Agnew on Mt. Rushmore
Satan slid the microphone into the stand and made his way to the stool, where he regularly caroused between sets. Crozier, the beefy ex-sailor tending bar, had a tray of drinks waiting. Satan raised a shot to eye level and turned it lovingly, watching shards of ice dance in the dimly lit room.
The recipe was an incendiary concoction of his own invention, dramatically dubbed a Freezer Burn during a particularly rowdy evening with several Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. It was equal parts Stoli pepper vodka and cinnamon schnapps, both right out of the deep freeze, spiked with Tabasco. After numerous failed attempts, he had finally succeeded in teaching Crozier how to make them just right.
Satan caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He had a narrow, pinched face, a pencil-thin mustache, and jet-black hair combed straight back. Devilishly handsome in a sleazy, bad boy sort of way, he was pretty much a regular guy, except that he tended to make love with his socks on, having figured out several centuries back, women found the whole cloven-hoof-thing a real turn off.
So begins the sidesplitting sequel to Mr Mojo Risin.
Satan, a deranged Senator, and a thermonuclear weapons designer with a couple of suitcase nukes walk into a bar. Sounds like the beginning of an off-color joke, right? The whole thing would be funnier if the punch line wasn’t a sizable chunk of southern Nevada and a million hapless souls reduced to radioactive rubble in a hot millisecond.
In a scheme to extort billions from Uncle Sam, the Dark Lord and his friends are threatening to nuke Las Vegas and turn some very expensive casino real estate into ground zero. Time is short. Local law enforcement and the FBI are playing catch-up. The fat lady might not be singing yet, but she’s backstage warming her pipes with a nuclear blowtorch. Only Morrison, Elvis, Hendrix and their oddball collection of allies stand between Sin City and Armageddon.