Walking back to the Fairmont, I noticed a van parked on a corner of one of the side streets I passed. It was painted dull black and had reflector stick-on numbers on the back window: 666. I glanced inside the van as I passed. A man, about forty-five or -six with a scraggly beard, sat in the passenger-side seat. He had a large potbelly barely covered by a faded-gray T-shirt. Around his neck he wore a pentagram. I had obviously just seen—Satan’s Van.