by C.A. Masterson
I sit at an outdoor bistro table at Claudia’s Café and sip my coffee. As I open my morning paper to the classifieds, the ad jumps out at me:
Tired of your mundane existence? Ready for fame, fortune?
Play now, pay later. Call 666-0666 today.
I am desperate. Having just been canned from my waiter’s job last night, and from the dishwashing job the week before, and from the dog walking gig I’d only just started – okay, I’d been really desperate when I did that one – I think, Why the hell not? as I pull out my cell phone and dial.
A woman’s perky voice says: Hello. Press 1 for fame, 2 for fortune, 3 if you want it all.
No contest. Number 3.
“Hello,” says a woman’s honey-silky voice. “How may I help you?”
I’m sure I can think of many ways. “Hi. I just read your ad, and was kind of curious.”
“That’s understandable. You’ve indicated your interest in both fame and fortune. May I inquire in what area?”
“I’m a writer – short stories, novels, articles, whatever I can get. Only I’m having a lot of trouble getting published.” Why am I telling her this?
“I see. So you’d like to become a bestselling novelist? Is that a fair assumption?”
“That’s dead on.”
She gives one of those truncated giggles that ends in a hnnn, as if we’re sharing some private joke. “Interesting choice of words. But then, you’re a writer.”
“So tell me, what’s the deal?”
“I can set up an appointment for you right away.”
“Okay, but for what?”
I’ve hardly spoken the words when, with a whoosh, my table is enclosed in a darkened room, lit by candles and a snapping, hissing fireplace. An incredibly gorgeous woman in a long black satiny dress glides from the shadows and sits opposite me. Sparkling dark eyes and full crimson lips, set in a sultry smile, offset her pale face.
A spiky-haired waiter materializes by the table, a stench like roadkill wafts in after.
“Can I get you anything, ma’am?”
“Cognac, please.” She smiles at him, apparently unaffected by the foul smell, a reek so strong I cover my mouth with my napkin. He does a 360, hands her a snifter.
“Sir?” The waiter turns toward me, and I see that what I initially thought to be acne was actually flesh rotting away in layers. I shake my head slowly, stomach churning.
The woman lifts a laptop to the table, her red-nailed fingers picking expertly at the keys. “So, Jeremy Giles, age 22. You’re seeking fame and fortune as a writer?”
Had I given the receptionist my name? “Uh, yeah. I’ve been writing since I was twelve, but I’m having trouble getting published.”
“A common complaint.”
“I just got my 666th rejection in the mail yesterday.”
The woman smiles, a knowing look in her eyes.
My mouth falls open, my brain having just connected the 666 phone number to the number of rejections to The Exorcist.
“You’re…”
“Satan. Immortalized in story and song. I prefer the Rolling Stones’ tune myself, but Mick is a special client anyway.”
“You mean…”
She frowns at me. “Come now, Mr. Giles. For a writer, you seem not to have a keen grasp of language.”
I sit up straighter, focus on the candle so I can clear my brain of other thoughts, nasty thoughts I can’t stop thinking while I look at her. “I’m much better on paper. I have no trouble with the flow of words there. Anyway, this whole situation is a little much to take in all at once. And even if I had been expecting to see,” I gulp, “Satan, I certainly wasn’t expecting an incredibly beautiful woman.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I thought it might be interesting to mix things up a little.” She sips her cognac, folds her hands underneath her chin. “Now that you understand, are you interested? It’s the standard deal.”
“Fame and fortune in exchange for my soul?”
“What else?”
I shrug. “I guess I should have figured my writing was going to hell after that last rejection.”
We share a brief laugh, and Satan stands. I scramble to my feet. She soundlessly walks to the shadows, returns holding an old feather in her outstretched palm.
“This,” she says, “is the answer to your dilemma.”
“A feather? What is it, magic? Like a wand?”
Her laugh echoes as if from within an immense chamber. “You’ve been reading too much Harry Potter. This is the same quill used by Plato, by Shakespeare, and more recently, by Hemingway.”
“Hemingway?”
“And King, Higgins Clarke, Steele,” she says. “If you accept this quill, you are in effect signing over your soul to me. Of course, you’ll still need to complete the paperwork.”
“What’s so special about this quill?”
The corners of her mouth curl in a smile. “With this pen, you can write your own story.”
“You mean, whatever I write will happen?” My fingers itch to touch the quill, to hold it between forefinger and thumb, to begin writing. I’ve had so many stories swirling in my head, and more begin sprouting with the notion that I could write any fiction and it would become fact, fairy tales would become fodder for CNN. She must see the gleam of greed in my eye. She sidles toward me, holds the quill before her cavernous cleavage.
“Just think of the power contained in this tiny writing instrument,” she whispers.
“It’s been said that the pen’s mightier than the sword.”
“It’s yours for the taking.” I try to ignore the fact that her voice is now a raspy hiss, that she seems to slither around me. I find the quill’s allure overwhelming as she holds it nearer. My fingers are about to close around it when she snatches it away.
“With one proviso.”
“What is it?” I have to have that pen, I’ll agree to anything now.
“You must agree not to write any story aiming to end this contract. You must surrender your soul to me for all eternity.”
