Sly (The Pounding Ape)

By Michael J. Sherry

More fragmented fiction with no closure ...

The angry monk looked down over his fat nose at the cigarette hanging from the corner of my lip and spoke German – his version really being more of an extended dry heave – loudly and impatiently while I fumbled to unfold my invitation. I was standing at the gates to the Abtei von Anmut, which was somewhere south of Prague, my entry to the monastery being frustrated by a six foot monstrous looking fellow who kept shouting, “Sie sind im falschen Platz!”

“Look,” I told him, pushing the invitation into his hand. “I’m expected.” He took the piece of paper slowly, keeping his eyes trained on me. “Ex-pec-ted,” I repeated.

“Sie sprechen nicht Deutsches?”

I took the cigarette out of my mouth and dropped it underneath my shoe. “Listen, I have no idea what you’re saying.” I pointed urgently to the invitation, which he had still neglected to glance at. “I’m here to see Brother Clauss.” He continued to look suspiciously at me. “The Abbot,” I continued.

“English?” grunted the angry monk.

“American.”

“Speak English?”

“Yes. Si. Oui. Ja, darling, ja.” I was growing agitated with this man of the cloth who apparently fancied himself a sentry. I felt I deserved better treatment after flying out from New York, taking a train across the country, and hiking the final seventeen miles over hills and cliffs just to see what these German monks could possibly want with me. “See the invitation?”

After a pause he grunted what I presumed was acknowledgment and began to examine the paper I had handed him. I could see he knew little English and I chuckled as the big angry monk tried to sound out certain syllables without my noticing. Chuckling was bad. The monk looked down as if he might stomp me into the path and scrape his sandals clean along the concrete.

“Jack?” he grunted, pointing at me. “You Jack?”

“That’s right,” I said slowly. “Jack Mercer. Here to see the Abbot.”

“Uggh,” he said, pondering I suppose, but finally relenting. “Follow.”

The front gate opened into a very small courtyard that was not noteworthy save for two stone figures stacked against the fence. Figures of naked women. Graceful, artistic naked women, granted, but unclothed nonetheless. Obviously some decorative sculptures, but I wondered as to why they were placed directly adjacent to each other alongside the gate rather than spaced out over the lawn. Ah, well, I thought. The aesthetic judgment of religious types.

Walking through the front door, however, quieted my feelings of ornamental superiority. I was standing in a large, immaculate parlor, occupied by antique furniture, a ten-foot wide fireplace, elegant curtains, and several sculptures, each, I guessed, depicting some saint or other. The hardwood floor was polished to a gleam and covered in sections by red patterned area carpets. I thought of my own apartment and promised myself I’d become a monk someday.

The angry monk led me down a long stone hall. There were doors on both sides of this hall, behind which lurked religious deeds of which I knew not, nor could I venture a guess. Finally my guide ducked quickly and silently behind one of these doors, leaving me to stand outside for several moments, uncomfortable, and suffering from abandonment issues. When he re-emerged it was with a smile – or his equivalent – and I was ushered into the room which he explained was the Abbot’s personal office.

“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Mercer,” said a friendly man standing behind the largest oak desk I had ever laid eyes on. “I am Brother Clauss. Welcome. Here, have a seat.” He motioned to a wooden bench facing his desk – a wooden bench, I noticed, that did not quite offer the same comforts as the stuffed leather chair he himself occupied. “Welcome, we are so glad you’re here.”

His English was remarkably clean. The accent was, of course, unmistakable, but he seemed clear and articulate enough. He too was a large man, though certainly not as fierce looking as the angry monk, and his fat nose was much less fat. I was amazed at the length of his beard, which rested leisurely in his lap while he spoke, smiling at me, or at least appearing to underneath all that white hair.

“I trust your flight went well,” he said.

“Much better than the seventeen-mile hike through naught country,” I replied.
“That is to be expected,” he chuckled. “I apologize, but as you can see we are remote here, and transportation is not easily come by.”

“No problem, I needed the exercise.” Which was true. “Mind if smoke in here?”

“Sorry, Mr. Mercer, but I must ask that you smoke outside only. We have many aged texts and important religious items you know.”

Angrily I shoved the Marlboro’s back in my front pocket.

“Now, I’m sure you are wondering why you are here. I know you’re curious as to why I would not speak of it in my emails, sufficing only to say that your talents were needed and we would pay reasonably, but there is an answer to that as well. You see, we needed someone of your consistent accomplishment to take care of a small problem we are having.”

