I Don’t Want To Go To Hell For The Devil

“This is the most bizarre assignment yet,” Dawn DeSica, a top agent with the Extraordinary Bureau of Investigation, says. “We’ve been picked to take the devil to the United Nations so he can negotiate a peace with the world's leaders.”

“Easier said than done,” her partner, Agent Heath Hunter, replies.

“You can’t make a deal with the devil,” Dawn insists.

Heath and Dawn have been partners for eight years. They’ve proven the rumors of Paul McCartney’s death in 1966 were true and that a robot replaced him; they’ve tracked the Loch Ness Monster, ascertaining it’s a submarine used to lure tourists; and verified that the Shroud of Turin is the earliest photograph of rock star Keith Richards.

Heath enjoys his quasi-secret agent status, dressing his forty-three-year-old fit frame in tailored suits, getting his dark hair styled weekly, his teeth whitened and capped, and staying tanned. An admitted tomboy growing up who likes adventure, thirty-four-year-old Dawn eschews makeup and jewelry, presenting a more sedate appearance, often wearing black business suits, simple white blouses, and sensible shoes.

A heavily armored SUV pulls up to E.B.I. headquarters' back entrance. A nightmarishly large driver exits, opening the back door. A pair of equally well-protected SUVs with muscular agents wearing sunglasses waits to escort them.

“I was fishing when I got the call,” Dawn says, tying her long amber hair into a no-nonsense ponytail.

“I forgot you like to fish.”

“Don’t let the good looks fool you, Hunter. I like nothing more than a day out on the ocean, just the worms, the swordfish, some sunscreen, and me. It reminds me of my Poppa. He’d take me fishing on his boat two or three times a week when I was a kid.”

“And I know how much you loved your father. How do you think he’d feel about you protecting the devil?”

“He’d want me to finish the job, then arm wrestle Lucifer best two out of three for the location of the best fishing spot in the world.”  

                                               ***

Gazing around the SUV’s interior, Lucifer, maintaining the appearance of George Clooney, comments, “Nice ride. Hmm. Custom interior with three bucket seats in the back. Also, a nice touch.”

“So, will the Kansas City Chiefs win the Super Bowl again this year?” Heath asks innocently.

Lucifer’s appearance changes until he resembles Andy Reid, the rotund coach of the Chiefs.

“You know I can’t answer that, maggot!”

“Sorry, Coach,” Heath replies apologetically.

He blinks, and Lucifer’s appearance changes again. He now looks like Pete Rose.

“Shouldn’t bet on sports, kid.”

“Very funny. Maybe while you're negotiating with the folks at the U.N., you can ask them to devise some law to get Pete into the Hall of Fame.”

“That’s great. Ask the devil to clear a player who got kicked out of baseball for gambling,” Dawn admonishes. “There have to be more important things you’re going to ask for…”

“Let me guess,” Heath interjects. “You want people to stop worshipping God and start praying to you.”

“Hell no. I’ve got enough heavy metal fans who idolize me. I wish some of those metalhead musicians would record a ballad now and then…”

Lucifer changes into Abraham Lincoln, complete with a stove pipe hat that scrapes the roof of the SUV.

“You know that baseball team, the Tampa Bay Rays? I want them to change their name back to the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, and instead of playing ‘God Bless America’ at stadiums, I’d have the fans sing, ‘Friend of the Devil.’”

Dawn smirks, “Well, those sure are significant changes.”

“I’d also like an endless supply of tacos.”

“…Figures he likes hot food…,” Dawn mutters. “How did this meeting come about? Did someone from the U.N. text you?”

“I came across the American Secretary of State at the junction of Highways 61 and 49 in Clarksdale, Mississippi. That’s where bluesman Robert Johnson traded me his soul for the promise of a lifetime of money, women, and fame.”

“Some lifetime. He died when he was twenty-seven,” Heath notes.

“He didn’t read the fine print in the contract.”

“Just think, Hunter. Someday, we can say we shared a ride with the devil.”

“Aw, you can call me Lucifer.”

