Genre
Short Stories
The Contract
These guys always look the same. Oily, unkempt hair falling on a wrinkled, sweaty brow, eyes blinking rapidly.
These guys always look the same. Oily, unkempt hair falling on a wrinkled, sweaty brow, eyes blinking rapidly. Dirty tee that looks like it’s been slept in. Blizzard of Ozz, figures.
His hand trembles a bit as he pushes the page toward me. Too much coffee. Or booze.
I can barely make out the printed text in the dim, candlelit room. 12-point font, single-spaced, of course. His eyes widen as I use my phone as a flashlight; he must have expected a snap of my fingers to do the trick.
A quick scan of the first few lines. Ugh, the usual artless bullshit, and a missing comma to boot… It’s going to be that kind of day.
I push the page back as he sags. “I can’t use this, sorry.” I don’t sound like I’m sorry, but in my experience, it’s a kindness, really. “Besides, from the look of you, I’ll get you eventually, anyway,” I tell him, as I give the room a quick once-over. “When was the last time you washed this floor?” I cut him off as he opens his mouth. “Never mind. Don’t call me again.”
They rarely listen, which keeps the scented candle folks in business, I suppose. Though threatening to go medieval on them, on their second or third try usually does the trick — it’s especially satisfying with those wannabe lawyers that start with the “you can’t do this” and “it’s not supposed to.” Seriously, you’re going to get a master of the universe to show up in your room, you’d better make sure your chalk geometry is flawless. Or at least learn to take no for an answer.
Did I say master of the universe? Lowercase. At your beck and call for the price of five thick, properly placed candles, and a few Aramaic phrases, though Latin will do in a pinch. Oh, and practice your chalk lines if you plan to get cheeky.
“Who the hell needs your soul?”
I LOVE watching their faces when I say that. The saggy starlets who have run out of plastic. The ‘roid rage has-beens that want to win just that one more time. The politicians… ok, ok, we all make mistakes…
But the “writers” — they are truly the worst. Use an AI to write a romantasy, for fuck’s sake, or just get a vanity publisher for your drivel: it’ll cost you a few thousand bucks, and you can shove all the signed copies you want down the throat of your friends and family. If they still want to be your friends and family, anyway.
You think hell needs to add your tender consciousness to its library, the one that already has Goethe? Dante? You think there’s a shortage?
Like I have nothing better to do than get you a publishing contract that will have every miserable living hack, not to mention a few dead ones, bitch: “How is this possible? I write way better than this!” Is any soul worth that headache?
Yeah, I know, I know, you can give me examples and quote them chapter and verse. Those were from before my time.
How is that possible, you ask? I did say lowercase.
No, I’m not the first to get this gig, not by a long shot. And it’s been ages since the Big Guy handled these types of cases himself. Ever since… Let’s just say there are still a few among you who are really, really good at an Euclidean chalk line, so ever since the little embarrassing incident in the Prague Masonic lodge, He tends to assign house calling to expendable poor devils like me.
And we’re on strict quotas to bring down only the most exceptional contracts. Oh, an agent will slip up here and there; that’ll explain more than a few Nobels and Pulitzers, and if you wanted an explanation for how Pulp Fiction didn’t win the Best Picture Oscar in ’94, now you know, but for the most part, we stick to the rules and are rated on it. You should know I’m in the ninety-ninth sticktuitiveness percentile, and damn proud of it. Expecting to get promoted soon.
You detect a paradox? Oh, this is no Yogi Berra situation, believe me, hell is plenty busy with regular customers, just think about where you’re going to end up. OK, but for real. That’s right, we don’t need to do a lot of work to get most of you where you belong.
But how do we get the exceptional ones? That’s what you’re asking me? Why do they need someone like me pulling strings on their behalf?
Like, why would anyone, genuinely gifted, an author, an actor, a physicist, attempt to sell their soul for success? What does he have to gain from it? What’s in it for her if she is already great?
I see. It appears that you still do not get it. Let me spin you a bit of a conspiracy theory:
Imagine that there are many, many devils, each just like me, who’ve spent years, no, perhaps decades learning how to get better at saying no, to eventually revel in saying no, to positively salivate Pavlovian over saying it.
Now imagine that as we finally get so good at it that we can’t get any better, that every “no” sends the intended recipient into immediate, irredeemible despair, what happens? What do you think happens?
We get promoted.
And where does the Big Guy put us? Where would we be able to put our newly honed sharp skills to the best use?
I see that you are beginning to understand.
No one gets by us. No one, no matter how good they are. No one without one of these contracts.
Do you get it now? Are you finally ready?
Very well, I see that you are.
To be honest, I would have probably drawn the figure first and then lit the scented candles afterwards. It seems much easier that way.
But here’s your piece of chalk.