“Brother Clauss,” I interrupted. “You are aware that I work in the field of animal training, correct?” He nodded. “Well, I was not aware that monks operated a three-ring circus on the side.” Pausing, I added, “Or is it some of your colleagues you’d like me to look at?”

“Mr. Mercer, we do not refer to each other as colleagues.” I had apparently violated some technical Abbey vernacular. It surprised me that he would react more defensively to the word choice rather than my general irreverence for the spiritual setting. “We are brothers,” he continued, me resisting a certain sizable quantity of witticisms that were popping into my head. “What we would like you to do is tend to a problem that we have been unable to remedy. We have an ape within these hallowed walls,” he spoke with disgust, “whose habits are not clean.”

“You have an ape? Here?” I said.

“We find certain of his activities to be offensive.”

“Wait, humor me. Why would there be an ape in a monastery? I’ve never heard of that before.”

Brother Clauss sat back in his chair and let out a long, heavy sigh, looking like a man who had been asking himself that same question for too long. “We have a very religious, very kind, and very diligent brother among us. His name is Hanz and we value his companionship. We also value the companionship of a very wealthy and influential brother of Hanz’ – and here I mean blood brother – who has been very charitable to our Abbey. These are hard times for religion, Mr. Mercer. The people give less and less. We have a two-hundred year old building to maintain, and while monks do not worship the almighty dollar, the almighty dollar remains necessary so that we may continue worshipping the almighty Almighty with a roof over our heads. This brother of Hanz’, a man by the name of Mark Doffler, gives generously to our brotherhood and so we feel obligated to overlook some of the tasteless gifts he bestows personally upon Claus.”

“He gave his brother an ape?”

“He invested in a zoo, Mr. Mercer. An American zoo, had it been built. Instead, his partner in the investment went to jail for various practices and Mr. Doffler found himself with several non-returnable animals on his hands and no partner. So, in the spirit of charity, he bestowed these beasts upon friends, business associates, and even, it seems, upon his family. Hanz received an ape.” He paused for a moment. “Sylvester Stallone.” Another pause. “After the American actor of the same name.”

“I get it,” I said. So why can’t I have a fucking cigarette?

“This is where you come in, Mr. Mercer. We needed an alien because we do not wish it to be known that we are running a petting zoo within the blessed walls of Abtei von Anmut.” I suppressed a frown. Had Brother Clauss just referred to me as an alien? “That is why we sought an American. Naturally we cannot simply get rid of the animal because this would offend Hanz.”

“Which would offend Mr. Doffler,” I finished. “So what, specifically, do you expect me to do with Sylvester Stallone?”

“Sly, for short. We want you to cure him of his unclean habits.”

“No disrespect, Brother, but I am not an animal caretaker. I train the subjects I work with.”

“Perhaps I am not clear. You see his habits are not only unclean, but very public.”

“You’re right, you’re not being clear.”

“And persistant. Constant! He is relentless, that filthy animal.”

“Relentless how?”

The angry monk, having remained silent since escorting me in, suddenly stepped forward and slammed his fist on Brother Clauss’ desk. “Sly pound hisself all de’ time! He pound hisself!”

Understanding was beginning to dawn on me, but I remained silent for an awkward moment.

“Do you see what we mean, Mr. Mercer?” Brother Jake finally continued. “The ape is incapable of any sort of self-control, and we find him not only repugnant in his hobby, but offensive and inappropriate considering his surroundings.”

“So,” I began, trying to pick my words carefully, “you want me to teach the ape to stop pounding himself?”

“Precisely.”

The hell with it. “In other words, and just to be clear, I am to stop the ape from jacking off in front of the monks?”

“Yes, Mr. Mercer,” Clauss sighed, annoyed. “That is it in a nutshell. Can you do it?”

To be continued …

Wasted Electric Brain Signals

Hi, chums. More of my start-and-stop fiction. Only this one actually has an ending. I wrote it a long time ago - '04 or '05. Enjoy.

Wasted Electric Brain Signals
By Michael J. Sherry


I think with remarkable rapidity, so you’ll have to make a hell of an effort if you’re going to keep up.

