Blood Lite II: Overbite

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Mr. Flonker’s Alley and Uncle Uther had succeeded in their mission. They watched as the Oddbody Alley—no longer unclowns, but fully restored spirits of buffoonery and foolishness and circus magic—returned to the Beetle. Otis was the last one to enter the car, but before he did, he turned to Uncle Uther and waved good-bye with his shocked hand.

  The VW turned away from the five clowns. The Bug drove along Riverbank Road. An angelic light opened in the sky. The neon yellow and purple-polka-dot Beetle left the physical street and drove skywards along the beam until it reached the Big Top in the Sky. Mr. Flonkers was there to welcome them. The bright ray evaporated.

  “Well done,” Clem said.

  “First round of Slurpees is on Clem,” Toodles said.

  Beep-Beep.

  They were about to pack themselves into the Smart car when another set of headlights approached. They waited for the vehicle to come close. It was a Chevy convertible with a teenage couple in the front. The girl was driving and she came to a stop.

  “Did your car break down? Do you need—”

  She froze as she realized to whom she was speaking: five clowns lurking on a lonely road in midnight moonlight. She and her boyfriend stared at the clowns in paralyzed fear.

  No one spoke for three heartbeats.

  Beep-Beep.

  The teenagers shrieked in horror as the girl hit the gas.

  “Told you they would scream.”

  The Day the Devil

  Swallowed a Heapin’ Helpin’ of Pride at the Beaulahville Gospel Jubilee

  SCOTT NICHOLSON

  Tater salad.

  That would seem to be a fitting place to start, what with the Reverend Maynard Gray coming through the line. The reverend patted his belly and clutched his Styrofoam plate with determination. He’d even double-stacked the plate in hopes of a heavy load.

  The tater salad was in a clay bowl, the pottery shaped and fired and glazed and painted by Ima Jean Spurgeon herself. The rim was slightly out of round. These God-fearing mortals loved their spiritual metaphors, but no doubt they failed to see the connection between a potter and flawed works. And Ima Jean had used a base of mayonnaise instead of the more common mustard, but this was the South after all, and they were still figuring out how to cook here.

  The Devil touched the edge of the bowl. The effect wasn’t as dramatic as the parting of the Red Sea—a bit of overblown fiction that the Devil had witnessed as little more than a low tide in a mud puddle—but it did the job. An army of bacteria stormed the crevices between taters, dill, black pepper, and celery, there to wait in ambush for the good folk of Beaulahville, Georgia.

  “Hello there,” said a woman with frosted hair who was busy cramming serving spoons in various bowls of creamed corn, green beans with fatback, and steamed collards. She smiled at the Devil, who had been staring intently at the tater salad with a distant smile on his face.

  The Devil blinked. He’d forgotten his station. “Counting chickens before they were hatched,” that’s how some put it. He’d already fantasized these godly people over to the dark side and turning on the slow spit, but an overactive imagination had gotten him in trouble before. It was plain old ego and pride, but, hell, he was the Devil, after all.

  Except right now, on Sunday, June 24, in the Year of Our Lord 2010, he was Pete Wilhite, a traveling insurance salesman representing the Good Hands people. And he’d do well to remember it, because Armageddon might be another millennium or two away, and patience was a virtue he didn’t possess.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” he said, drawing the words out a little so he didn’t sound too intelligent and could fit right in.

  “Are you a guest?” She kept her hands busy as she spoke, like the other half-dozen women fussing over the spread and ushering people past the four picnic tables.

  “Passing through,” he said, plopping a dollop of mashed sweet potatoes on his plate.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “We’re always happy to see a new face around here. I’m Betty.”

  Yes, I know. Betty Benson, former co-captain of the Beaulahville High Terrapins cheerleading squad, twice divorced, clerk in the county Register of Deeds office. And then there are the deeds you think nobody knows about . . .

  “Betty,” he said. “I have a cousin named Betty over in Marietta. Marietty Betty, they call her.” That sounded like the kind of cousin a traveling insurance salesman would have.

  “You want some of this here tater salad?”

