“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
2 Comments
10/31/2024 10:00:45 am
Dear T Fox,
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