“My brother thinks another day in agony is better than an eternity in hell.” Liam said, stabbing his finger with the ritual blade. He dripped red syrupy blood into a vial then signed the contract: Seller agrees to sell, convey, assign and transfer to The Devil, Lucifer, Old Scratch, who shall herein be referred to as the buyer . . .
“I gave Collin good value for the rights to his soul,” Devlin said while going through the shipping invoices Liam had delivered from the Philadelphia shipyard—the last of his requirements for membership in the concentric ring of the modern version of the K&A gang. Even though it was dangerous to keep around, Devlin always demanded a physical invoice. “I have physical proof.” “Fuck your contracts.” “A physical contract binds in this world,” Devlin said, opening a concealed wall safe and depositing the contract on top of a row of rolled lambskin. “—and the next.” Once he’d secured the safe—its location finally revealed—he returned to the blotchy corpse of some nameless junkie and fed a metal catheter into the abdomen. In the world above, Kensie kids wearing whatever costumes they could cobble together or steal maneuvered around alley junkies to trick-or-treat at the local pubs and shops below the El, defiantly claiming their childhood in the impoverished feudal kingdom—a setting that fed on the unwashed masses but fueled the business of the O’Reilly funeral home. “I do feel for your brother. Even sent flowers,” Devlin said. “We’ll all burn in the fiery lake together.” The rest of the crew rubbed Liam’s shoulders and shook his hand—congratulations or commiseration—but Liam couldn’t bear to look in the vacant cavernous eyes of the gray men. Serving Devlin and satisfying their contracts sucked the life out of them; however, in his time operating with the crew—loading stolen cars at the pier to sell them overseas and employing his acumen on a safe or two—Liam had witnessed lingering, yet promising, hints of defiance. And on this, he counted. “Old ladies believe in the devil.” “Oh, really now?” Devlin said, giggling with glee. “Please attend, boy-o. Hey, lads. The devil’s a con to make you all eat your vegetables, and I won’t come after you if you go.” Not one man twitched, and Devlin pulled up the cover over the cadaver then cracked open a Guinness. “They all signed when they were young bucks, afraid of naught, but then they felt old age creeping up and sought a higher power.” “I can’t believe you all buy into this shite!” Liam said, playing with the engraved knife he’d used to draw his blood. “I do lay it on a bit thick,” Devlin said. “Halloween. Blood. But that’s what makes it such a convincing story.” Liam couldn’t deny the effects—when a man believed he was damned anyway, nothing restrained him—and what young man wouldn’t jump at the chance to sell magic beans to a fool for a shitload of cash? “Well, every good story needs a twist,” Liam said, pressing the ceremonial knife to Devlin’s throat. “My brother’s contract.” “The men in this room will cut you down—all souls pledged.” Liam’s hand trembled, and he struggled to hold it firm while he scanned the room, looking for a way out. The other soldiers surrounded him, and he backed up into one of the embalming tables, disturbing the peace of one of the corpses. “He’s not the devil! He’s just a good storyteller. The contracts are shite.” “Aye, Liam,” he said, giggling under the blade. “But they can’t take that chance. Can your brother? He was diagnosed at the same time you told me you wanted to move up in the gang. They gave him a year. You’ve been patient. If you’re any kind of a man, you’d put two in his head.” “I’ll put you in the ground first,” Liam said, trying to steady his hand. “I’m just codding ya! Relax.” “Just let him go.” “I can’t. I may be the boss on Earth, but in Hell, I’m only the devil’s man—and that’s where your brother’s heading.” Liam pressed the blade to his neck but knew if he