Page 2 of One Hell of a Deal

He laughs. “We barely had our asses in the stools before the bar tender started shouting at us, telling us to get our kiddie asses out of there before he called the cops.” He pauses, smiling and staring off, lost in the memory.

But his joyful expression quickly fades. “We should have just gone straight to a room then, but you know how the guys were. They didn’t plan to give up so easily. On our walk back to the car, this tall, skinny, creepy guy approached us and said he knew a place about twenty minutes out of town, where they serve anyone and everyone. Caught our attention. Mikey pulled out the map, and the man pointed to the intersection and said we would recognize the place by the blue lights on the porch.”

I cringe, perplexed at their naivety. I don’t know where his story is going, but there isn’t a chance in hell that I would have trusted some weirdo sending us to the middle of nowhere.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, nodding slowly. “How could we be so stupid, right?”

“Right.”

“We planned to drive out there and scope it out. We would only go in if it looked safe.”

“Still, sounds pretty dumb,” I say, shrugging. “But go on.”

“It turned out to be a cool place. They never even asked to see our IDs, the beer was cheap, and the atmosphere was super chill. Blues on the stage…pool table and darts…people dancing…it was a great vibe. A couple of hours passed, and while chilling at the bar, we started talking to this fat dude with wonky eyes. He was funny and wanted to hear all about our life in Pennsylvania. We told him about the Sliver, how tough things were, and our lack of any hopeful plans for our futures. Looking back, it was a bit odd how curious he was, but none of us thought much of it at the time.”

He falls quiet again, and I wait patiently for him to find his next words.

“That’s when he started telling us all about a supposed ancestor of his, some famous jazz musician. Told us how he became a musical virtuoso by making a deal with the devil at the crossroads. Then he said we could do the same thing and have the best life we could ever dream of. I am paraphrasing, of course.”

“Of course,” I repeat.

“We asked him if it was a true story, then why didn’t he make a deal himself? He said it was because he would never mess with anything to do with the occult.”

“Sounds smart to me,” I say, shrugging.

“Once again,” he says, shaking his head, “hindsight is twenty-twenty. Mikey and Frank were smart enough to shrug the man off, but I was glued to his every word. You have to understand, I had no options. No money for college. No prospects for any kind of stable future. Shit, I couldn’t even getinto the military because of my damn knee. Plus, I was slightly intoxicated, so there is that.”

“So, you actually tried to summon a demon?” The words coming out of my mouth are perplexing. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking it was worth a try. I hated what my future looked like, and if I had an opportunity to make it better, I was gonna take it.”

I raise my voice, annoyed by his carelessness. “I can't believe you tried to summon…

“I did summon her,” he interrupts, and I snap my mouth shut, frozen. “And she made a deal with me. Sealed it with a kiss and poof, she was gone.”

“Not that I believe any of this, but what was the deal?”

“I asked to be wealthy and successful in every endeavor. Work, love, health, everything.”

“Way to shoot for the stars.” I collapse against my chair, trying to absorb his nonsensical story. “And what did you have to pay for this arrangement?”

“My soul. I'm allowed to enjoy my life for ten years, and then I am taken.”

“Taken?” I sit up. “Taken where?”

He looks at the floor, and his voice cracks. “To hell.”

My mind races. I’ve never heard such a wacko story in my whole life. Garrett’s always been so logical. There’s no way he believes that he actually made a legitimate deal with some kind of demon. Surely, his success has been from hard work or by being in the right place at the right time.

“Garrett, I’m sure your current success has more to do with hard work or luck than some drunken deal you think you’ve made. Maybe you believed in it so much, you made it all happen. You know, like a placebo effect.”

“I’ve grappled with that for years, Max.” He exhales a loud breath. “But the contract was real. And I am running out of time.”

I scootch closer and lean in. “How do you know?”

“You mean besides the fact that I didn’t dream up the demon kiss?” He runs a shaky hand through his hair, “Weeks ago, I started to dream of hellhounds coming for me. It is so real. It’s like I can actually feel their claws scraping at my skin.”

“But those are only dreams,” I say, not sure if I'm more worried about his supposed demon deal or his mental sanity.

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