“Are you going to stick with the Abe Lincoln look or change into somebody just as revered, like Gandi, Muhammed Ali, or Winston Churchill?” Dawn asks.

“How about Pee Wee Herman?” Heath offers.

Dawn and Lucifer give Heath looks that indicate they question his sanity.

“I hear the First Lady is partial to Brad Pitt,” Lucifer says.

A loud thud sounds off the roof of the SUV.

“Did you hear that?” Dawn asks.

Dawn hears the sound of gunfire coming from the other SUVs. One of them pulls alongside, and an agent fires at something above their SUV.

Heath looks out of the window. A bright light temporarily blinds him. The next moment, a handsome blonde-haired man wearing a gossamer white robe gazes at him through the window. The man’s incandescent smile mesmerizes Heath and Dawn, and the two agents momentarily forget he’s got fluffy white wings.

Another much smaller winged man leans down from the roof, looking in the van. A stogie hangs from his mouth.

“Aw crap,” Lucifer says. “You’d better hang onto something.”

“Why?” Heath asks.

“They’re angels, and they’ve come for me.”

The SUV shakes, skidding violently off the road. The SUV goes end over end down a grassy hill before roughly coming to rest.

Dawn staggers out of the wrecked SUV. The last thing she sees before passing out is the pair of winged men carrying Lucifer off while her fellow agents desperately shoot at them.

Looking dumbfounded, the bruised driver sits in the grass beside the overturned SUV. Kicking open the crumpled back door, Heath stumbles out. He brushes off his grey Brioni suit and says, “They stole our devil. I’ll call it in.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Dawn replies.

“Do you know what this could mean?”

“Yeah, sunshine and lollypops for as long as those angels keep him prisoner,” Dawn replies. “Nothing bad can happen if Lucifer’s not on the job. No crime, hunger, wars, or disasters.”

“It sounds ideal, but think big picture,” Heath says, plucking a clod of grass from his hair. “If the angels kill him, then maybe nobody dies anymore, and one day, the world will be so crowded that we end up killing one another for a yard or two of space, and boom, you’ve got another war…”

“Speaking of big picture… We’re likely to lose our jobs once you tell the boss a couple of angels stole Ole Scratch from us.”

“We can get him back,” Heath says.

“How? Grow wings?”

Heath pulls out his phone, touching an app.

“He’s wearing a GPS tracking device on his ankle.”

“Smooth,” Dawn returns, picking strands of grass off her jacket. “So, we find him. There’s something morally reprehensible about pulling a gun on an angel.”

“We may have to capture one for leverage.”

Dawn’s brow crinkles. “Kidnap an angel? I don’t want to go to hell for the devil.”

                                               ***

“I won’t soon forget the look on the face of the cashier in the surplus store when we brought this stuff to the counter,” Dawn says. “She must have thought we were serial killers.”

“Good thing we had our I.D.s with us, even if she did confuse us with being F.B.I. agents.”

“I get the net when we’re done. I can use it to fish.”

The pair of agents enter the abandoned warehouse. Dusty fifty-pound bags of salt still line the hallway.

Heath pulls a vial and an ice cream stick out of his suit jacket. Opening the vial, he uses the ice cream stick to smear the contents on the building’s wall.

“What are you doing with that goo?” Dawn inquires.

“It’s the devil’s saliva, his DNA. We took a sample of it when he came to headquarters to prove it was him, although the shapeshifting sold me... If I’m right, the angels will sense it. One of them will come outside to see if another devil is lurking about. You taser it, and I’ll drop the net over it. And before you tear the plan to shreds, no, I can’t guarantee a taser will work on an omnipotent being, but it’s all we’ve got.”

                                               ***

A door closes at the end of the hall.

Hiding behind a stack of sacks, Heath whispers, “Here it comes. Worst-case scenario: If we can’t control it…Say an incantation. That’ll weaken it.”

The blonde-haired angel sniffs the wall.

“NOW!”

Heath and Dawn rush at the angel. It turns around, sneering, “You shouldn’t try to deceive an angel!”

Dawn zaps it with the taser gun.

The angel wobbles, stunned long enough for Heath to throw a net over it. The weights sewn into the net drag it to the floor.