That had been my first thought. Apparently not an original one.
“All right, all right! Just give me that quill!”
Tongues of flame leap higher in the fireplace in a hissing, popping cheer.
Her eyelids undulate, as if willing me to do her bidding. “Open your hand.”
I do as she commands, like a child. Her warm hand closes around mine as she lays the quill in my palm, then slides her hand up my arm and around my neck.
“We’ll seal our deal with a kiss.” The pupils of her eyes glow like embers as her lips meet mine, her tongue hot and moist, and I swear it feels divided, as forked as a serpent’s. My head spins, and dizzy, I squeeze my eyes shut. When I reopen them, I am in my apartment, sitting at my writing table. I touch the quill to my writing pad, and words flow through the pen effortlessly, culled from the deep reaches of my brain, and beyond, even, from that vast well of writerly thoughts and ideas that seems to connect all writers somewhere in the great beyond.
The quill feels so well balanced in my hand, it could have been made by a sorcerer who crafted it to do most of the work of writing itself. It has no need of an inkwell, it drew from some invisible, infinite source. The extremely fine nib draws my words exquisitely, so that each phrase is itself perfectly balanced within the sentence, and the sentence – executed in near-calligraphic script – is eloquent as it skips across the page like a Bach sonata.
I’ve been up all night, writing without any break. My hand is cramped, my back aches from hunching over the table. Two very assertive knocks sound at my door. I gasp in alarm. I’m two weeks late with the rent again; it must be the landlord with an eviction notice. I hold still, my senses heightened, like a rabbit ready to bolt out of reach of the hound dog.
“Hello? Open up. It’s Darlene, your agent.”
My what?
“I was sent here by Ms. S. Let’s go, I’m on a tight schedule.”
I creep to the door, peer out the peephole.
The woman outside has her long hair pulled back tight against her head. Behind narrow black-rimmed glasses, her eyes flash red.
Whoa. The agent from Hell. Literally.
“Tick tock,” she says to the peephole.
I open the door, she briskly steps into my cramped apartment, but my life feels wide open to anything she can do for me.
“First off, we have some unfinished paperwork to take care of.” She sits on my sofa, pulls multiple copies of a contract from her black leather briefcase.
“Sign here, and here. With the quill.”
I realize it hasn’t left my hand since Satan put it there.
Her tight smile indicates waning patience. “Right here.”
My eyes skim the terms, all looks to be in order. My eternal soul seems a small price for eternal literary reverance.
I hesitate. “I’d like to add two clauses.”
Her nostrils flare, and I swear I see tendrils of smoke. Undaunted, I continue. “All writing will be my own original work – nothing gets written that isn’t my own story, from my own imagination.”
She draws one eyebrow up. “And?”
“No bad reviews. Ever.”
Her lips purse, she holds a finger to the earpiece connected to her cell phone, then nods. “Done.”
I look at the contracts. There it is: All work produced using the quill shall be original content of the author, no other. It is heretofore agreed that any critiques or reviews, written or oral, shall be one hundred percent [100 %] praise, with comparisons to literary greats, i.e., Faulkner, Shakespeare, etc., as appropriate.
“Great. Thank you.” The tip of the quill touches the line, and my signature appears on all three copies.
Darlene consults her watch. “Have to run. I‘m negotiating you a book deal today.”
“Wow, that’s amazing. That’s really great service.”
She stands, bending to gather her things. “Of course. Satan uses only the best. I’m an attorney, I was at the top of my game when…”
A patch of red stains her back between her shoulder blades.
“Uh…” I mumble, and she glances behind her as I point dumbly.
“Sorry. It happens sometimes when I relive the fateful moment.” With a snap of her fingers, the stain ebbs quickly to nothing.
“I’ll give you a call later.” She swishes out the door.
“Bye.” I listen, but hear no footsteps on the stairs. She’s gone.
I’m exhausted. Falling back on the sofa, I’m overcome by a dreamless sleep until I’m awakened hours later by my cell phone.
It’s Darlene. “You have an appointment Monday at the Red Room at 11:30 – be a few minutes early, they don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Will you be there?”
“Absolutely. You’re clueless with regard to legal matters.”
***
Over an Oriental chicken salad, French onion soup and bratwurst, we negotiate a six-figure three-book deal. Darlene was right, the fine art of legalities elude me, so I let her do all the talking, I just nod when prompted.
My first book is a runaway best seller, and stays at the top of the NY Times list until my second novel knocks it to the number two slot. But the celebrity aspect begins to wear thin – always getting stopped for autographs, having to move to a more secure building, the endless invitations to do speeches, signings, readings. I’m tired of the constant reminders that I am to be soulless immediately upon death. I don’t like being owned by anyone – not my publisher, not Satan.
Then an idea hits me as I ride in the back seat of the limo to yet another literacy event. I take the quill from my shirt pocket – I always keep it close to me – and begin writing.
Satan immediately appears next to me. She looks even more gorgeous in red silk – it suits her.
She tsk’s, tries to frown through her smile, as if I were a naughty schoolboy. “You’re violating your contract, Jeremy. We can’t have that.” Her long red fingernails tickle my ear.