Floor 25: I make the jump and begin a dizzying, swift decent toward the sidewalk hundreds of feet below. Depression? Well, perhaps. To some extent, at any rate. But I’m not your typical suicidal melancholic. That is to say I do not whine, mope, regret, or surround myself by the comforting assurances of self-pity and loathing. Why do it then? Well, to be brutally honest I’m wondering a little bit about that myself. But here I am, plummeting – is plummeting a good word for this? Maybe free-falling would be better? – free-falling through a lot of cold air, feeling it rise sharply to greet my exposed face like a sudden splash of freezing water, and there is at last no way out. Maybe that’s what this is about. I have some trouble with commitment. Work, love, family … the works. I used to call myself a wanderer until I realized how fucking ridiculous that sounded, so I decided instead to dub myself an outlaw. Not that I’ve done anything insane or illegal, but there is a certain appeal to branding oneself with the label outlaw. It banishes certain restraints. Well, that’s romanticizing it, I suppose. What it really does is provide a convenient excuse. You quit another job? Yes, I did. Why the hell would you do that again? Where will your money come from? It’s all OK – you see, I’m an outlaw. I can permit myself to be lax in certain responsibilities, or all of them. But to get back to the relevant point I was making – perhaps this is why I have made the jump. Perhaps I’ve somehow grown so desperate to feel what it’s like to be caught up in something from which there is no conceivable exit that this just seemed to make sense and before I knew what I was doing, there I went. Bowling across the office and nice knowing you all. Yes, all of you with the bewildered, frozen faces. I’ll be at the bottom before you’re even to the window.

Floor 23: But I know that shit ain’t the truth. All this garbage about making a commitment I would be forced to stick with. Not a chance. All a lot of wasted electric brain signals. Nobody wants to die a pointless death brought on from apparent insanity, so maybe I was just trying to paint myself a nice oil-based picture of meaning before ground-inevitability came at me from underneath. But to be brutally honest, I was lying to myself if I honestly believed that. So what was it then? Well, I’m going to have to at least consider the fact that there is nothing remarkably different about this suicide. In fact, if I am to think about it for a split second, I will have to admit to myself that there is a lot I had planned that just never turned out. Oh, this is stupid. Now I am whining. This is self-pity. Well, so be it then, right? I mean, if it’s the truth? But let’s very briefly examine the facts. I say very briefly because, as is becoming increasingly evident, time is a factor here. At any rate, I excelled at school, graduated college Magna Cum Laude, and went on to one of the top graduate schools in the country. What was I going to do eventually? I never figured that out. Teach, maybe. But I realized I didn’t want to teach. I didn’t care at all if the little shits learned anything or not – it’s their own concern. So that was that for that shit.

Floor 21: What is the point of this anyway? I know what happened. I was fucking there. I lived it, you understand? It was me who did those things. Me who floated through thirty or so jobs over fifteen years. Me who dated six girls over that stretch and followed each inescapable breakup with a long dry-spell of self-doubt and astonishingly little sex. Me who drank a lot of whiskey and smoked a lot of cigars and went around telling people I’m the wanderer, and later the outlaw. You want a car? Here’s my card. Stop by the dealership, we’ll talk. I can put you in a new machine today … There’s only six pallots on that truck, buddy. I ordered seven for the department … Plant “17” is secure, boss. I did hourly rounds … Make sure those frames stay straight, the cement will be here any minute … Its two-dollar drafts tonight, boys, but you better leave a decent tip or there’s going to be a lot of head in that cup … You want your driveway plowed now? Its 2 am! … Get that truck out of the way so I can move the backhoe through here. Yah, I was an outlaw. WANTED. Wanted for … for … well, wanted for something at any rate.

Floor 19: The outlaw plummets. Or what was it I said before? Free-falls? The outlaw free-falls his way down the side of the cliff into the maelstrom of doom below! No, I know. It isn’t like that, but I try to afford myself a touch of glamour before ground-inevitability. Really I’m falling next to an old gray skyscraper and I’m going to eventually go SPLAT! I’m falling very strangely, however, now that I am thinking about it. It occurs to me that most jumpers would have faced outward, toward the rest of the city, backs to the building they had ejected themselves from. Not me. I had led with my right shoulder – maybe a habit born of my old hockey days when I was throwing my body around recklessly, leading with the shoulder – and in so doing I am falling somewhat oddly; sideways, the top of my head facing away from the building and the bottom of my feet facing toward it. I find that by looking down the length of my body toward my feet I am actually catching brief glances into the windows I pass. Nobody seems to notice. I’m plummeting so fast, how could they unless they were already looking out the window? And if that were the case, what an amusing sight that would be, wouldn’t it? You save your file and glance up from your computer to see what’s going on outside for a moment – just a little relaxing escape, even if only for a few seconds – and then here comes this body. Whoooosh. Like that. And then it’s gone, and you’re sitting there – a tad perplexed – blinking your eyes once or twice – and wondering if you actually just saw that.

