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“Horseshoes. It only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. You’re right. But if you assholes hold on a little longer . . . Let Mr. Muninn—I mean Lucifer—deal with Ruach, he can reopen Heaven and you won’t have to destroy the entire fucking universe.”
“Promises. Promises. We lost faith in you when you were Lucifer. Why should we listen to you now?”
“I don’t know. It’s something to break up the tedium.”
“I tell you what, Mr. Sandman Slim. You proceed with your plan and we’ll proceed with ours, and we’ll see who gets there first.”
“I have the Qomrama, you know. I’ll use it against the Angra. And you.”
“A peashooter against an army. Good luck. Is this all you called about? I’m disappointed.”
“Stay in touch, asshole. I miss these fireside chats.”
“We’ll see. It’s not as fun when you want me to call.”
“Okay. Fuck you. If you wake up dead some night, don’t say I didn’t try to make nice first.”
“Good-bye.”
“Adios.”
I go downstairs and find Candy sitting with Kasabian on his bed, at least a dozen take-out menus spread about between them.
“Where’s Samael?”
“He kindly volunteered to go to the corner for beer. In the rain,” says Candy.
“Damn. He really doesn’t want to go home. Have you decided on dinner yet?”
“We’re down to Indian or Thai.”
“I vote Thai.”
“You might get outvoted this time.”
“This is why democracy is dying.”
I walk around the empty movie racks and restack some of the boxes of DVDs that Samael has been pawing through. A lot of memories in this place and on these pieces of plastic. If nothing else, I hate the idea of the Angra destroying us because it would wipe out all this work. All this demented horror, action, and beauty. A universe without Terrence Malick and Lucio Fulci isn’t worth living in. The Angra must be real bores. I hate them even more now. I pick up a copy of Badlands and go back to where Candy and Kasabian are still arguing about how hot they should order the food.
“Here’s the question of the night. If we lose, what movie do you want to watch at the end of the world? I call The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”
“Spirited Away,” says Candy.
“The Snake Charmer’s Daughter, Brigitte Bardo’s best porn flick.”
I look around Max Overdrive. The rolled-up posters. The new-releases rack. The empty cutout bins. Fuck the world. I’ll kill the Angra to save my movies.
I say, “We’re going to need more TVs.”
