That dude in the limo down at the crossroads? Sure, make a deal with him.
For some souls, he definitely overpays.
For some souls, he definitely overpays.
Crossroads by Anthony Ferguson
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Joey Lynch was a no good bum. He knew that.
The world knew that. Even in the low circles he moved in, his reputation was
shot. Bad debts to bad people. Joey knew his cards were marked.
That’s why Joey stood at the crossroads at
midnight on the wrong side of town. Right under the spot where they used to
hang murderers, so the story went. Superstitious fairy-tales they may have
been, but the old bartender had told him the story to a Robert Johnson blues
track, about how a man could turn his luck by making a deal with a certain
gentleman. Poor Joey was in no position to refuse, backed against a wall, a
metaphorical gun to his head that was too close to becoming literal.
Joey belched whisky fumes in the cold
witching hour air. He was turning to leave when the black limo eased up beside
him and the window slid down.
Two minutes later he was shaking the
Devil’s hand.
“But none of your tricks, Lucifer,” Joey
warned. “I’m wise to your games.”
“My word is my honour,” the Devil replied,
a glint in his golden eye.
“So I get a fifty dollar bill, every time I
stick my hand in my pocket, agreed? From any pair of pants I wear, any time,
for the rest of my long and fruitful life. After which, you get my soul.”
Satan cocked an eyebrow. “It’s a strange
request, but as you wish.”
“Your word?”
“Try your pocket.”
Joey dipped a hand in, it came up empty.
“Try the other hand,” Lucifer shrugged.
Joey tried his left, came up with a fifty.
He whooped in delight. The Devil grinned and produced a parchment.
“Sign here, but be sure to read the small
print.”
Joey snorted and snatched the pen away. “The
fuck do I care about my soul? Just gimme everything in this world.”
The following months were a blur for Joey.
His debts repaid, his reputation restored. He was king of the underworld, lord
of the flies. Beelzebub was as good as his word, the fifties flourished every
time Joey reached into his pocket.
With the money, new friends appeared, and
the women flocked. They came in droves, until he grew weary of their snarling,
grasping, and demanding. Never once did he hear anyone say they loved him.
If Joey had heeded the Devil’s advice, he
would have read it all in the small print, but alas, poor Joey, ever more the
stranger in a crowded room. Surrounded by many and cherished by none. He moved
out of the gutter into the penthouse, but the sewer still overflowed.
Joey gave the mug a bitter smile. Lank
hair, pallid skin, restless eyes. Like looking in a mirror at his old self. He
watched the bum pocket his money. Plenty more where that came from.
“That all you got, man?”
“Afraid so,” Joey shrugged. “Funny, you
kind of remind me of myself not so long ago. Dare to dream, pal.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” the thief replied,
and made to turn away before hesitating. “Before you go.”
“Yeah?”
The thug gestured with the knife. His eyes
flashing gold in the moonlight.
“Empty your pockets.”