Floor 17: Well, you did. And it was me. It was my soon to be SPLAT-ed body going whoooosh. And Jesus Christ! its cold out today. That wind is whipping up against me so fast, probably twenty degrees out today. I should have worn a jacket before I leapt. Not that I was thinking about such things. In fact, had I stopped to consider whether or not I should wear a jacket for the fall, I probably never would have been in this situation in the first place. The second it had occurred to me to put on a jacket because it was cold outside it would simultaneously have occurred to me how ridiculous it was to put on a jacket when I was about to become a flapjack on the sidewalk. This would have led me to a subsequent contemplation about what it would feel like to be a sidewalk flapjack, and – more importantly – what it would look like to be such a thing. Dismayed by my gruesome thoughts, I inevitably would have turned back to my computer screen and made the next call. “Good afternoon, sir, my name is Mike Sherry and I’m calling from American Bank for a Mr. Tomlinson. Oh, hello, Mr. Tomlinson. The reason for this call is just to touch base and ensure that you are satisfied with all of your accounts, and to check in with you to see if there is anything we can do to improve your relationship with the bank.”

Floor 15: Fuck Mr. Tomlinson. He was probably some poor bastard anyway. Has an American Bank Express Free Checking account and a debit card and doesn’t want anything else – just so I won’t get paid incentive. And he probably would have told me to stop bugging him. “I hate you damn telemarketers!” “Sir, this isn’t a telemarketing call, we’re employees at one of the bank’s call centers and we’re just checking in to ensure –" “I don’t want to be called again.” Click. Oh, so that’s it, right, Mr. Tomlinson? And what about my feelings? What about the fact that I’m supposed to help you and you just treat me like I’m some vacuum cleaner salesman? Worst of all – what about my goddamn paycheck!? Every day of work goes this way, and I could feel that sense of destiny closing in all about me once again. The feeling that my time at a job was drawing to a close. It was only a matter of time before I sat down with Becky Patterson in her cubicle and politely explained that the job was not working out for me and I was going to need to quit. “Would cutting back your hours help?” Well, to be honest, probably not, Becky. You see, I just don’t feel I’m getting any sense of fulfillment from this job. “So you feel you need to resign?” Um, yah. Resign. Quit. Retire? That would be a good one. But what would I do with myself? Where would money come in from?

Floor 13: I’d thought about this quite a bit. Every time I got some bank customer on the phone who was filling out an application for this or that and they listed their occupation as “self-employed,” I got a hard-on. Jesus, that would be nice. There had to be some way I could make a living without having to “clock-in” and say things like “hold on, let me check with my superior.” That’s what I really hate, I guess. The notion of having a boss. Here’s some fuck – I mean, the guy (or doll) probably don’t even have a college degree, and if he (or she) does, then its probably just a four-year degree from some community college – gonna tell me what to do. Me. With my fucking Master of the Arts degree from a graduate program of national repute. A fucking free thinker. A fucking scholarly and academic light of the community. I don’t need no stinking boss. I don’t need to check with my friggin’ superior. The hell with that. This is why I’d like to be self-employed. But how? Writing? It doesn’t pay. Construction? Not a chance. Not with my soft, feminine hands. Website design? Now there’s a possibility – if every computer I pressed a button on didn’t implode. Prostitution? Well, too late for that now.

Floor 11: The outlaw free falls. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Well us peons can fall just as mightily. Oops. I’m screaming. How embarrassing. Takes some of the romanticism out of what I’m trying to do. Good thing I caught myself. Its possible the people on the sidewalk below hadn’t heard my cowardly cries yet. I ponder – how do I want to look when I hit the ground? Probably a smile on my face. Wouldn’t that show some sort of defiance? Arrogance? Smiling in the face of death, right? Of course, I suppose that is a touch cliché. What then? A blank face would just show ambiguity or insanity. An angry face might make it look like I’d done this in the throws of passion and outrage, which I hadn’t. And I certainly did not want to appear frightened. Maybe cliché was the only way to go here. So be it. I will hit the ground smiling with insolence. Maybe even laughing. No, that would be overdoing it. That would be leaning toward insanity again. I’m not insane. Let me make that absolutely clear. I am thinking – and have always thought, for that matter – with the highest degree of lucidity.

