Georgia Peach - Chapter 1

Well, this is boring.

There's about seven cars lined up on the road in front of me. God only knows how many behind. Two chunky men in khaki uniforms are interrogating the first in line, whilst two more with big guns keep watch from a concrete tower.  Apparently things have gotten worse since I last visited the world. Time was you could breeze through a border patrol, driving to San Diego to Atlanta without stopping for anything more than gas and a burger. Now it seems you can't hardly hop the line between two counties without some self-important local militia getting in your face about something. Hence the traffic jam. This kind of traffic would be nothing like this in the city, I know that, but here in the country with nothing but cotton fields as the eye can see, well, this surely is a crowd. My ride is the nicest on the road, the cleanest, and best kept. Some of these others are falling apart so bad I'm surprised they're still running. But they are, just like the people inside them. Something must have happened back west, and for some reason they think Georgia's gotta be better than wherever they were. Hell, maybe it is.

I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light up, a small red flame crackling between thumb and forefinger. Took practice, that one did. First time I tried to use the thing I burned my whole damn hand. Still, it's a handy skill to have, time to time. I breathe deep, and let out the smoke with a sigh that sends it curling over Lucifer's dash. I'd let him decide on shape this time, so of course he's some kind of muscle car, black and brooding. Doesn't make a difference to me what he looks like, he'd still ride the same and hell would freeze over before you'd outrun him. Still, he's a proud beast, prefers big scary cars to the zippy little ones. I guess I get it, and to his credit have a car that's one of a kind does help with image. The leather seats get bloody hot in the sun though. Black'll do that, and I've never seen Lucifer wear anything else. I'm not sure he can. So black it is, and the heat of the sun radiates out from every surface like a furnace. You'd think the heat wouldn't bother me, all things considered, but unfortunately that wasn't in the perks package. 

Lucifer growls, deep and rough, shifting slightly on his wheels. Poor guy. He started out as one of those hellsteeds hundreds of years ago, all flying mane and blood red eyes, and he's had a hard time adjusting to a world where almost nobody rides horses anymore. Cars aren't supposed to prance when they get restless. Hell, cars aren't even supposed to get restless. The idiot behind me jumps on his horn, making Lucifer quiver, so I reach out and pat his dash until he subsides. Groping for the lever, I push my seat back and put my feet up. At the rate these militia idiots are going, it might take a while. After what seems like an age the line shifts a little, and Lucifer jumps ahead with a bassy roar, only to stop a half second later with a sound as close as he's ever come to a whimper. I'll really have to let him go for it when we hit open road. As long as it's empty. I prefer to keep a low profile, and if anyone saw what he was really capable, word would spread around, and that simply doesn't bear thinking about.

There's a manila folder on the passenger seat. I pick it up and flick through the contents, more for something to do than any need to peruse the contents. I'd taken a detailed read this morning, not that there's much in there. The target ain't bad looking, either, not one bit. Ms Abigail Mercer Peach, 26, brown hair and eyes and a killer smile. No height, but I bet she's tall too. God damn. Born and raised in the state of Georgia, and the humour isn't wasted on me. A while ago I would have said someone up there has a sense of humour, but but that was before I learned that the only thing up there is a vengeful fuck and his armies. Still, you take humour where you can get it, and I just happen to be hunting for a bona fide Georgia Peach. Yeah... bet she's never heard that one before. 

Another age, and one of the goons finally swaggers over to my window. He shouldn't, he can't pull it of and it makes him look like a puffed-up idiot. Far be it for me to tell him how to walk, after all, I'm trying to keep a low profile. I roll down my window and smile politely, taking my feet from the dash. It pays to be cordial. The escaping cloud of smoke washes over him, his face noticeably paling above his sweat-drenched collar. Shouldn't be a new experience for him, but I suppose no matter how many tobacco clouds or hotboxes you stick your head into, it takes a special kind of man not to flinch when catching a face full of fire and brimstone. I got little sympathy though, since I've been sitting for the better part of an hour under the sweltering southern sun. They say to dress for the weather, but I have to stick to uniform. The mark never takes you seriously if you're in a hawaiian shirt and board shorts, trust me. It makes the whole job a lot easier if you project the right image, so I'm stewing here all in leather. Black leather. And boots. 

"You got business in Georgia?"

Well, yeah. Of course I got business in Georgia, dumbass. Else why would I be here, waiting in the sun? It sure as hell isn't so I can ogle your cotton fields. It doesn't pay to antagonise meatheads, though, so I keep my peace and answer him politely as I can, some bullshit about seeing dear old granny and the rest of the screaming bunch. The miliatiaman squints at me, reaching up to scratch under his hat. I don't bother reading the shield on it. There are so many groups these days, and it'd take a far greater and more boring mind than mine to keep track of them all. Mostly they're made up of guys like these. They mean well, I suppose, and want to protect their families. They just annoy the shit out of me. I can see the wheels ticking over in this one's head, and I see the exact moment he decides not to like the look of me. He puffs his chest and rests his hand casually on the pistol in his belt. Shit. I think I might be starting to get a headache.

"I'm going to have to search your vehicle now sir. You can never be too safe, especially these days. Why don't you step on out of your fancy car there?"

Not a fucking chance in hell. No way am I going to let a dipshit like you put greasy fingers on Lucifer's seats. Again I hold my tongue, because if this belligerent sack of flesh actually pops the hood, or looks in the back, not one of us his going to have a good day. Least of all him, because Lucifer isn't a car despite his appearance, and his 'engine' is full of things that aren't pistons and a radiator. The back isn't any good either, due to the body Lucifer's slowly digesting. So I put on my best smile, which is damn good, and back it up with a touch of true devilish charm. You know, you're doing such a good job, protecting the fine state of Georgia, and all of its inhabitants surely do thank you from the bottom of their hearts, bless them. I snag the plastic handle of a sixpack with my finger. After all, it's such thirsty work, and don't you and your fine pals just deserve a little break? As it happens, I didn't need to give him the alcohol. He would have done anything I said, all because of my silver tongue. He might have wondered about it when he got his wits back, and that's why I gave him the beer. He's less likely to think about it if there's justification. 

Lucifer rolls over the state line into Decatur County, Georgia. We speed up down State Route 253 until there's no-one in sight. With my feet back up on the dash I slip the magnum back into its holster from where I'd been hiding it behind the door. It's a bitch of a thing to use, and I hate doing it, but it gets the job done and no-one argues once the dust has settled. Plus, it's scary looking, and my job is a lot easier with the right image. You see, I'm the devil.

Inspired by a friend. Seed: The Devil went down to Georgia, but why?