“I know you’re down there watching,” he roared at his apartment. “I hear ya laughing at me so much now, it sounds like my own goddam laugh! When do I get to cut a deal, anyway? Church makes out like you turn up whenever a guy spits on a Sunday, but I done the works for you, and I got stood up! Whattaya, scared to do business with a real player? One salesman to another? Please, fertheluvvaGod––”
As his first sacrificial tear hit the floor, his front door opened, without any of his locks unlocking, without tripping any of his traps. Just opened. And in walked a blasé, coolcat sonofabitch in a vintage Botany 500 sharkskin suit and scuffed black wingtips. No horns, no red warty skin or forked tail… not even a sinister beard.
Where a lesser man might’ve fainted with shock or repentance, Mr. Furst was beside himself at the lack of ceremony; ignore a guy’s heart-rending pleas and backbreaking toil in the service of blasphemy for a whole month, only to breeze in through the front door dressed like a used-car salesman, without so much as stinking up the joint with brimstone? It rankled, but Mr. Furst wasn’t the sort to jump down a guy’s throat about details. Cut it and drink from it, maybe, but never jump down it.
The coolcat sonofabitch took a fierce hit off his cigarette like he was sucking poison out of a snakebite and said, “Picture, if you will––”
“Shut up. You gimme a cig first, then we’ll talk turkey, and I’m gettin’ extra gravy on mine, on account of how you kept me waiting.” He tapped his imitation Rolex to drive home the pointy point. Mr. Furst was never one to let a mark get the first––or the last––word in. He didn’t get to be Senior Appliance Salesman at The Good Guys by letting goons off the street dictate terms to him, and damned if he’d do business any different with the Prince of Darkness.
“Ah, yes.” The Devil smiled like a guy looking into a TV camera that only he could see. “Mr. Emil Furst. Takes his business brief, his drinks out of the bottle and his meals from the lunchboxes of slain virgins.”
“So you were watchin’. I was wondering what it took to make you come around.”
“What it takes, Mr. Furst, is a far rarer culinary offering, one not served since long before Rome burned or the ice caps froze, not since Hector––”
“Soul, yeah, you want my soul. Quit talkin’ in circles.”
“I do apologize.”
“And I wanna smoke.”
“Again, I beg your pardon, but I have only this one. But it never burns down.” He puffed hard to prove it. “It was a gift from the R&D people at Phillip Morris. Unmarketable, of course––”
Mr. Furst made a lobster-claw of his fingers and shoved it under the Devil’s nose. “Give it here.”
The Devil bethought himself a moment, then handed it over. “Yours, as a token of my esteem. As I was saying––”
“You mean this’ll never go out?”
“Eternal. It’s a long way between convenience stores, along some routes in my domain.”
“Can’t crush it out?”
“Impossible.”
“Dunk it in water?”
“It would not only be futile––”
“Great. Get on with it.”
The Devil smiled obligingly. “Of course. Now, in all fairness, you must admit that what you bring to the table is somewhat tarnished to begin with, so––”
“Whattaya mean, ‘tarnished’? My soul’s as pure as the next guy’s.”
“On the contrary. Even before your campaign of terror to get my attention, your soul was never any priceless asset. It’s a fair bet you’d have been mine anyway, barring some miraculous deathbed repentance. Had you given it any thought, you might’ve realized that all you had to do was perform a few outstandingly good works, and I’d have been at your side with all the theatrics you crave in an instant. Still, I don’t get much chance to do this kind of bare-knuckle horse-trading anymore––”
“You know, you’re not the only one out there buying up souls.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that. The old milieu guaranteed us such a vast market share that we became careless about image, and it’s no surprise, by benefit of hindsight, that so many people have taken their business elsewhere. There’s more than a few out there collecting, and their offers are tempting, but whom can you trust? They’re not bound by the same regulations as I––”
“So I’m supposed to cry for you?”
“Remember who called whom, Mr. Furst.” Tapping his own fake Rolex.
