Blasphemy: A Like Story

Chapter Six

"This road goes on forever," said Bishop from the front seat.

"I've been to Hell and this... this is worse," said Asmodeus.

"Is he still mad?" Bishop asked.

Asmodeus looked over his shoulder at me and I frowned.

"Yes," he said.

We'd been driving down the Ohio turnpike for a little over four hours when, while sleeping, I'd been thrown into the center console as the car lurched off the road, onto the rumble strip. Asmodeus and Bishop, who was now behind the wheel, had been sharing a Twizzler like "the dogs share spaghetti in that kid's movie." I'd told Bishop that for someone whom Heaven wanted dead, he ought to be more careful.

We passed a sign in the shape of a cactus wearing a Fedora, and suddenly he hit the horn causing the Ford F-150 ahead of us to swerve. It was painted white and proudly displayed an American flag on an eight-foot pole sticking out of the bed of the truck. The back end was covered in bumper stickers. One said "Honk if you love America."

"Now there is a man who loves 'Murica," said Bishop honking again.

"Stop that," I said irritably.

He laughed and positioned the SUV close behind the truck. While my companions struggled to read the stickers, I crammed a chocolate Twinkie in my mouth and cautioned through a full mouth, "How about leaving some space between you and that truck?"

"Chill, Koke. Wow. My honor student carries a gun? What in the NRA heck does that even mean? This guy is nuts," said Bishop. Then, "Hey, let's sing then national anthem!"

"No," I said.

"I'll start," said Bishop.

I reflected on having let him die in that fire.

"America. For spacious skies..." he sang.

"I don't think that is the national anthem or even how that goes," I said. A wave of nausea, that had nothing to do with Bishop's uneven pitch, came over me. I studied the vehicle just feet ahead of ours.

"I think you should pass this guy."

But he continued, "Above the fruits and plains. Your turn, Asmodeus.

"I really think you should pass him," I said again.

"America! America!" the demon belted out in a raspy baritone. "God shed his grace on thee."

He glanced over his shoulder to give me the smug look he was fond of. When his eyes met mine, they opened wide with shock. He turned to Bishop and struck out a hand, grabbing him by the hair. Next, the Tahoe flew into the oncoming lane, narrowly avoiding a collision, and came to rest on the other side of the highway. There was now a metal pole poking out the windshield. On one end, outside the SUV was the American flag, proudly billowing in the breeze, and the other end was driven through Bishop's headrest.

Pulling his face out of the cup holders between the front seats, Bishop yelled "Holy shit, Asmodeus. You just saved my life."

Other cars were beginning to park along the side of the road, and a guy in a yellow shirt walked up to the window.

"Is anyone hurt?" he asked Bishop, who shook his head. He told us he had called 911 then regaled us with highlights from his version of the accident.

"We have to get out of here," said Asmodeus, wiping glass off his arm.

"But the windshield..." I said.

Asmodeus opened the car door, got out, and climbed on the hood. The window had not shattered but there was a hole, plugged with a pole, and a network of webby broken glass around it. Our audience went quiet when the demon, wearing his beautiful man-suit, grabbed the flag end of the pole and ripped it out of the window, sending shards of broken glass down onto the dash. He tossed the pole into the weedy field beside the Tahoe and got back inside, then instructed Bishop to move before the police turned up. Sitting behind the wheel of a stolen car was all the motivation needed. The man in yellow fell back as we sped off toward the nearest exit.