Lucifer's Last Laugh

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Chapter 7: Boola Boola’s Tale

So invisible become I.

Such nonsense but you have to keep in mind that I must move in mysterious ways so that I can only teleport myself in full as visible and become invisible shortly after I arrive at my destination, which in this case is a surprisingly disgusting toilet on the fifth floor of the Los Angeles Federal Building. The rest room’s (who goes there to rest?) door is locked so I simply rip it off and crumple it in one paw.

Thence to the next door Los Angeles FBI Headquarters.

You, my darling, are oddly in charge. I waft around the control room, filled with blinking lights and computer oddities, seeing the succulent you actually delivering orders to Fuji Shentoro, the putative SAC, creating in me a lust distrust.

“He’s calling Mommie,” says Shentoro.

“Great,” you say, “Let’s hone in on his location.”

“Shouldn’t we get Thornhill in on this? It was his idea.”

“Fuck Thornhill. He has no standing.”

Fuji shrugs with far less than eloquence. I am appalled at your heartlessness but love you nonetheless. Your eyes flash upon my cathode ray flesh in a manner that propels my viscera into an eternal state of turgid flux.

“OK, got it,” says a buzz-cutted technician. “Cell phone on La Cienaga, going north by northwest.”

“Grab that cocksucker now!” you scream. “All points and then some.”

I waft out of the Feebie control room, return to the toilet and teleport myself to Boola Boola’s crappy 1995 Dodge.

BB almost pollutes his pantaloons when he sees me alongside him but I reassure the little lingus by slapping him alongside the head and saying, ”Get out of here now, or I will eat your anus as an appetizer.” (It helps that I have transformed myself into an altogether convincing gryphon for this particular aloondrum.)

BB does a U and we rod out to seventy-fifth where I direct him to a dragooned demon’s unpretentious safe house.

Dragging BB from the Dodge (and now having metamorphosed into one mean looking motherfucker, six foot seven, heavily bearded and utterly wild-eyed, further confusing and terrorizing this mass murderer, I deposit him on one of the crappiest brown shag carpets ever conceived.)

BB is a Null Five so I can do pretty much what I want with him but since I am an infirm believer in free will, I decide to give him choices.

“You have made some very bad decisions,” I (now an avuncular figure resembling a cross among Freud, Einstein, and Barbara Bush) say in my most therapeutic voice. “I mean, really, did you have to blow up all of those innocent people?”

BB regards me with unconcealed hostility. “That’s my business. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

I slap him forty-three times alongside both sides of his head.

“Mightn’t you reconsider?” I ask politely

BB can barely speak but his former bravado has disappeared.

“What do you want me to say? I’m a Super Christian.”

“Ah, and that presumably gives you the right to assassinate anyone on God’s green earth you wish to ... because? Fill in the blanks, buddy.”

“Like I say, that’s my business.”

“Now look, you bachut….”

BB pales. Having read his mind I know that he has spent time in India where he learned the trade of datura poisoner and understands the coarser Hindustani words.

“Duh?”

“You know what I mean.”

I am feeded up.

“Look, you sottoposto,” I say with restrained nastiness,

“you have a choice between the strappado and annihilation. Because you are one mean sukhin sin. But let me offer you a more palatable alternative.

“You agree to help lead a mass movement in the US, entirely in accord with your bizarre beliefs, and I will ensure that the authorities don‘t interfere with you.”

Sullen to the max, Boola Boola asks, “How can you do that?”

I raise myself to full munificence and say, “Because I am MI5.”

“Oh,” says BB. “In that case….”

“So here is what you need to do. Run off to your confreres in Super Christianity and tell them the following….”

(Here, my exquisite one, I cannot reveal what I advised Boola Boola to do because it would necessarily violate my oath to my Father.)

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