It quickly rises. With a loud, threatening growl, the angel tears through the net.

“Shoot him again!” Heath shouts as the angel beats him with its wings.

Dawn fires the taser again, hitting the angel in the back.

The angel wraps its wings around Heath’s neck while punching him with its hands.

Heath plucks feathers from the angel’s wings.

The angel shouts, “Hey! That’s not fair!”

“Neither is trying to smother me with your wings while you’re beating my face in!”

Running to one of the sacks, Dawn rips it open, throwing handfuls of salt on its wings.

“What are you doing? He’s not a chicken!”

Dawn begins singing, “You are my special angel, sent from up above... The Lord smiled down on me and sent an angel to love!”

“That’s not an incantation! That’s a song!”

Dawn fires the taser gun again. The angel dances wildly, falling to the floor.

                                                           ***

Heath and Dawn push the trussed-up angel into the main storage area.

Wearing the appearance of the ill-fated gambler and gunslinger Wild Bill Hickok, Lucifer is playing cards with a cigar-smoking dwarf angel.

“I see you already met Kennedy. I’m Oswald,” the dwarf angel says.

Dawn stifles a chuckle. “Kennedy and Oswald?”

“The head dude’s got a real warped sense of irony. Do you remember the guy who won and spent nine million in a year? That’s some of the Lord’s work.”

Dawn glances at Lucifer.

“I’d like to take credit, but Ozzy’s right. You see, the deity you call God isn’t all good, and I’m not all bad. And by the way, God’s real name is Ralph.”

Now Heath has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing. “Ralph? What’s his last name, Kramden?”

Lucifer transforms into actor Jackie Gleason’s character of Ralph Kramden. “Oh, so you’ve met him.”

Oswald pours himself a shot of whiskey from the bottle sitting on the table, followed by another, before laying down his cards.

“Pair of jacks and a pair of deuces. Beat that, Lu.”

“Sorry, Ozzy. I’ve got four kings.”

Oswald mumbles under his breath, downing another shot.

“Did you just curse?” Dawn asks. “Angels don’t curse.”

“Kennedy and me are Hell’s Angels. We get to do a lot of things that other angels can’t.”

“Like kidnapping,” Heath notes.

“Yeah. We also get to flirt with pretty girls,” Oswald says, winking at Dawn, who nearly gags. “How’d you capture Kennedy?”

“A taser, doses of salt, a net, and a few lines of The Vogue’s ‘Special Angel.’”

“Huh. Next time, try an incantation or singin’ Van Halen’s ‘Runnin’ With the Devil’. He likes that one.”  

“We’ve come to make a deal—an angel for a devil,” Heath states.

Oswald puffs on his cigar. “And if I say no?”

“We’ll pluck him clean right in front of you,” Dawn replies.

Lucifer looks at his cards. “Better do it, Ozzy. She’s the tough one.”

A gagged Kennedy mumbles, “Aw, c’mon, Oswald!”

Dawn rubs her forehead, trying to digest the difference between what she’s been told about angels and what she’s seeing. “Can I ask you something? Why would God, Allah, Jehovah, The Great Maker, or whatever you call him, condone kidnapping the devil?”

Oswald puffs up a smokescreen on his cigar, studying his cards. “He didn’t. Me and Kennedy kinda went rogue when we heard Lu was meetin’ with the guys at the U.N. All we want is a piece of the action in whatever deal Lu makes with your world. Us lower-level angels do all the work and never get as much as a halo or a pint of ambrosia, you get me? So, we’re in, or me and Lu spend eternity playin’ poker.”

“You couldn’t just turn these two into ash and escape on your own?” Dawn asks Lucifer.

“I promised my brother, you know, God, that I’d cut down on violence against our kind.”

“Stop being stubborn and agree to let Kennedy and Oswald in on your deal with the U.N. so we can get out of here,” Dawn says. “You can’t sit here, Lucifer. Don’t you have crops to wither, U.F.O. scares to dream up?”

