gesture utterly snuffs the hellfire, leaving nothing behind but a heavy pall of sulfuric reek. Anil keeps grappling with the extinguisher in its bracket for a second, not quite realizing that he’s safe.

“Anil,” Billy says. “It’s okay. The fire. It’s gone.”

Anil pauses, looks back over his shoulder, trying to get a look at the extent of the scorching. His work shirt is ruined, but his undershirt only has a few quarter-sized holes in it, and the skin underneath seems fine. Still, it was close, and Anil’s face loses some of its color.

“Motherfucker,” he says, softly, sinking down into a crouch, resting his wrists on his knees. He looks like he might vomit.

“Anil,” Billy says, “this is Lucifer Morningstar, the Judeo-Christian Devil.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lucifer says.

Billy interposes himself between the two of them, crouches down to look Anil in the face. “Anil,” he says. “I have to go. I hope you could do me one last favor, though.”

Anil’s eyes are wide, lambent with the gleam of fear. Billy assesses that it will pass. He rummages in the pocket of his jumpsuit and finds Laurent’s card. He presses it into Anil’s slack hand.

“I need you,” he says, “to call the number on this card. Go to the address if you can’t get through. My dad should be there. Tell him I went with Lucifer. Tell him not to look for me.”

Anil gives one jerking nod.

Billy thinks for a moment. “I guess I have one other favor to ask as well. Sorry to keep adding them on. I’m still an asshole, I guess.”

Anil blinks out of his shock long enough to crack a smile. “You are,” he says. “But what? What is it?”

“Tell Denver. Tell her — tell her that I’m sorry.”

He still doesn’t feel any pity for himself — he still feels like his servitude to the Devil is an immutable fact — but he recognizes that sometimes the facts hurt people. Seventy percent of the earth’s surface is covered by oceans . There’s sadness in that, if someone you love has drowned in them.

“Billy,” Lucifer says, dropping his hand on Billy’s shoulder. “It’s time.”

“I know,” Billy says. He rises.

“Wait,” Anil says. “When are you coming back?”

But Billy doesn’t answer. He leads Lucifer out through the service entrance and they advance through a greasy back alley lined with rotting produce, making their way magisterially toward the street. Pigeons scatter before them.

Something occurs to Billy. “What about the others?” he says, helpfully. “They went to the Right-Hand Path headquarters. It’ll be harder to get them. They’re defended against you.”

“Billy,” Lucifer says. “When the Right-Hand Path catches me by surprise, they may be able to momentarily deter me. But when I come for them? In my full splendor? That is a moment when they stand revealed as the rank novices that they are. You worry about my ability to get the others?”

They emerge from the alley into the slanting sunlight of a late November afternoon.

“I got them first.”

And Billy sees, before him, gleaming golden in the light, double-parked on the sidewalk, hazards blinking, attended by a Traffic Enforcement Agent who is already printing a ticket for it, Jørgen’s Trusty Econoline Van.

Lucifer pushes the parking agent gently aside with the back of his hand. The agent turns, looking pissed, mouth already forming the first phoneme of what would surely be an impressive string of abuse, but Lucifer fixes him with a stare, a soul-accounting stare, and he is harrowed, shaken into silence. He moves back. He is maybe beginning to cry a little.

Through the windshield Billy can see Jørgen and Elisa. He can see that somehow Lucifer has gotten them to swear fealty as well. Their faces are expressionless, calm. They have a job to do, and that is all.

Lucifer slides open the van’s side door. “I will return to you in two hours,” he says, placing both hands on Billy’s shoulders. “In that time, I task you with retrieving the Neko from Ollard’s tower.”

“I can do that,” Billy says, although he’s not actually sure that he can. But he knows this: He will go into the tower. He will fight Ollard. Maybe he will be tortured. Maybe he will be killed. Maybe he will win. The important thing is that he serve Lucifer, as best as he can.

“I believe in you, Billy,” Lucifer says. “Now. Go. Jørgen knows the way.”

Okay, then , Billy thinks, as he climbs in the van and fastens his seat belt. Back to work .

ROOKIE MISTAKES HOT HITS • A GOOD CALF • GERMAN PUNK REISSUES • SKEEVED OUT • OPENING A DOOR WITH YOUR EYES • IGNORING THE NUANCE • NOT KNOWING SHIT ABOUT SHIT • FORENSICS • ONE LAST THING

Traffic is bad, so it takes a while. Everybody and their sister is trying to get to the tunnel. Jørgen sits behind the wheel, plays with the radio, occasionally lets out a judgmental grunt, as though they don’t have traffic in Europe and the very manifestation of it is some kind of New World cultural failing.