“I believe you’re mistaken. My contract says I can’t write a story intended to break said contract.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s not what this is.”
“Don’t toy with me.”
“Much as I’d love to,” I say, ogling her luscious melons perched above her slim waist, curvaceous hips, slender legs, “I’m not.” I smile. “You should have been more careful with your word choices.”
Her red cell phone glows. “Get up here immediately.”
Attorney minions of all sizes crowd the seat across from us, each with earpiece cell phones, copies of my contract in hand, arguing the validity of my claim.
Satan snaps her fingers once, points to the largest attorney in the center, apparently one of greater importance. “Speak.”
His speech stutters in his haste. “It’s an unforeseeable loophole. Technically, he’s right.”
Flames leap in her eyes. “LOOPHOLE!” She curses in what sounds like Latin, French, Italian, possibly Swahili. I admire her easy command of so many languages.
The lawyers babble apologetically, each straining to explain the mistake. With another snap of her fingers, each morphs into a snake or a rat, and begin devouring one another. She leans forward, drooling a little from her smirking mouth.
“This is boring.” She snaps again, and there is no trace of them.
She turns to me. “Well. I haven’t faced an embarrassing dilemma such as this for eons. I congratulate you.”
I shrug. “Writers are very resourceful and imaginative. I’m surprised you didn’t see this coming.”
“I’ve made deals with some of the best. This has never come up.”
“I have a proposal.”
Her eyes narrow, but she looks amused. “I don’t doubt it.”
“My soul for yours.”
“Mine?” She laughs. “There’s a thought. Satan’s soul.”
“You have one. I’ve seen evidence. God’s work would mean nothing without yours to balance it.”
“True.”
“And anyway, if you don’t agree to invalidate my contract, I will literally become you – I’ll be Satan. After my demise, that is. So you see it isn’t so much a contract violation as it is a maneuver to give me leverage. Either give me back my soul, or give me all your eternal powers of darkness - your call.”
“Yes. Very clever. I’ll definitely keep that in mind for the next contract.”
“You’ll need new lawyers.”
Her laugh is mirthful. “Are you kidding? We get thousands every week, they’re a dime a dozen.”
“Oooh, so cliché.”
“You’re right, I’m much more inspired than that. It was quite beneath me.”
In my best Groucho voice, I wiggle my eyebrows and say, “I’d love to be beneath you.”
Her smile is coy. “Well, all right. Just this once.” She taps on the glass dividing the rear compartment from the driver. It slides halfway down, and she tells the driver, who’s grown fangs, pointed ears, yellow eyes and fur: “Through Central Park. Slowly.”
The full moon flashes through the treetops like a strobe as she slides one leg across my lap, her silk dress falling open as she straddles me, her eyes light up like bonfires as my shirt and pants slide away. Her tongue is hot on mine, her nipples hard and sharp as arrowheads, burning as if they were warmed by the fires of Hell.
The limo’s suspension gives only slightly against her waves of hip thrusts delivered with the precision of an Olympian athlete, choreographed to perfection in her fluid movements, slow at first, building to dramatic twists, turns, thrusts, the unimaginable awe of the crescendo that leaves the windows steamed and my poor weenie roasted, a hot tamale soaked in tabasco, me drenched in sweat, while she, apparently used to the heat, merely slithers back beside me afterward.
“Not bad.”
“You were awesome,” I manage.
“I’m the original – who do you think gave Cleopatra, Mata Hari their talents?”
I laugh. “True enough.”
She cocks her head, her fingers light on my chest. “I could use someone like you to keep me on my toes. Or off them. Sure you won’t reconsider?”
“Sorry.”
“Well. It’s been a real pleasure doing business with you. I don’t get to say that very often.”
“Thank you. The pleasure was all mine.”
“Not entirely.” She kisses my cheek. “Who knows – your soul might be mine yet. Until then,” she holds the contract toward me. As I reach for it, the paper dissolves in flame, falling to the floor. I stamp it out with my shoe, her disembodied laughter echoing in my head.
The car glides to a stop before I can finish zipping and buttoning. My driver, Quinn, knocks on the window.
“Just a minute!”
“Your speech begins in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you.” There’s nothing to be done about my crumpled clothes, my sweat-drenched hair. Ah hell, I’m a writer, let them think I’m eccentric.
I wonder briefly if I should include a small warning in my speech, something to the effect of following your heart but keeping your soul. I decide against it. Let them find out for themselves. Make their own choices.
I pat my pocket, but it’s empty. I frantically search the seat, the floor, to no avail. The quill is gone. A small price, but I would have cherished it, had she let me keep it.
***
I got bad reviews after that, but my books continued to sell. After all, it had all been my own work from the beginning, I just needed a hotwire to the right connection. I am satisfied; I’ve fulfilled my dream.
Out of curiosity, I pick up a New York Post some time later. The ad is still running. Just next to it is this ad:
Jeremy – You’ll find a token of appreciation in your pocket.
Hope to see you again – S.
My hand instinctively reaches inside my jacket. The quill is there, cold to the touch, its black magic gone.
My fingers still burn to write, but now I reach for the laptop instead.
