Legally Binding

“You actually met the Devil?”

“Sure did.”

“Whoa.”

John sipped beer from his stein leisurely, secretly wallowing in the attention from the nearby drunks. They stared at him with wide, glassy eyes; sandbags of insomnia pulling the flesh around their eyes down into a droop, mouths half open in tired shock and awe.

“What was he like?”

He turned a hazel eye in the direction of the question. “Oh, you know. Casual. Loose.” He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “You see him every day, really. On the street corner, in an office building, in the apartment next to you…”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Whoa.”

He slurped loudly on the edge of the glass.

“What did he wear? The Devil? What did the Devil wear when you saw him?”

A chuckle rumbled in John’s throat. “A red Zoot suit with a gold chain looped around the belt.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Pocket watch or something. I didn’t ask.”

“What did you ask?”

“The meaning of it all. Good and evil and God and verification of…” he trailed off as he peered at his spectators. “Well, the usual stuff. You know.”

“Oh right, yeah… yeah…” they nodded in understanding while the bartender smirked behind them.

“So was there fire and brimstone? And—and did you sell your soul to him?”

John quirked a sharp grin. “Sure did.”

“Hope you got somethin’ good for it!”

“You bet.” The grin remained slashed into his face.

“What’d ya get?”

He shook his head. “That’s only for me to know, boys.”

“And speaking of which,” the bartender spoke up for the first time that night, “it’s closing time. Everybody outta here.” He was met with general moans of disapproval.

“Oh, come on barman, jus’ one more round—John ‘ere ‘asn’t finished ‘is story yet!”

“True story!” John snapped and pointed in the man’s direction.

“Nope, sorry. Bar’s closing, and I want to get home. You boys need to go back to your wives, too! Now I don’t wanna hear it.”

The grumbling stopped when the door shut for the last time, leaving the Bartender to finish cleaning up, and John perched at the counter.

“So John, what did you get for your soul?” He set a glass on the shelf and threw the rag in the sink. He leaned on the counter.

“Ah man,” John waved his hand again. “That was just a story. I thought I was going to get to the punch line, but I never got around to finishing it.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.” He raised an eyebrow.

“No, just thought you’d really had met him, you know?” He stood straight and grabbed another rag, wetting it down to wash the counter off.

“Nah. He doesn’t even exist, in my book.” John picked himself up off the stool and leaned with his back against the bar. “The way I see it, there ain’t no such thing as a soul, or a higher power, or whatever. When we die, we’re eaten by maggots and worms and bacteria or whatever. We—our brains, up here—” he tapped his temple with his finger, “—we’re freaks a’ nature, see? It’s all up here in our heads.”

The bartender quirked a bemused brow in his direction. “You think so? No afterlife or anything?”

“Nah. My vote goes to hedonism, all the way—ya got one life, and that’s it, you know? May as well have fun.”

“May as well.” He finished with the counter, then moved toward the booths lining the walls. “I met him once.”

“Who?”

“The Devil.”

“Ah, you’re kidding me, man. I play these tricks with those sods; I know when I’m being tricked.” John laughed and sat back on his stool.

“I’m not tricking you. Serious.” He raised his hands in mock defense, before going back to the table he had been wiping.

“Really?”

“Honest.”

John didn’t reply for awhile, until: “What was he like?”

“He wore a Zoot suit.”

“Man!”

The bartender smirked and John just laughed some more. “Alright, then. What did you exchange for your soul, smartass?”

“Immortality.” The bartender had moved on to the next table.

“Really?”

“Honest.”

“So how’s that working out for ya?”

“Well,” the bartender stood up straight and cracked his neck in thought. “Not too bad, I guess. Has its ups and downs, you know. Every so often I have to convince some poor sap to sign his soul to me so I can get his years of remaining life tacked on to mine.”

John chuckled, playing along. “And how do you do that?”

“Easy, really.” The barman pulled a pen out of his pocket and handed it to John. “Here, write on that napkin.”

“Alright.”

“First write your name at the top of the napkin.”

“Done.”

“Now right the following,” He held his head up straight and gazed sightlessly, as if he were professionally dictating something of great importance. “‘I,’”

“I,” John repeated, as he wrote on the napkin.

“‘The undersigned owner of the abovementioned registered soul, do hereby renounce ownership of and authority over said soul to the custody of the opposite party. I understand and agree to the following term; I will not, under any circumstance, attempt to regain my soul at any time in this life, or any other lives proceeding this life, i.e. the afterlife, and accept the consequences of Purgatory, or at worst, Hell itself.’” He inserted pauses as necessary for John to keep up.

“So what do I get out of this agreement?”

“Oh, nothing.” The barman resumed his work on the remaining tables. “I just get the rest of your life—basically your soul—and you pretty much get nothing at all.”

John filled the room with his laughter. “Oh man, whatta ya know? I just signed my life away—literally! Hah, you sure are a trip.” Shaking his head with the remnants of his chortles, got of the stool and examined his handiwork.

The barman smirked and leaned over his shoulder. “You signed it?”

“Just for you, buddy.” John stood, and made his way toward the door.

The bartender waited until he was at the door before he spoke up. “I lied to you, you know.”

“What was that?” John turned and looked at him.

“I never actually met the Devil.” He picked up the napkin on the table, and held it up for John to see. “You see, I am the Devil.”

He ate the contract.

And John burst into flames.