  “No, thank you,” he said. “I prefer mine with a mustard base.”

  Betty learned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Ima Jean made that,” she said, sending a shiver of delight up the Devil’s spine. “Came from a bad upbringing. You know how that goes.”

  The Devil indeed did know, but it was always a pleasure to be reminded.

  A fourth-grade brat who smirked under his crew cut reached for a fudge-covered brownie, but his mother slapped his hand away and told him dessert came later. The crowd of ninety-three was spreading across the church lawn, sitting on blankets, folding chairs, and benches, talking with their mouths full, sipping red Kool-Aid.

  “Which of these delights are yours?” the Devil asked Betty.

  “Rice pudding,” she said, nodding toward an enamel-plated pot. “Family recipe.”

  Pride. He could work with that. Of all the weapons in his arsenal, none was as effective as the poison that already saturated each living soul. Preachers liked to rave about lust and greed, because they loved sex and money, but the basic flaw was in the ego. Thank God for that, or he’d have had a hell of a time winning people over to the right side.

  “Well, I’ll just have to try me some,” he said.

  He turned the pudding with his spoon, letting a little evil slip down the utensil and into the sweet recipe.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. Several people glowered at him, and one little old lady’s mouth fell open so fast that her gums left her dentures behind. They fell together with a clack a second later.

  Betty Benson peered at the rice pudding. It roiled with live maggots.

  “I know you’re new to these parts, but we don’t take the Lord’s name in vain around here,” she said.

  “But flies have bred in your recipe, ma’am,” he said, just loudly enough for the closest diners to overhear.

  “Oh, that,” she said, clamping a lid on the pot and sliding it to the edge of the table. “This Georgia heat, what can you do?”

  “Iced tea,” said a man whose toupee looked like a possum playing dead on top of his head. He winked. “Of course, you’ll want to add a splash of white lightnin’ to round out the flavor.”

  “Don’t mind Ray Ray,” Betty said. “He’s Irish.”

  The Devil didn’t advocate for or against strong liquor. Jesus had turned water into wine, and therefore it bore a certain stamp of moral approval. Yet drunken people often engaged in other activities that weren’t exactly sanctioned, some of which had been invented after the King James version of the Holy Bible was concocted. Alcohol dulled the senses and made it more debatable whether intoxicated people were responsible for their actions. God made a big deal out of this “free will” stuff, and what better way to tug that bastard’s beard than to have a mortal soberly choose the dark side over the promise of harps and halos.

  Pride. It all came down to pride.

  “Well, Miss Betty, I’m sorry about your pudding. But what if you had a shot at a recipe that was guaranteed to take the blue ribbon at the county fair?”

  Betty looked skeptical but interested nonetheless. “You don’t look like much of a cook.”

  “Looks aren’t everything.” Which is why you’ve had three husbands.

  “Well, I’ve been runner-up three times in the casserole category,” she said.

  “I know.” The Devil gave his warmest, most sympathetic smile. “And Ima Jean has that darned secret ingredient that swings the judges over each year.”

  “It’s practically cheating.
”

  “Practically. But I can give you that ingredient, and more.”

  Betty’s mouth parted slightly and she flushed from more than the pudding-spoiling heat. “I’d give anything.”

  “I know,” he repeated. “But I don’t ask much. All you have to do is . . .”

  He glanced around, making sure people were content with their chicken legs, mashed potatoes, and cole slaw. “. . . eat some of Ima Jean’s tater salad and say it was the best you’ve ever had.”

  She made a pukey face. “That would be a flat-out lie.”

  “What’s a little white lie if it gets you what you want?”

  “That ain’t white, it’s black as sin, and I’m on church property, right here in the shadow of the house of the Lord.”

  The Devil glanced at the church, its steeple standing tall and proud, higher than any structure in town, not counting the cellular tower and the water tank that was painted like a giant peach and bore the slogan “Beaulahville: A Peach Of A Place.” The Devil had conducted some of his best missionary work inside churches, temples, mosques, and synagogues, and true believers took their faith with them beyond the doors. False witnesses carried their deceptions inside, too, even though God stared right down through the roof and saw them clearly. Only the foolish were easily fooled.

