Devil Said Bang

remember is more of a Bela Lugosi–and–fog kind of town. When I have to choose between Dark Shadows or fanny packs, I’ll step over to the dark side every time. Have any of you ever seen a Fritz Lang movie called Metropolis?”

They shake their heads.

“You would love it. It’s about bigwigs that kick the shit out of proles in a city that’s all mile-high skyscrapers, smoke-belching machines, and office towers that look like dragons fucking spaceships. The place is clean, precise, and soul crushing, but with style. Just like you. So that’s everyone’s homework. Watch Metropolis. It’s in the On Demand menu.”

That’s right. Hell steals cable. Call a cop.

The three most popular TV shows Downtown are Lucha Libre, Japanese game shows, and The Brady Bunch, which Hellions seem to think is a deep anthropological study of mortal life. I hope watching the Bradys depresses them as much as being trapped here in Creation’s shit pipe depresses me.

“Let’s take a break. I need a drink.”

I walk to the bar and sit down. I make the Council hold its meetings here for a couple of reasons. The first is that Hellions love their rituals, and trying to get anything done is like a Japanese tea ceremony crossed with a High Mass, only even slower. There’s enough ritual hand waving down here to put the Dalai Lama to sleep.

Reason two is this place. It’s Hell’s version of my favorite L.A. bar, the Bamboo House of Dolls. The main difference between this and the other Bamboo House is that Carlos runs the bar in L.A. In Hell, it’s my great-great-great-granddad, Wild Bill Hickok.

Wild Bill already has a glass of Aqua Regia ready for me when I sit down.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“About what?”

“About what. About the damn meeting.”

“I think you’re about to drive them fellers crazy.”

“They’re not all fellers.”

He squints at the Council.

“There’s ladies in the bunch?”

“Two.”

“Damn. I never did learn to tell the difference with Hellions. ’Course they’re all pig-fucking sons of bitches to me, so what do I care if I guess wrong and hurt their feelings?”

I don’t think running a bar was ever Bill’s dream job and he’s not exactly the type to throw around a lot of thank- yous, but I know he likes it better here than in Butcher Valley. Bill died in 1876, was damned, and he’s been fighting hand to hand with other killers and shootists in that punishment hellhole ever since. Taking him out was the least I could do for family.

“Is anyone giving you trouble? Do they know who you run the place for?”

“I expect everyone’s aware by now. Which don’t make me particularly happy. I’m not used to another man fighting my battles for me.”

“Think of it this way. This setup isn’t just about me having a place to drink. It’s about showing the blue bloods who’s in charge. If anyone hassles you, it means they’re hassling me, and I need to do something loud and messy about it.”

He puffs his cigar and sets it on the edge of the bar. There are scorch marks all over the wood.