“Oh, you guys at the E.B.I. figured that one out? I really get a kick out of seeing the look on some rube’s face when I throw a Frisbee in the sky, and he swears he sees a spaceship… All right, I’ll put in a good word for Kennedy and Ozzy.”

“Just one more thing,” Oswald says. “The kidnapping thing. Nobody mentions it, okay? Just say you took Lucifer to Denny’s or something.”

“You wrecked an SUV,” Dawn points out.

Lucifer waves his hand as if to dismiss Dawn’s concerns. “The boys will replace it, right, Ozzy? And I’ll give your driver a case of amnesia.”

Oswald puffs heartily on his cigar. “If we’re creatin’ a cover-up, I’d feel a whole lot better if we played a game for Lu’s freedom.”

“Why? You do realize we’re taking him with us anyway, don’t you?” Heath asks.

“Angels and devils like games. It’s in the deity handbook,” Oswald says, rubbing his hands together. “Ready? I’m gonna give you three trivia questions. Tell you what, if you get them wrong, you owe me a box of Cuban cigars, okay? Question one: During the Miami Dolphins' undefeated season in 1972, who came off the bench to serve as quarterback when starter Bob Griese was injured?”

Dawn glances warily at Heath.

“Earl Morrall. He won nine straight games,” Heath says confidently.

“Correct!”

“Question two: Name the first three keyboard players for the progressive rock band Yes.”

“Rick Wakeman, Patrick Moraz… and… and…,”

Heath hesitates, his confidence fading.

“That’s only two,” Oswald notes.

“Tony Kaye!” Heath says.

“Correct! And lastly, what kind of fishing line do you need to catch a swordfish?”

Beads of sweat break out across Heath’s forehead. “I…I... don’t...”

“The ideal gear setup to catch a swordfish includes a high-quality, heavy-action rod in the fifty to eighty-pound class, along with a durable reel capable of holding at least five hundred yards of sixty to eighty-pound test braided line,” Dawn says.

Oswald’s cigar drops from his mouth.

Dawn looks upward. “Thanks, Poppa.”

                                              ***

Lucifer whistles “Devil With a Blue Dress” as the undercover Dodge Charger speeds toward New York City.

“Thanks for feeding me that Tony Kaye answer,” Heath says to Lucifer.

“So, you can read minds. You cheated!” Dawn says with mock surprise.

“It’s part of who I am,” Lucifer replies in the guise of Brad Pitt, his iridescent smile radiating good vibes. “And my compliments on answering the fishing question, Dawn. That was out of my league.”

“My poppa taught me well,” Dawn replies, reminiscing. “I miss the old sea dog. I was with the E.B.I. for a year when an aneurysm killed him. He was so proud of me. We were going to go fishing for the first time since I joined the force the day he died. My brother found him on the couch with a copy of Fishing World Magazine in his hand.”

“A very sad story,” Lucifer says in a genuinely sympathetic tone. “I’d like to reward you two for saving me from a boring existence with a narcissistic angel and that cigar-smoking runt.”

“We’re not supposed to accept gifts,” Dawn replies.

“I’m sure the E.B.I. will allow this exception. After all, this meeting will change history.”

“Yeah, thanks to you, tacos could become the number one food in the world.”

“I promise my gift won’t be so frivolous. It’ll be something you need.”

Lucifer hands a note to each of them.

                                               ***

Dawn’s curiosity peaks when Heath pulls the car into Marina Del Ray.

They walk to the pier, standing before a boat named Lucifer.

“He gave me a cabin cruiser, a new fishing boat!” Dawn says breathlessly.

“Jeez. I almost feel gypped. I got a Mercedes.”

“They’re nice cars.”

“Not that kind. Mercedes Diaz. She was my girlfriend in college, the love of my life. Lucifer gave me her address. Turns out she’s available and interested.”

A grey-haired man carrying a fishing pole steps out of the boat’s bridge, waving at Dawn.

“Looks like you’ve already got a stowaway,” Heath says. “Do you know him?”

Tears stream down Dawn’s face.

“Poppa!”

Dawn’s father waves the pair toward the boat.

“C’mon, you two, let’s go fishing!”