The Demon sat leisurely, his legs crossed, his Courvoisier in his left hand, a long cigarette in a holder in his right. He blew perfect circles of smoke across the table at Joel. They were in one of the Demon’s favorite bars, Chez Bouboule on Avenue Trudaine in Paris. Nearing 2 A.M. and closing time, there were no other patrons, only the bartender, a middle-aged man in a white jacket. At the moment, the Demon looked incredibly like a mid-30s, handsome, well-off young man, wavy black hair to the nape of his neck. Occasionally, his image flashed to the real visage beneath and Joel could see him, but quickly turned away at the ghastly face.
”Joel, Joel, Joel, has it gone so fast? Rather incredible,” the Demon said with a bittersweet tone to his raspy voice.
”Too fast, way too fast, “ Joel responded. He wore a fashionable leather jacket, a cap of a sort, and the tight stretchy jeans that old men had no right to wear. He tossed the cap in the bag on the floor next to his chair. “So where are we now?” Joel asked.
”Where are we now? Where are we now? Jesus Christ, you are so cute, Joel. My goodness did I just say ‘Jesus Christ’. What would the Old Ones think of me?” The Demon chuckled aloud and continued, “Well, we are five days from 50. 50 years that is, as you well know. That was the deal back in 1974. You were 25 then and I promised you fifty years and here we are. I must say you do look excellent for 75, Joel. And you signed on. For better or worse. And it really was better, wasn’t it?”
”I don’t think you delivered. Not really. Not completely, on your side of the bargain.” Joel countered.
”Joel, must I remind you, it was never a bargain. It was a contract,” the Demon explained.
”O.K. A contract. Fine. But you said three wishes. Three. And I was drunk that night. Or high. I don’t remember. And I don’t think you really delivered on your end,” Joel said.
”Alright, let me just back up a moment.” The Demon responded, “Or 50 years of moments. Where were you? Let me correct that. Where were we when this contract was made?”
”New Orleans,” Joel said.
”That’s right, New Orleans, and you were drunk and high,” the Demon explained.
”O.K., O.K.” Joel reluctantly agreed.
”And you were oogling all those girls on the upper balconies with their tossing of beads…and their cups in hand…and their… shall I be polite or not?”
”Be polite,” Joel answered.
”Their torsos, their upper bodies,…exposed. I really should have pursued them a bit more. It might have been more fun than you. But I did…persuade one…to sign on.”
”Poor girl,” Joel said.
”Oh, please, let’s not be melodramatic,” the Demon countered.
”Three, you said three wishes,” Joel said.
”Yes, but remember how the bargain…the contract…works. You could not ask for specific things. You couldn’t ask for a million dollars or to become a movie star or own a jet plane. But you could guarantee 50 years of life.”
”I remember,” Joel said, “I asked for health, success and wisdom.”
”And you received them all,” the Demon said, a smoke ring laced with the smell of brandy wafted into Joel’s face.
”I broke my leg falling off that bike, I needed dental surgery,” Joel countered.
”And you’ve not been sick a single day in your life.”
”I was a high school Math teacher? How is that success?” Joel said.
”And you loved your job, and coaching, and the students, and you taught for 39 years. Is that not success?”
“How do you know all this? How can you keep track?” Joel asked.
”Oh, Joel, we’re very close. You’re never far from my heart. I keep tabs on you. Sometimes I’m very close by and you’re not even aware.”
”And wisdom?” Joel questioned.
”You answer that for yourself, my dear Joel,”
Joel lowered his head. His glass of Cabernet sat untouched. He looked across the room, surveying the dark paneling, the toilette sign, the lacquered bar and the slumping bartender.
”I want to invoke my escape clause,” Joel said.
At this, the Demon sat up rather quickly, folding his legs under his chair and peering intently at Joel. For a moment, he flashed, eyes gaunt holes of reddened fire, a gap where a nose might be, hair stripped of life and dripping with blood or sweat or worse. And the mouth. Joel cast his eyes downward, reached for the Cabernet and took a swallow that burned.
”The escape clause!” The Demon’s voice bubbled with anticipation, “Now this is getting extremely interesting. Do you remember exactly what the escape clause asks? To release you from this…agreement? To free you from this payment that you are soon to make. To free your soul from your body and give it to me. To them?”
”Yes,” Joel’s voice lowered to a whisper, “I have to kill someone.”
”You have to kill someone who is close to you, A relative, a friend, a spouse,” the Demon responded.
”Are you immortal?” Joel asked.
The question caught the Demon off-guard.
”Immortal? No, but I have lived a very long time. I came into being, as you see me now, sometime in the 17th century. But immortal, no. I had tuberculosis 150 years ago. I’m not a spirit, or a ghost, or a god. I am what I am.”
”And we are close,” Joel said.
He stooped, grabbed something from his bag and leaned quickly across the table. The Smith & Wesson 500 leveled straight and firm five inches from the Demons face. The ensuing six explosions caused Joel’s ears to ring. At each report, Joel cantered the gun, two inches
lower, two inches higher, a kick to the left, a kick to the right.
The Demon’s head cratered into imploding volcanic gore. The back of its skull disappeared into the opposite wall. One hand, turning back to a claw, crushed the glass in its grasp. Blood and other viscous tissue flew off the headless shoulders. Where once there was a face, now existed nothing. Smoke rose from the barrel. The bartender was gone.
”We were close,” Joel said.
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