Satan Loves You (31 page)

A tidal wave of applause came crashing through the dome of the arena and the entire audience caught the wild wave and rode it down the slopes, the mighty sound reverberating across all Creation as Michael burst out of the curtains and trotted up the aisle to the ring. He was wrapped in a golden cloak so bright that it blinded those who were looking directly at it when the follow spots stabbed down.

Michael grabbed the ropes with one hand and launched himself over the top with both feet, landing in the middle of the ring and shucking his golden robe in one smooth motion. He unveiled his gleaming body and his mighty, snow white wings, unfurling them to their full, fifteen-foot span. His body was brilliantly oiled, shining in the lights, his muscled arms were raised in victory, his tiny gold briefs glittered like the brightest star. He turned one way and then the other, a grin on his face, basting in the waves of adulation coming from the audience. Michael pressed the Pope to his oiled body, giving him a hug of pure joy, then released the old man and raised his arms high once more. The Pope staggered backwards with a giant grease-mark shaped like Michael’s body down his front. The roar of the crowd surged impossibly higher.

After a while, the commotion started to subside and the Pope brought the microphone to his lips one more time.

“And wrestling for Hell, please welcome...” and here the Pope turned to Hell’s entrance with one hand out. The follow spots stabbed down to reveal...nothing.

The crowd screeched to a halt.

There was dead silence.

The Pope tried again.

“And wrestling for Hell...” and he waved his hand again. The crowd was ready to give it another chance but again the follow spots stabbed down to reveal absolutely nothing. Just an empty entrance with the curtains swaying slightly.

The Pope put his hand over the mic and turned to Heaven’s corner, where Michael was being given a towel rub by Raphael.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“Go find them,” Michael commanded Gabriel, who bit back his resentment and turned to go.

And then, suddenly, the curtains stirred and the rumpled contingent from Hell stumbled out. Minos was in the back, Nero was in the middle, and in the front was a short, unimposing masked wrestler, clad in an ill-fitting bodystocking.

The applause was underwhelming.

“Okay,” the Pope said. “Fighting for Hell tonight is a Masked Wrestler of unknown abilities. This ferocious little dwarf could be any number of shrimpy dead guys.”

Inside her mask, Mary Renfro was hyperventilating, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. The follow spots were blinding and she could barely see the aisle in front of her. She locked her eyes onto the brightly lit ring at the end of the two dark tunnels formed by the eyeholes in her mask and tried to steer towards it. All she could hear was her own rapid breathing.

“Maybe it’s Stumpo!” the Pope announced, catching the mood of the crowd, which was baying for blood. “The Amazing Midget. Or Napoleon, one-time Emperor of Europe and known out-of-shape fatty. Perhaps it’s a small dog with almost-human intelligence walking on its hind legs.”

The tiny masked wrestler blundered head first into the side of the aisle, banging its forehead on the metal handrail with an audible
Doooonnnnggggg!!!!

“Ouch. That had to smart,” the Pope chortled and the angels in the stands laughed and began to throw nachos at Nero and Minos who were trying to steer the Masked Wrestler up the aisle.

“He’s already having incredible difficulty just getting down the aisle,” the Pope shouted in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is happening. This match is shaping up to be a real dog.”

Derision filled the air as the three idiots from Hell made their embarrassed way to the ring. Michael couldn’t help but smirk as he watched them struggle into their corner, climbing the ropes like retarded children. Twice, Mary lost her footing and fell on her butt. The crowd screamed with laughter. Michael had wanted a match and he had wanted a victory but this was going to be almost too easy.

The Omni Peachtree Hotel was in the CNN Center located in downtown Atlanta, Georgia. Upstairs in the Widowmaker Suite, Ted Hunter was getting professionally exfoliated while Frita Babbit sat on the bed watching QVC. She had her cell phone in one hand and a credit card in the other. JP Morgan Chase had advanced her a line of credit against her settlement and so far she had bought a Haan Floor Steamer, a dozen Moulinex Electric Cocktail Makers as “thank you” gifts for the jury, a twenty-eight and a half inch tall wooden Nutcracker, and a Reelsmart Auto Rewind Seventy-Five Foot Hose with Dual Mounting Options. She showed no signs of slowing down.

“The Republicans are like horny dogs,” Ted Hunter said, as his exfoliating technician paused to sharpen her scab stick. “They want to hump your leg so bad.”

“Uh-huh,” Frita Babbit said as a Dennis Basso Faux Fur in Lynx came on the screen.

“You let me work
‘
em over with my magic mouth and you’ll be Sarah Palin’s Sarah Palin by the time they leave here,” Ted Hunter shouted to her from the giant, walk-in bathroom. His exfoliating technician re-lit her sterilizing torch and went back to work on his problem elbows.

“Okay,” Frita said from the bedroom.

There was a knock at the door.

“Get that,” Ted said. “It’s probably the champagne, raw oysters, and sexually suggestive Georgia O’Keefe painting I ordered.”

Keeping her eyes glued to the TV, Frita Babbit walked backwards to the door. She reached behind her and opened it with one hand.

“Put it over there,” she grunted.

“I think you’re going to want to turn off that TV,” a familiar voice said. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

“Who is it?” Ted shouted from the bathroom.

But Frita didn’t answer. She was staring, open-mouthed, at Satan.