Floor 9: Boy, I’m starting to get close. I can actually see the faces of the sidewalk walkers. Most of them haven’t noticed me. They are walking along in happy oblivion, with not even the slightest notion that a human body is about to slam into the sidewalk in their midst. Maybe even spray some of them with guts. Oh Christ, I hope some of them get sprayed with guts. The ridiculously pompous, ignorant, astronomically aggravating fools! I just wish I could still be alive to see their faces when it happens. But then, maybe I will be alive. That had never occurred to me when making the jump. You hear these types of things all the time, however. I mean, fuck. People have survived sky-diving with a malfunctioning parachute, why couldn’t I survive falling a piddling twenty-five floors? Well, let’s not get unrealistic here. The odds of me surviving the fall are overwhelmingly stacked against me.

Floor 7: I just wish I could have gotten laid one last time. And not with some fucking cougar either. Not some thirty-five year old booze bimbo who’s always on the prowl. No, something meaningful. Like maybe I could’ve met a girl I’d had a crush on during high school and hit it off. We’d have had coffee to “catch up” … maybe some food … maybe a movie. And WHAMMO! I’d be drilling her. Oh, well I suppose that’s taking some of the fantasy out of it. Maybe we’d go back to her house on the beach and make passionate love all night long. Not that I’d ever cared for “passion” or for “all night long.” Jesus. Maybe some cougar would have done the trick after all. Well, the point is I just wish I could’ve gotten laid one last time. Now don’t think me shallow. I haven’t taken a woman to bed in about six months, and if you want to count times I remember vividly and non-drunkenly, well now it’s more in the realm of a year and a half, closer to two years. I miss it. I have a sentimental weakness for it. I would have liked a farewell-to-the-world fuck before the outlaw jumped.

Floor 5: And also a good glass of scotch and a decent cigar. And I would have liked to enjoy the good glass of scotch and decent cigar at an outside bar – somewhere warm – while I tapped my foot and listened to a live blues band. And undoubtedly, as always, wished I had taken guitar lessons at some point. Honestly – want to hear me descend to the ultimate cliché? – my dream job would be playing the blues in local bars. Self-employment, remember? But I don’t play. And even if I did, you can’t make a living doing that. Ah, the blues, though, ain’t it? Great stuff. I mean, who doesn’t like the blues? Who doesn’t want to play the guitar? Who doesn’t love scotch and decent cigars? Boy, I could go for a cigar right now. Ah, shit! How cool would that have been? Hit the ground smoking a cigar. I would be willing to bet money that nobody’s ever done that before. Fuck. I missed my chance to make history. I can see the newspaper headlines. Cool Guy Commits Suicide: Leaps From Building Smoking a Cigar.

Floor 3: Jesus Christ, kid! Get out of the way! What, are you stupid? You’re going to get killed! Oh fuck, I did not want to go out this way. Taking some innocent kid with me. This is my problem and my way of dealing with the problem, and now this poor little boy is going to die because of it. His family’s lives will be ruined because of it. Oh shit. What have I done? Why can’t he walk faster? Come on, kid, speed it up! I’m yelling, he’s looking up at me now. He seems confused. He is not moving. Oh damn it all!

Floor 1: Oh, thank fucking God, he’s not in my path after all. Close one. He’s probably just one of those who will be sprayed by guts. What a story he’ll have to tell. The rest of his life. “When I was eight, I got sprayed by a dead guy’s guts on the sidewalk.” He can probably pick up chicks if he plays his cards right. Say it’s had some kind of emotional impact on his life. “I just can’t get the image out of my head. Poor fellow.” They’ll think he’s deep. That alone will make this whole thing worthwhile. If one person gets laid because of my death then I wouldn’t take it back for any reason at all. The outlaw has proved he can contribute in some meaningful –

SPLAT!!

Souls to Sell

I was digging through my computer and found this old story I wrote, oh, probably 7-8 months ago and forgot about. It's not complete, but here it is anyway in brilliant incompleteness.

