The Hand of God
It was 6 p.m. when the Devil walked into my office and had a seat.
Now when I say the Devil, I’m not talking figuratively. Lord knows that having spent the last five years as a bounty hunter, I’ve come face to face with every form of evil that walks on this scum-ridden planet: murderers, rapists, even a couple of freakin’ child molesters. So I have more than a passing acquaintance with evil, of both the male and female varieties.
But no, in this case, I’m talking in the literal sense. You know, as in Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the goddamned Father of all goddamned Lies. That Devil.
You’re probably wondering if he was all red, with horns, a pointed tail and pitchfork. Sorry to disappoint you, but he wasn’t. He looked like any other well-dressed bastard in a snazzy suit and shoes to match. OK, he did have a red tie but I couldn’t see any tail coming out his ass. He was around six feet tall, blond hair and icy blue eyes. Guess we know where Hitler got his ideas for all that superior race crap.
And I bet you’re also wondering just how the hell I knew it was the Fallen Angel himself. I guess it was the same way Moses knew that the burning bush was really God and not just a couple of his buddies lighting the damned thing on fire and then pretending to be God while hiding behind the closest rock laughing. Let’s put it this way, if the Devil walks through your door one day, you won't have any doubts either. Take my word for it.
Anyway, I’d had a good week and was just getting ready to leave and lock the place up, looking forward to taking the weekend off from chasing bad guys and heading down to Molly Malone’s, when the door opened and in waltzes Satan, just as pretty as you please. He pulled up a chair near my desk and sits down flashing a row of pearly whites the Kardashian family would be proud of.
"Victor, you know who I am?" he said, eyebrows all arched and superior, although it was more of a proclamation than a question.
I nodded back and calmly opened the top right drawer of my desk, grabbing my Glock 9 millimeter I keep there in case of emergencies. I figured if this didn't qualify for an emergency, then nothing would.
"You know that won’t do you any good," he said.
He was right. Somehow I knew that. After all, for more than a couple of millennium at a bare minimum, people have wanted to kick Satan’s backside with no success. I just knew it wouldn’t do me any good.
But I pulled the gun out and shot the son-of-a-bitch right between the eyes anyway. Blamo!
A perfect gun powdered entry wound appeared smack dab between his eyes. But I could see no blood and no head explosion out the back, just a big hole and an annoyed look on Satan’s formerly pristine mug.
Now you would think that a guy, after being shot in the head, would exhibit some sort of adverse effects, but not this time. And folks, that’s just wrong.