sliced the artery, the other gang members would cut him down. Even in death, Liam held power over them as long as they believed he held their contracts. But maybe that was the answer. “Don’t you see?” Liam said then released the blade. “He’s never going to let you go.” Devlin cackled, and his feline grin curved from his lips to his cheekbones, chilling Liam with the look of amusement in those predatorial eyes. “All contracts are binding,” he said. “Lads,” Liam said. “Not one of you will defy him, but like Lucifer rose up with his fellow angels, together we can rise up.” “You don’t have the stones,” Devlin said. “No,” he said. “But I’ve got the digits—best safe man in Kensington. And that’s where you keep the contracts, right?” “Feck off,” Devlin said, defiant until the end. “Those contracts are binding, as God is my—” “Oh, boss, if you’ve taught me anything, it’s that it has to be on paper to be real.” “Enough of this shite,” Devlin said. “Cut him down.” None of the gang stepped up. Instead, they waited while Liam knelt before the safe, and seeing the winds change, Devlin reached for his piece; Joey Ryan grabbed his shoulder and disarmed him while Liam popped the safe. “Here they are, lads,” Liam said. “Let’s have us a fire upstairs in that lovely stone hearth. And when the devil comes calling, ask him for proof of ownership.” That night, Liam sat next to his brother’s hospital bed and watched scenes of the cops pulling Devlin’s body out of the Delaware. Then, he switched off the TV and plunged the syringe into the IV, freeing him from the devil’s man. About the author: T. Fox Dunham lives in Lancaster, Pennsylvania with his wife, Allison. He’s a cancer survivor, modern bard, herbalist, baker and historian. His first book, The Street Martyr, was published by Gutter Books, and is in production by Throughline Films. He’s contributed to official Stargate canon with a story published in the Stargate Anthology Points of Origin from Fandemonium Books. More information at tfoxdunham.com & Twitter: @TFoxDunham
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It still felt like home.
JJ stood paralyzed by forces he couldn’t comprehend, his ski mask damp with halitosis, lost in the designer kitchen. This wasn’t his fault. “You stupid sons of bitches,” Jack Senior said, his silk pajamas already darkening with sweat around the ropes securing him to the chair. Brian— ‘Jump’— pulled the knot tight and, with the angle of his arms, extracted a sharp cry. Midnight’s darkness lay behind the windows. “This isn’t like stealing money from a lemonade stand,” Jack Sr said. He looked back at Jump, “You have a gun, you beat me—” “I tackled you,” Brian said, scanning the kitchen for anything else worth taking. The old man’s leathery pink flesh turned more crimson with each word, “I’ve been a lawyer for over thirty years, I think I know what qualifies as battery. In the state of Florida, this can get you life. Is that what you want?” Brian pulled the gag from his pocket. “If you get me out of this chair right now and leave, it's forgive and forget. You’re just trying to get by. You probably hate me because I’m able to live in a place like this, but we’re not that different—” Brian shoved a ball of cloth in Jack Senior’s mouth and tied another around his face. The old man’s eyes bulged like a squeeze toy ready to pop. “Prep,” Brian said, “You’re up.” Even through JJ’s disdain and wish to cause the old man pain, watching Jack Senior thrash and wheeze wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped. “He can’t breathe, Jump. You see the narrow jaw, the crooked teeth? He’s a mouth breather.” The sort you could hear through closed doors down the hall. Brian shot JJ a captious look before untying the gag. The old man gasped through tears. “Please, take what you want, just don’t do that again! My sinuses don’t work. You’ll kill me.” JJ knew Brian was smiling behind his mask. “Tell you what,” Brian