“Okay, brass tacks. I was gonna ask for money and broads and shit, but then it hits me. I won’t ‘preciate any of that ‘cause I didn’t earn it. Then I get depressed, I get crazy, I get dead, and I go to Hell and get the shaft forever and a day, am I right?”
“You’ve seen right through us, Mr. Furst.”
“So I didn’t know what to ask for. At least not until you give me this cig, then I get an angle. I wanna live forever. No funny business, no fine print. I LIVE FOREVER. That way, I’ll have all the time in the world to earn the good life, so’s I can ‘preciate it with a clean conscience. Dig?”
“Like a sexton’s shovel in 14th century Venice, Mr. Furst. You’re the kind of man with an appetite for towering achievements, who lives for the thrill of still-greater prospects ahead.”
“That’s me all over.”
“I’m just afraid that’s an awfully tall order for a soul so shabby, that we’ll never even collect on...”
“I’ll throw you so many referrals along the way, you’ll never want to see me come back.”
“I’m sure if you look at it from my perspective, we can come to a more reasonable settlement––”
“No deal! I live forever, and I pass the word on about what a swell guy you are, or I’m takin’ a walk! Or maybe I go into the soul-collecting business myself...”
The Devil, who had gradually sagged into his ash-flecked blazer under the ferocious barrage of Emil Furst’s salesmanship, suddenly seemed to forget himself and Furst thought he saw what lay beneath his mask: a nightmare patchwork of intertwined animal horns and countless baleful black eyes, and below them, an unspeakable entanglement of bestial genitalia––a scaly, venom-sweating tongue lovelessly fucking its own dung-encrusted mouth––and all of it sheathed in a cold, blue-black fire that was its punishment as well as its protection.
Inside and out, not a molecule of Emil Furst stirred, but for the spreading stain on the front of his pants.
And then the mask was back, which was ever so much better. “No need for threats,” averred the Devil. “I think we can afford to take one on the chin, if it’ll spark up some life in the market. You’ll be sure to tell all your friends, if you ever chance to make any?” The Devil looked almost obsequious as he fished a checkbook-sized ledger out of his breast pocket.
“I got a secretary back at the store, gave it up to me for a baggie of marching powder, she’d probably sell her soul to you for a nice pair of shoes. You gonna write up the deal now?” He edged up alongside the Devil with his two-dollar reading glasses on. This was when a real salesman screwed the customer, yes indeed. Extended service warranty, delivery charges, and so on. They never read the fine print, and Furst dragged them through hell every time.
“Make that ‘forever an a day,’ just like I said before. And that ‘achievements and prospects’ bit too. I don’t want no boring eternity.” The Devil obligingly spelled it out and signed on his dotted line, then passed the pen and ledger to Mr. Furst.
“Not so fast, let a guy read.” His lips moving with painstaking care, he perused the contract. It was neither as complicated nor as elaborate as he’d expected––hell, it was simpler and homelier than the form he had to fill out to get copies made. “I, Emil Furst, accept the agreed upon terms entitling me to eternal life on earth in present indestructible corporeal state, to enjoy satisfaction of great achievements and grand prospects, in return for my immortal soul, for a term of not less than forever and a day. I understand that all force majeure clauses are herewith suspended, and that this contra
ct can only be terminated by mutual agreement of both parties.” He grumbled over some of the larger words for a while, then signed it.
“Best deal anyone’s ever gotten out of Hell, Mr. Furst. When you spread the word, don’t let’s be too honest about our terms, please?” The Devil looked around as Furst studied his carbon receipt for the fiftieth. “Lovely place you’ve got here. One could spend eternity here and never want for comfort.”
“It’s a dump, but I like my privacy. I own it outright and tax free, and I’m tapped into municipal power and water and the neighbor’s cable, so there’s no bills. See, Devil? Nobody screws Emil Furst.”
“Indeed. Well, if our business, then, is at an end…”
“And I get to keep the cigarette?”