  “Ma’am, I have a lot of business here today, and I know you’ve been taught to never trust a stranger. But to prove my sincerity, I can tell you that you lost three years ago because you gambled with three-quarters of a tablespoon of marjoram when your grandmother’s recipe called for cardamom. And last year was the desperate ploy of paprika.”

  Betty looked shocked. “Nobody knows about that.”

  “What happens in Vegas,” he said.

  “Vegas? What does that mean?”

  “‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,’” the Devil said. “You know, when you go somewhere and—”

  “I ain’t never been to Vegas.”

  “The point is that I know and you know, but no one else has to know. Is that so wrong?”

  “That’s the problem,” she said. “I’d know. If I beat Ima Jean by cheating—”

  “It’s not cheating, it’s a redistribution of resources.”

  “I’d rather go to my grave,” she said.

  The Devil sighed. This woman’s soul was hardly worth the trouble, and her company would get annoying after a few millennia. And, as the country-music songs liked to point out, forever was a long time.

  “Fine. Enjoy your next seven years of red ribbons. By the way, her name is Julia and she’s currently handling your husband’s liquid assets.”

  “Julia?”

  “You’ll figure it out.” He moved down the line and poked around in a green mishmash that looked like spinach pesto. Slices of French bread were arranged around a decorative plate, the little dish in the center. The display was far too European-looking and had been roundly ignored by the wary folk of Beaulahville.

  Ray Ray sidled over to the Devil and gave him a firm handshake. “Ray Ray McEelvy. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Pete Wilhite, insurance agent.”

  “An accent like that, you’re bound to be from New Hampshire.”

  The Devil hadn’t been there since his humiliation at the hands of Daniel Webster, but the liberals were doing a bang-up job of carrying on his mission in those parts. “I’ve lived all over,” he said. “But I’m thinking of settling down here.”

  “We’ve got a strong business community,” Ray Ray said. “Beaulahville could always use more insurance. Sort of like lawyers, the more you have, the more you need.”

  The Devil consulted his vast mental filing cabinet. McEelvy. Town alderman, real estate salesman, carrying an out-of-state conviction for public intoxication and indecent exposure. McEelvy wasn’t the only man ever caught urinating in a Las Vegas fountain. So much for “what happens in Vegas.”

  “I can see where my services might be needed,” the Devil said.

  “If you need some property, look me up,” Ray Ray said, slipping the Devil a business card. “I have the scoop on a town rezoning that’s sure to push up appraised values. Nothing beats artificial equity.”

  The Devil’s hopes rose. “Isn’t that illegal?”

  Ray Ray gave him a hearty slap on the back. “It’s win-win, the right thing to do. Higher values means higher taxes, and that means more services for the poor. Growth for the sake of growth.”

  “I’ll think about it,” the Devil said.

  “Fine, fine. But I wasn’t kidding about that white lightnin’.” Ray Ray glanced around to make sure Betty was occupied. The constant demands of napkins and plastic spoons kept her fussing and fidgeting. No idle hands there with which to conduct mischief, but the day was young.

  The Devil wondered how many of the fine people of Beaulahville were getting lubricated in anticipation of the coming sermon. A canvas canopy was stretched over one end of the lawn, and rows of folding chairs were arranged to face the main stage. It reminded the Devil of his adventures in rock stardom, but he’d given up that profession in the digital era. Teenagers these days couldn’t receive the Satanic messages that could only be revealed by spinning vinyl records backward. And ever since the advent of Christian heavy metal, the old bait-and-switch techniques had proven a waste of time.

  “That’s a kindly offer, Mr. McEelvy, but I want to keep my head clear. I’m here on business, after all.”

  “I understand. I only drink on Sundays myself.”

  The Devil smiled. On the color wheel of lies, Ray Ray’s was neither white nor black. It was a kaleidoscopic rainbow. “What say I offer you some insurance on that backstreet office building?”

  “The renovated train depot? How did you know it was mine?”