said. “So long as you don’t say a fucking word, I won’t put this back on. Prep, move.” JJ nodded and started down the hall past the framed memories he forced himself to ignore— posed moments from trips that no one in the photo could stand. He ran the marble stairs to the third floor and turned left towards the master bedroom. A sudden gravity forced him to peer into the empty bedroom on the right. What could he expect? The safe rested within the master’s walk-in closet, lodged in the foot space beneath the old man’s tailored suits. He couldn’t help but notice the opposite side of the closet was empty. Another reason to hurt him. 41295 He tried not to think about the safe’s code and what it meant. He froze at the shout for help from the kitchen. Stay focused, he thought. Lawyers like Jack Downing Sr. always kept a lot of cash on hand. Bails, bribes, bonuses, they were always ready. He checked the bags on the top row and felt something stir at the sight of the diamonds. JJ’s heart sped as he hurried down the steps, thinking of how this cash was justice. So what if he liked getting high. If he refused to waste his life behind a desk. He hadn’t asked to be brought into this world. At the sight of the bastard, limp-headed in the chair, he froze. The gag was back in and a stream of blood poured from an open gash on his forehead. “Take your time, Prep,” Brian said, snatching the duffel. “What happened?” JJ asked. “He was talking.” A sudden chill ran through JJ’s body. Jack Senior had no pulse at either the neck or wrists. He peeled the eyelids open and found pupils the size of coins. “Fuck, Jump…” JJ said. “Are you staying?” the other man asked. With a sudden need for air, JJ almost pulled his mask off— only remembering at the last moment the security cameras. He spared one final look at the old bull, drenched in sweat and limp. At the pounding of boots fleeing across the yard, he turned and ran. The only sound in the car was the passing freeway. “You all right, Prep?” Brian asked. JJ’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. “What?” Brian shook his head and looked through the duffel. “Almost two hundred thousand— not counting the jewelry.” “Maybe we keep the jewelry,” JJ said, the black ocean racing past on their left. “Don’t get attached to things,” Brian said. “Your mom would rather you eat than hold onto a few stones she wore once a year.” JJ tried not to imagine the lifeless flop of his dad’s head. “Good news though,” Brian said. “You’re about to come into some major money when his will goes through.” He felt himself shrinking into the driver’s seat. “We haven’t spoken in four years. Not even at my mom’s funeral. I’m not in his will.” He tossed a wallet onto JJ’s lap. “If you weren’t, would he still keep your picture in there?” Jack Junior looked down and saw his little league photo, bright eyed, blonde, holding the bat his dad had got him for his ninth birthday, and earnest, gap-toothed smile on his face— with the same amount of teeth he had now. Smoke danced through Jump’s teeth. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Prep.” JJ wasn’t sure of that. In the last hour, he might have learned everything he needed to know. About the author: Mark Manifesto is a writer, teacher, father, and lover of stories. He’s been writing fiction, essays, articles, and poetry the past seven years. He studied Environmental Science, Business Administration, Religious Studies, and Classic Literature at Saint Mary’s College of California. We met at Marciano’s in Midtown at 8:00 p.m. on Wednesdays. Hump Day. We sat at the long mahogany bar and drank dirty martinis. She was in her mid-twenties and called herself Anna. She had long legs that ran like the interstate to red, slingback heels and wore short skirts. After three months, I figured it was a standing date. But a glance at my phone indicated 8:15 p.m. and still no Anna. No messages either. That was unlike her.