“You and that cigarette were made for each other, Mr. Furst. Don’t worry about a thing. We couldn’t collect from you without your voluntary compliance, and frankly, we wouldn’t have room for you, anyway. An eternity of pleasure and anticipation awaits, Mr. Furst. A latter-day Sisyphus, you are. All the world at your feet in no time, I have no doubt.”
The Devil’s velvety logorrhea rolled over Furst like a hot, balmy wind, but he was sharp enough to catch the false note. “What did you call me? D’you call me a sissy?”
“You know, the best kind of deal is when each party walk away believing they’ve gotten the best of the other.”
“Yeah, pleasure doing business with you, too. Get the hell out.”
“Be seeing you,” the Devil murmured, and left. The locks relocked, the traps reset, and Furst was alone. He stood there and thawed for a moment, the realization sinking in like the nicotine stain and carbon ink on his fingers.
He couldn’t die! The list of things he’d do, the places he’d wreck, the people he’d settle up with... More, he’d beaten the Devil at his own game. He’d screwed the tits off the patron saint of salesmen, and he’d only go up from there. That crack he’d made about going into the soul business himself had seemed to rattle His Satanic Majesty an awful lot. Maybe he could drive the Devil out of the Devil business. But first, he’d go out to have a drink, celebrate...
Before the door, he fumbled out his key ring. So many keys on it, five for the front door alone, two for the car, one for the bank night deposit, and his pocketknife and a bottle opener and a mini-flashlight, besides. It was hard to juggle with the lit cigarette, and, as he often did, he dropped them onto the bare, poured-concrete floor.
Leaning over, cursing his keys and their mothers and his own as well, he picked them up. He took a deep, satisfying hit off the eternal cigarette. Emil Furst, the man who beat the Devil today and who’s gonna do it again tomorrow, can’t even hold onto his keys. He laughed.
And the man who beat the Devil dropped his keys.
And he picked them up.
And took a hit off the cigarette.
And laughed.
And dropped his keys...
“OK, you win, Devil,” said Emil Furst, about a hundred years later. “Come and get me…”
And the Devil said, “No.”
~*~
And how long have you been suffering from these delusions?
For as long as I can remember. Sometimes, they’re all I can remember.
Please elaborate.
I have no childhood, no memories to hold onto except these contrived, cruel situations I keep getting forced into. The only time things seem focused, tangible is when they happen.
But why do you harbor such disgust for them, if you believe they’re real life, and this experience only a dream?
As shabby as they are––and the prose that describes them… God, how I wish I at least had my own words for them––they’re so much more real than anything here. I can’t really see your face, for instance. Or the plaques on your office wall; they’re just gray shades, props with no words on them. Everything is like that, Doctor, people, things, my own body. All I can feel is a vague sense of weight and a feeling of repulsion, of animosity.
You feel that inanimate objects wish to do you harm?
No. Just that they want to push me out. They ignore me, they break down, they get lost, they get sick and die, they stand me up, they catch fire, they get scratched up by the cat or melt in the sun, they don’t return my calls. They repel me, they push me out… into the stories. At least in there, there’s some sort of connection. I have a family or a wife or a position of power, though it always turns to shit in some cheaply ironic fashion. Or He makes me an evil person, a cardboard shitheel who deserves every sadistic, ridiculous thing that happens to him.
And you believe that God is to blame for this, that you’re some kind of pawn for his amusement…
No, not at all. God wouldn’t make worlds like these: flawed, unfinished, breaking down and not there at all when nobody’s looking. No, most of the time, I think I’m in the hands of a Demiurge. Do you know Gnosticism, Doctor?
Not as well as you seem to.
God doesn’t have anything to do with the Material world. For him, it’d be like playing in his own shit. A Demiurge created the world, and its flaws are a reflection of his tortured, self-hating soul. Everything in it is poorly conceived, and wants to fall apart. We’re all puppets. This world is the closet I lie in until he takes me out to make me play his sadistic games.
It gratifies you, however, to be the special object of these episodes. You feel important, as the focal point of his attentions.
