Mephisto

In which we meet the Lord of Darkness

 

          Contrary to popular belief, the road to hell is not paved with good intentions, but with small concessions.  There are so few Fausts left, so few who sell themselves wholeheartedly to darkness.  The Devil, old Mephistopheles, is patient enough, though, and welcomes his wholesale bargains and those who nickel-and-dime themselves to the depths with equal glee.

       

            Nicholas Simone, wholesale bargain, stared across the coke with slices of lemon at the man who’d offered to buy his soul.  He’d always imagined the Lord of Darkness to be taller.  The youngish man who leered at him through dark glasses, who looked permanently rumpled and forever five o’clock shadowed, spoke again.
          

            “Well, Mr. Simone?”  Satan’s voice was pleasant enough, some unidentifiable eastern European accent on it, but there was an edge to it that suggested it could quickly and easily become unpleasant.  Nick took another sip of his drink and grimaced.  The perfectly manicured nails of Lucifer made just the faintest suggestion of noise on the formica tabletop.  “What is it that you want?”
       

            “Proof.”
       

            “Of what?”  The grin spread wider, innocent of mirth, reminiscent, in fact, of certain predatory fish.  Mr. M, as the enigmatic stranger had asked to be called, folded his hands primly across the table.  He looked surprised, but vaguely amused; a con man—very well-rehearsed, exquisitely polished, but a con man nonetheless.
       

            “Proof?”
       

            “Yes, proof.  I’ve just signed my name to your f*****g papers about fifty times,” he drew in a breath, “and besides,” he pulled a thick, leather-bound book out of his briefcase, “I believe there is a precedent.”  He fumbled with the pages.  Mr. M sighed theatrically.
       

            “Luke, chapter 4, verses one through thirteen.”
       

            “Um, yeah.  How—“
       

            “Did I know that?  If your name were in, say, People Magazine, wouldn’t you read it?  This,” he snatched the Bible out of Nick’s unresisting hands, “was the ultimate publicity stunt.  This got me Faust, this got me Nostradamus, this got me LaVey, this got me Crowley.  Best ad copy money could buy.
       

            “But you want proof.  Kingdoms of the world at your feet, that sort of thing?  Very well,” and the voice did become unpleasant, “if I am the world’s realtor, I should give you a tour before turning over the keys.”

       

            Outside, the gently falling snow—unique, maddeningly imperfect crystals—melted into plain old ordinary water.

 

Reviews

[C.m.v]

Oooh! Fabulous start here! Im dying to read more! The first sentence captured my interest and didnt let go until the last line. Very interesting. Im curious to see where this is headed!

[Requiem]

I really love this. Especially the first line, drew me in right away. Is there going to be a chapter two?

[Yvonne Heidt]

Contrary to popular belief, the road to hell is not paved with good intentions, but with small concessions...

I loved this. I certainly hope that there is more? Great humor, great pace.

I SO pictured Mr. M. as Jack Nickleson! This is great!