Ballad of a Dodgy Deal
A short story by Alex James Taylor
Published in The HERO Winter Annual 2024

He knew he’d been fucked the moment
he skidded past The Howlin’ Canyons. He couldn’t believe it, he’d been conned. Him! Hoof on the accelerator, he span around and rampaged in the opposite direction. The raw smell of sulphur filled the air and fire burst through the sky above. Desert sand flew up behind the car, dispersed miles from each other. His heart beat like a million military drums, faster, Faster, FASTER as he yelled into the heavens above: “You son of a bitch, nobody plays me and walks away!”

It seemed like just another regular crossroads exchange, a deal he’s been pulling for generations. But he took his eye off the ball this time. “Oh kid, you’ve done it now!”

The sun lowered as the moon cowered. Not but 30 minutes had passed, yet the chancer had certainly fled for his life, he knew he had limited time and must hit the road immediately. But the crimson, swirling sky sent a warning, biting at him from above. Who has the bollocks to play the devil? Fuck, who looks the devil in the eyes and doesn’t sink into oblivion? Who was this player? Who sent him? He cocked his gun and the bullet span into position. The desert floor carved up behind the wheels of his crimson Coupe de Ville, sand, rocks and grit spitting and spewing into a storm cloud that billowed towards the menacing skies above.

What happened? Is he losing his touch? His intuition? Since the dawn of time he’d worked on instinct, listened to his ego and won at all costs. This shook him to the core, burnt him with anger. But there was another emotion creeping in: doubt. Had he been gotten the better of? Had he taken his eye of the ball? “Fuck off, of course I haven’t, you can delete that shit!” OK, OK, but something had happened out of the ordinary, out of the realm of his dark reality.

He put on a mixtape of his greatest work to remind himself of past achievements – Johnson. Joplin. Tartini. Hendrix – and whistled as he drove.

***

On the other side of the deal, a doomed figure sat at the bar, watching the rippling waves of whiskey crash across his glass. The storm swept through the swinging door and whirled around the room. Posters flew from the walls and bottles smashed to the floor. He wasn’t naive, he knew what was coming. He knew who was coming. Nature was giving him a warning he couldn’t miss.

He took a drink, the rim of his hat barely providing adequate shelter from the storm. This was his sanctuary, but it was getting torn apart. He’d made himself a sitting duck. As his glass slid across the bar through the door into the hellscape outside, he reached across and poured another. In the corner of his eye he saw the outline of a figure. Dressed all in white, he sat ever so calmly at the window – perfectly still in the eye of a malestrom. Winds swirled around his silhouette but kept their distance. He didn’t move an inch. He just looked out through the window, turning the apocalypse into a spectator sport. Suddenly, and subtly, he spoke... “I don’t always make it in time to see this. It’s quite beautiful really.” His voice seemed to squash the violent cyclone sounds and rise above it all. “The stars are pointing. The skies are wide open for you.” He tipped his hat and walked into the red light distance.

***

The ground flew into the sky, surrendering to its fate, as our story’s chaser skidded into town riding a tornado of his own making, flaming hot rain carving waves beneath the wheels. At speed, he tore through the streets until he reached the bar at the centre of it all. Brakes slammed. Up jumped the devil.
His cloven hoofs hitting the melted black soil where nature had been ripped up and spat out. The door to the bar was long gone, and the contents of the building was spilling through the empty space, the building itself clinging

on for dear life. This was his moment, he placed his hand on his pistol and stepped forward, ready to stake his claim, to wrong the right. But in that exact second a white rose petal fell from above, landing on the devil’s crusted, curled lip – he instinctively struck it with a hefty swipe. But instead of following the forceful path, the petal danced in the hellish wind. Twirling, floating towards the bar. As it entered, the bar began to emulate the rogue petal, twisting around itself before tearing free from its very foundations – soaring through the burning skies and towards the sanctuary of the stars above. The devil stood, stunned, speechless. It was an eerie, unnatural silence that hung in the air – before smashing to the ground with the weight of one million boulders. The stillness violently pierced by an almighty “Fuck!!”