Souls to Sell
By Michael J. Sherry

The first time Satan tried to sell souls to me it caught me off guard.
“What?” I asked, ridden with angst. “Isn’t this backwards?”
“No,” he replied, glancing anxiously about and scratching his left forearm with his right hand. “Look, I realize how this sounds, but do we have a deal?”
“No!” I shouted, recognizing the tactics of a strong-armer – a “do me this favor” type.
Instantly the Devil retreated in a plume of off-white smoke. Round One went to me.
But Satan is a shrewd operator. The next time he called I was sitting on the shitter in a McDonald’s restroom.
“Afternoon, Mr. Preston,” he said, ducking his head underneath the stall door. “I just wanted to follow up with you – I had spoken to you before about the possibility of selling you some souls?”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, half from terror, half from annoyance.
“Clever,” said the Devil.
“No, I meant … oh, nevermind. Look, why do you want to sell souls to me?”
“Decrease my inventory,” he said, fidgeting awkwardly.
“Wait a minute,” I said, reaching for the toilet paper. “Aren’t you supposed to be trying to buy my soul?”
“I buy and sell,” he said, snatching the roll before I could grab it. “I’ll throw in this roll of ass wipes.”
“You bastard,” I said, glaring down at him. “My answer is still no.”
Again he disappeared, taking the toilet paper with him. Round Two: draw.
This all was very strange to me. I didn’t believe in God. I didn’t believe in Satan. And even if they existed, I certainly didn’t believe one of them would appear to me and try to conduct some sort of business transaction.
Satan goes about four-eleven, maybe a buck fifteen. He has a scraggly gray/black beard, darting little black eyes, and a nervous twitch that causes his lips to peel suddenly away from his teeth and close just as quickly. He sports, of all things, a yellow and brown flannel shirt and black corduroy pants.
Then again, I am a businessman. A broker. Perhaps the stress of work – the constant phone calls and meetings and transactions – maybe it was all spilling over in the form of business hallucinations.
Because the third time Satan appeared to me was while I was on the phone in my cubicle trying to close a deal on a load of scrap automotive bumpers from accidents.
“Mr. Preston!”
“Holy shit!”
“Beg pardon?” came the shrill voice of James Martin through the phone.
“No, nothing. Sorry, James. Listen, where was I? The bumpers need to be on pallets if possible because my guy …
“Mr. Preson,” said Satan. “I wanted to run this by you in case there was any interest.”
“Because my guy…” I was trying to say.
“Yes?” came the impatient squeak of James Martin.
“My guy has to move them from …
“I can get you 1,000 pounds of souls by late next week and I’ll cover the cost of freight.”
“Only 1,000 pounds?” Oops. Instincts kicked in.
“What?” snapped James.
“No, sorry, I was talking to my secretary and …
“Mr. Preston, souls do not weigh very much. Why, 1,000 pounds of souls could be anywheres from five to seven full truck loads!”
“James,” I said, trying to shut the vision out.
“I’m here!”
“Those bumpers need to be on skids, they can’t be loose …
“You already told him that, Mr. Preston.”
“You already told me that, Jeff.”
“I know, but I’m trying to finish …
“Call him back.”
“I’m listening, Jeff.”
“On skids so that when I move them to my guy …
“1000 pounds, Mr. Preston!” Satan said, glancing out into the hallway as if concerned someone might overhear. “My price is three cents a pound.”
“Three hundred dollars?” I said.
“What are you talking about, Jeff?”
“That’s thirty dollars, Mr. Preston,” said Satan, glancing at his watch. “I got another call, let me know.”
The Devil disappeared once more into a plume of off-white smoke. Round Three: definitely Satan.