  The property owner was listed in the county deeds office as Railway Enterprises, LLC, with the company principal under the fictitious name of “Lawrence Raymond.” “I’m in insurance,” the Devil said. “It’s what I do.”

  “The building’s already insured and—”

  The Devil held up a pumpkin-covered spatula. “Mr. McEelvy, I don’t have all day, and I know you need to get to your next drink. So let’s get down to business. It’s on the books at three-quarter million and you only have forty grand in it, thanks to your buddy at the lending institution and your inside peek at the local tax foreclosures.”

  “Those are serious allegations, Mr. Wilhite. I believe you should talk to my attorney.”

  “Honest men don’t need lawyers, Mr. McEelvy. And you have three.”

  “Are you extorting me?”

  “Please.” If the Devil kept sighing like this, he was going to sound like a leaking tire. These people didn’t appreciate subtlety. “I’m on your side, and you’re in good hands. Just let me draw you up a little supplemental policy, so when the building burns down next month—”

  Ray Ray’s cheeks puffed in alcoholic indignation. “Gunboat Gary. I’ll get that bastard.”

  “Never mind small-time grifters. What happens in Vegas, Mr. McEelvy.”

  “I’m more concerned about what happens in Beaulahville. This is my town, Mr. Wilhite, and I don’t appreciate a stranger waltzing in here and pissing on my turf.”

  The Devil held his patient smile while an elderly woman hobbled by, her Styrofoam plate balanced on her walker. “This is win-win, growth for growth’s sake. A straightforward business proposition. The policy will pay you two million for content damage. It’s going to be a shame when those rare William Tecumseh Sherman letters go up in smoke.”

  “Wasn’t he the Union general who said ‘War is hell’? I don’t got no letters.”

  “You will. He’s a personal friend who happens to owe me a few favors.”

  “I don’t roll that way, Mr. Wilhite.” Ray Ray wiped at his mouth. “I believe in stealing fair and square, on my own terms.”

  “What’s the difference? You’re going to burn it down anyway.”

  “Because it was my idea. I
don’t share the glory and I don’t share the wealth.”

  Pride. The Devil was going to lose this man’s soul because of simple human pride.

  Ah, what’s the use? What good is another arsonist in hell, anyway? I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Heh. Fish to fry. That’s funny.

  “Fine, Mr. McEelvy. Good luck with that little endeavor. I’m sorry the Beaulahville Volunteer Fire Department is going to be on the scene within three minutes and your ‘total loss’ is going to turn into a marshmallow roast. Be proud, my friend. Be proud.”

  Ray Ray’s hands were trembling a little, and it was obviously time for some liver fortification. The Devil left him to his spiked tea and creamed corn and turned his attention to the real reason he’d come.

  By now, Betty had swapped out the pot of infested pudding and proffered a foil-covered pie. The Devil grinned. “Just like Mom used to make?”

  “She’s in the bosom of the Lord, God rest her soul,” Betty said.

  Actually, the Devil knew otherwise, because Betty’s mother was currently wearing nothing but gasoline while wading through a pit of bubbling tar. But the rules of engagement required the Devil keep such information to himself. All he could do was dig in his usual bag of tricks. “I suppose you’re going to lie about your maggot pudding, and that’s why you’ve hidden it away. Because you’re so proud.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “The reverend’s coming, and he’s a vegetarian, so he can’t have maggots.”

  Maynard Gray was indeed making his way along the buffet, picking over the greens to see if any of them bore the sheen of fatback. He turned up his nose at the fried chicken, skipped over the sliced pork shoulder, and barely even glanced at the bratwurst and sauerkraut. His plate contained only a pile of plain mashed potatoes, a roll, and three pieces of celery.

  The Devil reached under the table and pulled out a dish of his own making. Jesus wasn’t the only miracle worker to have graced the pages of the New Testament. And the Devil was that book’s sole survivor. He’d learned a thing or two along the way.

  “Here you go, Reverend,” the Devil said.

  The preacher lifted the lid and peered down at the plate. “Deviled eggs?” he said, in a sonorous voice befitting his calling.