Free What Would Satan Do? by Anthony Miller

squeaked flatulently as he shifted.  “Unless it’s another torture video from the base in Cuba.  I like those.” 
    “Well, sir, you’re going to want to see this.”  Harris dropped the disc in the player, turned the set to face the governor, and stood back.  “Just watch,” he said.  “Please.”
    The screen showed a slight, disheveled man, dressed in what looked like hospital scrubs.  He sat alone in an empty, institutional room, and muttered to himself as he stared at the floor, rocking back and forth, as if he were in some kind of trance.  “No, no, no, no, no, no...” he droned.
    “What the hell is this?” asked Whitford.
    “Just keep watching.” 
    Clyde Parker watched Harris in very much the same way that a Doberman Pinscher might watch its owner’s pet bunny.
    On the screen the man’s droning rant grew louder.  “No, no, no, no, no, no...”  Suddenly he stood up, grabbing the sides of his head, moaning and turning in circles with increasing violence.  “No! No! No! No! No! ...” 
    “Harris?”
    “Just ... please ... wait, sir.”
    Clyde Parker and the former VP glanced at each other. 
    The man on the screen grabbed the chair and flung it toward the camera.  The picture flashed and flickered and pointed at the ceiling while the man’s moaning rant turned to violent, irregular screams.  “No! No!! Nooo! No! Nooo! No!!”  There was a thudding sound – the sound of the man hitting something with his hands maybe? – and then another, and another, punctuating the man’s screams.  His screaming turned into incoherent howling.  And then it stopped. 
    Whitford glanced at Harris and then at Parker and then back at the screen.  Parker leaned over, as if the edge of the television set were blocking his view and he thought he would be able to see what was really going on if he could only see around it.
    “What the hell is this?” asked the Governor. 
    Samuel Harris didn’t respond, but pressed a button on the remote, skipping ahead slightly to where someone finally repositioned the camera in the movie.  The man was gone.  The chair was gone.  There was a red stain splattered on the wall.
    Whitford scowled.  This was interesting – whatever it was – but it wasn’t as good as an angel.  Cadmon had one – Parker had actually seen it – and Whitford wanted one too.  But looked more and more like he was going to have to settle for something else.  “What happened to the laser?” he asked.  “I thought you were bringing me some kind of laser.  A laser might actually be useful.”
    “We couldn’t get that, sir,” said Harris.  “But this is better.”  He fumbled with the remote, pressing various buttons and kind of waving it at the television, as if that might imbue the infrared signals with a little more oomph.  He finally set the remote down and crouched in front of the machine to fumble with those buttons instead.  The image on the screen froze.  “The CIA had a program,” he said, standing back up.  “They called it Project Baphomet.”
    “Sounds stupid,” croaked Whitford.
    “Yes sir, it was a dumb-sounding name, and it was even a dumb idea – I’ll grant you that.  But what they did – that was not dumb.”  He looked at the Governor and Parker, beaming.
    Parker and the Governor waited, but Harris kept smiling his smug grin.  So Parker took a swaggery step in his direction, and cranked up the Texan in his voice.  “You gonna explain what the hell you’re talking about?  Or you just gonna sit there all day with that shit-eatin’ grin on your face?” he asked.
    Harris’ smile disappeared.  “It was mind control,” he said, pushing his glasses back up his suddenly sweaty nose.  “The program was set up to figure out a way to get people to do what they didn’t want to do.”  He started to roll up his sleeves, but then stopped.  He wiped sweat from his forehead.
    “What does mind control have to do with ... that?”  Whitford