I hope she’s safe, I thought. I paid for her time. Cash. And I paid well. Especially since all we did was talk. No, really. Since my wife Mary had passed away over a year ago, I needed someone who’d listen. Anna was that someone. At 8:30 p.m., Anna walked in with an athletic guy half my age. He was boyish looking, but probably close to thirty. She strolled right by, didn’t even give me a nod. Her musky perfume hit me like a cinder block to the head. At 9:15 p.m., after downing two cocktails at a corner high top, they left arm-in-arm, her face nuzzled in the nape of his neck. Her hot, breathy voice singing sweet nothings in his ear. I followed them closely for a few blocks and slipped into the apartment building they entered before the main entrance swung shut. I skulked up the stairs behind them and hung back until they closed their apartment door. But they didn’t. They left it half open. Why? I didn’t surprise them when I finally entered. They were waiting for me. The main room was empty, not a single furnishing or decoration. Anna stood at the center under the warm glow of a dome-shaped ceiling lamp. She held a pocket-size .22. Her male companion was off to her side. He had a snub-nosed .38 pointed at my gut. My heart pounded in my throat. Anna broke the silence. “Close the door, Don.” I held fast, my feet planted on the hardwood floor. “Now,” she said. I pushed it shut. “What’s going on?” I said, my voice wavering. “I thought we had an arrangement. Then you show up with this clown. And now guns?” Anna cleared her throat. “You’re getting excited. That’s not like you.” I took a step forward and her companion moved closer. I stopped. “You’ve been playing me.” “It’s not like that,” she said. “Be smart. No one needs to get hurt.” I raised my voice. “It’s a little late for that.” “Calm down.” “What do you want?” “What do you think? “Money?” I said. Before she could answer, her partner spoke up. “Ten grand.” His voice was thin and didn’t match his muscles. I laughed. “You can afford it,” he said. He was right. “How do I know you won’t kill me after you get it?” He smirked. “You don’t.” “I don’t carry ten grand on me.” He gestured with the .38. “But you can get it.” Anna glared at him. “We don’t have time for that. I told you to keep it simple.” She turned to me. “Hand him your wallet, Don. At the end of the month, you can cancel the credit cards. After that, I promise you won’t hear from us.” “You ‘promise,’ huh?” Her jade eyes turned dark. “I’m in trouble. I owe some people money.” I grinned. “Really?” “It’s the truth. We’re leaving town tonight.” “And I’m an easy mark.” “I need a fresh start.” “Then you should’ve come to me.” “It’s too late for that,” she said. “We could’ve figured this out. You wouldn’t have had to run.” “These people want their pound of flesh.” “I could’ve—” “Enough!” her lover said. “One old man can’t solve this.” I fixed my eyes on Anna. “Have you really thought this through?” She nodded but it lacked confidence. “How do you know I won’t cancel the credit cards tonight? Or call the cops?” “The same way I knew you’d follow us. You’re a good guy, Don. But you can’t let things go.” I shook my head. “After three months,” she said. “I know you.” “I’m not so sure you do.” “You’re no regular john. I know that.” “No,” I said. “I’m not.” Anna stepped out of the light. “Help me now. Please.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’m going to reach for my wallet.” I slid my hand into my inside blazer pocket. I grabbed my wallet, opened it, and handed her partner the credit cards. “The cash too,” she said. I handed him ten hundred dollar bills. “Now forget us,” she said. “And remember, it’s just money.” “It’s more than that.” “Don’t be dramatic. This isn’t personal, it’s business.” “Everything’s personal,” I muttered. Anna raised her .22 level with my chest. “Don’t let pride force me to do something we’ll both regret.” I let her words hang there. Then I walked out and down the stairs to the street and headed south. The 9mm Sig Sauer holstered under my left shoulder dragged me down. Why hadn’t I pulled my gun when I reached for my wallet? Why hadn’t I put Anna and her boyfriend down? I was a professional. Retired, but with years of hits under my belt. It would’ve been easy to kill them: a nice Sunday stroll on a cool autumn day. But she’d listened to me for three months. Twelve Wednesdays. She’d softened the edges of my loss and heartache with her comforting words and smiles. Even if it was all an act, she’d helped me to heal. Maybe this was a small price to pay to ease a broken heart. Maybe I owed it to her. Maybe I got what I paid for after all. I slipped my hand to my weapon. The grip was comforting, an old friend. Then I let it go. If Anna shook me down again, she’d get more than she bargained for. She didn’t know me. Not really. Not my heart. Next time, I’d have no trouble settling up. About the author: James Patrick Focarile is an award-winning writer who resides in the Northwest, U.S.A. He holds an undergraduate degree from Rutgers University and an M.F.A. from Brooklyn College. His work has appeared in the following: Mystery Tribune, Guilty Flash, Shotgun Honey, Close To The Bone, Thrill Ride Magazine, and more. For more info, visit: JamesPatrickFocarile.com |
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