I didn’t think I was going crazy until the fourth time Satan appeared to me. It was Christmas morning and I was driving over to my mother’s house.
“Mr. Preston, good morning,” he said, materializing in the passenger seat of my 1997 green Ford Focus.
“The fuck!?” I shouted, jerking the wheel.
“It’s Satan from Hell again. Hey, did you get a chance to think over my offer?”
“This isn’t really happening. I know you’re not real. I don’t believe in you or God.”
“It’s Christmas, Mr. Preston,” said the Devil, holding his hands up to the heater and shivering. “Everyone believes in that stuff on Christmas.”
“Just for sentiment though, Satan. That doesn’t mean I’m a believer.”
“Well, look, what you believe is your own business. Do you got an answer for me about the eight truckloads of souls?”
“Eight?” I said, shouting now. “It was five before!”
“It was five to seven before,” Satan said, playing with the radio dial. “But I got an offer on an extra load in the past week. It’s good stuff mostly, but I just don’t have the floor space for any of it so I’ll throw it in with the other seven at the same price.”
He stopped on NPR.
“Look, this is nuts,” I said, stopping at a red light. “This isn’t right.”
“What, the price? Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you a sample if you need to check it out before you commit.”
“How can you afford the freight on three cents?”
“I got my own trucks. I’m fucking Satan.” He blew sharply into his hands, still apparently cold.
“Wait. That’s not what I meant. Look, your freaking me out here. I’ll be honest. You’re scaring the shit out of me. Just disappear and leave me alone.”
“Fine,” he said, reaching into his jean jacket and extracting what appeared to be a business card. “Look, I don’t have this offered out to anyone else at the moment, so you got some time to think about it. Give me a call if you need a sample – number’s on the card. 666. Or try my cell if there’s no answer, I always have it on me. 864-972-4803.”
He stuck his card in my shirt pocket and disappeared in a plume of smoke. I rolled down the windows, coughing profusely. Round Four, I think, was a draw.
That’s when Jesus appeared. He was wearing a red bow-tie and a suit.
“Are you Jeff Preston?” he said.
“Yes, who are you.”
“I’m Jesus Christ. I’m with Heaven. Look, I wanted to talk to you because I’m trying to track down a few thousand pounds of souls and I got a tip on a good deal.”
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“The problem is Satan owns the trucks right now and he’s not picking up my phone calls. Now my guy tells me Satan’s calling you.”
I sat there in silence. This was too much and I wasn’t going to give into the delusion.
“At any rate, I could really use those souls. My inventory is getting a little low and I’m willing to speculate on what he’s got. I’ll make it worth your while if you put me in touch with him.”
Silence.
“Mr. Preston?”
I began humming the melody to Mary Jane’s Last Dance.
“I can see why Satan’s trying to get up and running with you.” He paused. “You’re his type.”
“She moved down here, the age of eighteen, she blew the boys away, was more then they’d seen!”
“That’s a good song,” Jesus said. “When Petty sings it.”
“She said I dig ya baby, but I got to keep movin’.”
“Here, take my card.”
“On.”
“Call me next time Satan gets ahold of you.”
“Keep movin’ on.”
He left the card on the passenger seat, rolled down the window, and jumped out. I watched him take off running down the street in my rearview mirror.

“We’re all-deal makers,” Satan was saying as we pushed a couple of ticket scalpers out of our way. “Everyone of us.” We were there to see the New York Islanders play the Chicago Blackhawks, but really we were there to try and work on these eight loads of souls. Jesus was going to meet us at our seats.
“Everyone wants to buy low and sell high. Not just brokers. We don’t even realize half the deals we make. Now they have websites like eBay so that everyone can be a trader. It’s a planet full of bargains and trade-ups and secondary markets and profit margins and nobody ever stops and asks why. Nobody even notices.”
Inside the stadium an usher asked me to open my jacket, which I did. He gave me a quick glance up and down and pushed me through. Satan fidgeted nervously as the crowd around us grew thicker.
“Well I’ll tell you why. Did you ever think it just seemed a little too easy? A little too natural? A little too universal? This desire to spread margins and compete and make offers and try to get that crucial piece without giving away the whole show? It’s our nature. It’s in our very being. But why?”
“How come?” I wanted some peanuts, but five dollars for a bag seemed a little excessive.
“Because that’s the cosmic makeup of a swirling creation spat from the printer of a god/president. All the universe is a memo outlining an elaborate deal that God was pursuing. We’re a sales order. That’s why we’re always thinking buy and sell, win and lose, give and take. Because we’re the individual letters on an acknowledgement from God to this particular dimension.”
“And this Satan fellow, he’s a hell of a deal-maker,” said Jesus, walking quickly up behind us and smiling.
“Ah, Jesus,” Satan said, barely turning around. “Thought you’d be up at your seat.”
“I came out here for a beer and saw you guys passing by. Either of you want a beer?”
“No thanks,” Satan said.
“It’s on me, you sure? Jeff?”
“That’s alright, Jesus. Thanks.”
Jesus looked sharp tonight. He had on a light-blue pair of jeans and a black shirt. His hair was short and slicked up at odd angles and his leather jacket looked expensive. Satan, on the other hand, was wearing an orange and black flannel and hadn’t shaved in what must have been a week or more.
“How’s are our seats, Jesus?” he asked.
“Not bad at all. We’re pretty high up, but we’re right over the center ice line.”
“I like being closer to the ice,” Satan spat. “Well, let’s head up.”


To be continued ...