[WP] The Devil promises you everything: fame, fortune, all the things a mortal will ever need for paradise on earth. But he doesn't want your soul, he just wants you to take his socially awkward daughter, Gertrude, out on a date. Make her special, y'know?

Part 1: The Devil Wears Spandex


The smokey haze of the bar filled my brain like a dingy, old blanket. The sounds of the Grateful Dead echoed around the din of the late-night crowd. I stared down into the amber liquid that filled my glass, hoping I'd find a reason to just keep truckin' ooon - damn music was screwing with my head. I hated that stupid song. I quickly downed what was left of the bourbon. The smouldering heat as it went down was both pleasure and pain. Pain. Allison. Fuck. I poured myself another round. After all, the bartender had left me the bottle. I wanted to wash away the gnawing in my head and heart. It wasn't working so well. I blinked back tears as I watched the golden-brown alcoholic ocean swirl in the glass. Allison was gone. She packed up and left without a good-bye except the note she tacked to the fridge. I still don't know what went wrong. I thought we were good for each other. Sure, we fought. Who doesn't, right? The sex was great. And she was so beautiful. Why did she leave? The only thing that kept me from sobbing was the urge to take a piss. I unsteadily slipped off of the bar stool and weaved my way to the bathroom. As I started relieving myself someone else came into the john. It's not like I paid attention. My mind was on Allison leaving, the bar tab, and driving that train, high on... Someone really needs to break that fucking CD. All of a sudden this guy is standing right next to me. He was humming that song. It was so damn annoying I wished I could piss on his shoe. I couldn't wait to get out of there. Just as I start yanking up my zipper, he casually says, "Hey buddy. You alright? Nah. You got woman troubles. I can tell by the look on your face." That's when I got a good look at him. He was built like a regular guy, but dressed like a middle-aged weekend warrior type of biker. Not one of those guys who wear all the Harley-Davidson crap. I mean a biker, like Lance Armstrong and those other guys in the Tour De France. He was wearing black spandex shorts, those weird bug-eyed mirror glasses, and a tight shirt with the USPS logo across it in red, white and blue. His short salt & pepper hair was neatly slicked back from his tanned face. And when he smiled at me, his teeth looked perfectly white and straight. I felt the little hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I should have left, but as inched closer to the door he slowly make a tsk-tsk sound at me. "Chicks, man. They'll get ya every time," he sighed. "But I bet I can do something for you that will take away all that heartache." "Whaddya mean? Nothing can fix this," I replied with an edge of uneasiness in my voice. He peered over the rim of his sunglasses at me with eyes that were colorless and yet vividly bright at the same time. A chill went down my spine, "Christ, I must really be hammered." "Oh Michael," he came closer as he sadly shook his head. I realized I had never given him my name and my heart started pounding faster in my chest. "Mikey, I can give you anything you want. You just have to do me one favor. Here's my card. Anything Mikey. You think about that, okay, and you call me if you want to make a deal." Next thing I know, the dude is gone! I thought I must have blacked out for a minute. Then I thought I might have hallucinated the whole thing. I did have a lot of bourbon. But the business card was in my hand. A red pentagram was embossed on the back of the white card. The front simply read, "Lou Cipher. 666-4355."

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