Excerpted from FreeWilliamsburg.com
:

“On a brick ass night at Juniper on Berry Street my bro, Keith, said, ‘Why is it that everyone is missing these days?’ True that. There are Voltron-sized levels of absence in the BillyTown community. Where is all of our people gone? Whither the kings of cool? Because coffee shop seats are going un-sitted in. Vintage dishware is going un-bought. Locally microbrewed ales are going un-drunk. Leading to the collective cry of: Whas up?”

Excerpted from DieHipsterDie.wordpress.com:

“The one fucking thing that gave me a single fucking sigh of relief was to see how empty the fucking streets are and how unpolluted the air in La Mission is now that these baby hipsters are all disappearing.”

Excerpted from DirtyDogNiteBlog.com:

“Austin used to have a music scene, now all it’s got are absences. The scenesters, hipsters, hepcats and cool babes have gone MIA. Where are they?”

The ring was an apocalypse of noise as the angels went bananas. They were a rising and falling melody of mayhem, with a darker, less rhythmic bass line of demons mumbling desultory cheers underneath. The eye of the storm was the ring down at the bottom of this well of noise. On one side stood Michael, resplendent and ripped. On the other side slumped Mary Renfro, masked, shoulders sagging, the balled up sweat socks already sliding down her arms and legs to pooch up at her ankles, her wrists and around her midriff.

The Pope stood in the center of the ring and gestured for them both to approach. They met in the middle.

“Now I want a good clean fight,” the Pope said. “Two falls out of three decides who owns Hell. Any split decision will be determined by a Sudden Death Round. I don’t want any eye gouging, no hitting below the belt, and if there’s too much blood I’m going to call the match. Got it? Good. Now shake hands and go back to your corners.”

Despite all that had happened to her, Mary was still capable of wonder. And she was dazzled by the fact that no matter what might happen later she was about to shake hands with an angel. The Archangel Michael, no less. It was the one good thing in all of this terror. She stuck out her hand, which was shaking like a leaf. Michael wrapped his enormous paw around it and squeezed. And squeezed. And squeezed. Mary felt her bones shifting, her fingers crushed into a ball of pain, her cartilage grinding. Michael smiled as her knees buckled and she sank to the mat. The match hadn’t even begun and already he was winning. Mary tried not to sob with relief when he finally released her. They retreated to their respective corners, Mary hugging her wounded fingers to her chest.

“Shake it off, shake it off,” Minos said. He had elected himself to be her coach and he rubbed her shoulders while she nursed her hand.

“Ow,” she said.

“That’s nothing,” Minos said and massaged her fingers. “You just wait until he starts doin’ that to yer head.”

And then suddenly, far too soon, Mary heard the bell ring. It was dim and distant and she almost missed it. Turning, she prepared to meet her fate.

Michael approached the center of the ring, bobbing and weaving, dancing on his feet, as light as a feather and as fast as a butterfly, ready to sting like a bee. Mary hesitated. She was having a hard time seeing. They had all agreed that she would wrestle masked so as to preserve the advantage of surprise, but the mask kept sliding around on her face and it was blocking her vision. She turned back to Minos.

“Is my mask on straight?” she asked.

“Skull Busterrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!” Michael screamed as he bounced off the ropes and leapt into the air, turned his muscular body parallel to the ground and flew high into the air like a ballistic missile, elbows first. Mary turned towards his wild scream and froze in terror as his shadow moved over her, blocking out the lights, blocking out the stadium, blocking out everything in the world as he came down on top of her skull, elbows first. She was driven down. First her ankles gave way, and then her knees slammed into the canvas and her body kept moving straight down and she fell forwards. Sticking out her arms she managed to stop herself from smacking into the mat face-first. Shaking her head to clear it, she staggered to her feet and Michael grabbed her shoulder, locked her arm and hyper-extended her elbow, flinging her into the ropes, chest-first. She bounced off of them and staggered backwards at high speed, right into Michael’s outstretched arm.

“Clothesline!” he screamed as Mary caught his bicep in the back of her neck and went down face-first.

Michael watched to see if she would get up, circling her one way and then the other, pumping his biceps, flexing his hands, pushing breath out of his mighty lungs as he super-oxygenated his blood, making his heart pound. Mary had her back to him as she grabbed the ropes with her two pencil-thin arms and hauled herself to her feet again. That gave Michael an opportunity to grab her ears and pull her over his head, smashing her into the ground again.

“This can’t possibly get any worse,” Mary thought to herself as she stumbled up once more, her entire body stinging.

It got worse.

Michael put the Bionic Elbow Drop on her, he bounced her off the ropes, he gave her Knee Bombs and Strangle Throws. Nerve Stabs and Neck Crushers. Body slams and Head Mashers.

“It’s okay,” Mary thought as she flew threw the air yet again, tumbling head over heels at a shocking velocity. “I can’t die. I’ll just cease to exist for a little while. That’ll be nice, actually. Just to stop existing and rest. I’m looking forward to it.”

She hit the mat and bounced twice.

“Well, you look like ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag,” Ted Hunter said as he strode into the bedroom, tying the belt of his robe. “That’ll be all, honey,” he said to his exfoliation technician as he showed her the door.

Frita Babbit sat on the bed, absorbed in a Doris Dalton Line and Crease Diffuser that was a Value of the Day item. She didn’t even notice Satan in the room with her anymore.