It sickens me. He traps me in these awful situations, warping my character into a hapless victim for whatever monstrous scenario He’s concocted. No matter what I try to do, I’m sticking my head into the noose, even as I’m crying out to stop. It’s hell for me, knowing that whenever the whim strikes Him, it’ll happen. And all too often, they start and never stop, and a part of me is trapped forever in some ill-conceived, aborted fragment…another bit of me in the trunk.
Yet you find this world so oppressive and alienating. Haven’t you invested quite a lot of energy in making these escapes of yours seem real? And doesn’t their punitive violence reflect your own feelings of inadequacy, that you can’t grant yourself even the boon of a rewarding fantasy life?
No! Nobody hates himself this much! You don’t know what it’s like… Oh, God, it’s like—
~*~
Jarvis Glaublich felt empty inside, a hollow shell against which people and events flailed and battered, like blind, dysfunctional machines on a disassembly line. The faith of his parents offered no revelations to fill him with light, only deeper shadows that covered the secret workings of life. Hadn’t they themselves been deprived of all but the knowledge that they were flawed and dirty vessels, speaking of nothing with passion and enjoying sexual congress only through a hole in a sheet? He walked the earth in the trappings of a beast of burden, but without the serenity of a beast’s corporeal understanding of its true role. If there was a great central Truth which could fill him, he would gladly pledge his soul, kill or die for it, and rest in peace. But his was not a seeker’s nature, and though his hunger for faith gnawed him inside, he settled for it, because it was not emptiness.
One thing which Jarvis’s inherited faith did instill was an assiduous work ethic, which propelled him to a position of median responsibility without any real enthusiasm on his part. So it was that, laid over in a strange, fogbound city long after midnight while on a business trip, he was chased down a dim side street by a rampaging psychotic with pendular throat tumors like the wattles of a frilled lizard, who chanted, “Beatupwhitepeople, taketheystuff,” in time to the rhythm of his fist pounding the side of his own head. Terrified, Jarvis dragged his suitcase by its leash even after the wheels had all broken off. It skipped behind him like a runaway sled, and swept his feet out from under him when he stopped at a lighted street corner.
A woman stood beneath the lamppost, wearing a long woolen coat and a stocking cap. She held a clipboard in one hand and reached out to Jarvis with the other, her warm smile smothering his primal terror like a security
blanket.
“You look like you could use some help. Would you like to come inside?” she said, and when he looked around, he found she’d dispelled the maniac, or at least defrayed him. Still, it was only out of residual fear for his safety that he accepted her invitation.
She explained as she led him up the street that she was a member of a nondenominational outreach program dedicated to self-improvement. They stopped before an office building that, alone among all the buildings on the block, glowed with lights and hummed with activity. People moved about behind the grimy windows, animated by a sense of purpose and imbued with a radiant wellbeing that struck Jarvis harder than his suitcase.
“Have you ever felt empty inside, Mr. Glaublich?” she asked, and he sputtered until he remembered he’d already offered his name.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Only to take a brief personality test, like a survey. Then, if you’re interested in what we have to tell you about yourself, you can learn more.” Was it the hunger of his faithlessness, the warm, smiling woman beside him, or the cancerous monster skulking beyond the glow of the lamp that set Jarvis Glaublich upon his path? Or was it you, ungentle Reader, without whom he might never have existed, at all?
The survey took only fifteen minutes. Jarvis had done personality tests in college that lasted for hours and well over a thousand questions, and offered reflections of himself as true as a funhouse mirror made of lead. But with twenty questions, the nice lady effortlessly parsed Jarvis Glaublich’s invisible skein of Gordian angst. She catalogued him and his mountainous freight of woes in the third person, and he wept to hear this man’s trouble. How did he live? On what shared article of faith did the cells of his organism agree to slog through this life, and not fly apart to lead successful, solitary lives as dust-eating amoebae? What was it all for, anyway? The questions burned holes in his brain, spilled out of his mouth.
“You can’t find the answers to those questions in your fleshly body. The mortal senses cannot comprehend the truths of the universe, any more than a cell of the body can comprehend the larger purpose of the whole.”
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