The Devil's Contract (Time, Part 1 of 2)

The platform rose to the stage and Norman Ray held the Flying V high over his head, the guitar covered with flame and details of eternal torment, Goya and Hieronymus Bosch. He screamed. The audience screamed. Machines vomited smoke and flame and he was surrounded. Drums and power chords thundered. This was his time. All of life, his life, all creation had led to this moment. This was why he was born. White faced, his eyes framed black, mock blood streaming down the sides of his lips, the audience chanted, “Norman! Norman! Norman!” This is what the deal said he would have, and he sucked it in. He stepped through the smoke and flame.

And then the world froze.

The silence stunned him, the move from deafening chaos to… nothing. Fire and smoke had frozen around him, like granite and crystal, smoke encircling him, spiraling up his body, holding him fast, and fire, like amber, glittering like ice, deadly, just inches from his face.

The audience was frozen in turn. He squinted past the spotlights, into the darkness to see people, masses of people frozen in the throes of stupid ecstasy, or in the process of thrashing out the boredom, or glazed, or angry, all trapped in a moment.

A single hand boomed out of the dark. “Clap… clap… clap… clap.”

“Congratulations. Well done,” came a single voice from near the front of the stage. A tiny man in a tidy black suit pushed his way past frozen flailing limbs into the light and climbed up onto the stage. He smiled. “You’ve come quite far from where we found you five years ago, assistant asshole at a gas station.”

“Who the hell are you?” Norman gawked, trapped within the vapors that swirled out from under his feet.

“Yes, quite,” said the little man inspecting the cage of frozen time that Norman was locked into. “The name is Melvin Whist. Messenger of Lucifer, Fallen Angel of the Morning Star, Attorney at Law, Formerly at the Right Hand of God, Lord of the Lake of Eternal Flame. Pleased to meet you.” Melvin found a couple of Norman’s finger’s sticking out of his cage and wiggled them politely. “You see, that whole bit about red horns and cloven hooves is mostly for promotional purposes. Black candles and sulfur are all very expensive, so we don’t waste all that on the people who are already hooked. We traffic in pain and misery. Fantasy like that is just, like, icing on the cake. After all, the point is Hell on Earth, isn’t it? Which brings us to the point at hand.”

Melvin reached up and snapped off a few slivers of ice and fire and allowed Norman to get out of his cage. Norman came out swinging his guitar like an ax. Melvin stepped aside easily and the guitar came crashing to the ground and shattered. Norman stumbled forward and fell on top of it.

“Shame,” said Melvin. “1979 Gibson V2, custom sculpted and hand painted by some of our best. It was quite beautiful. Unique.”

“I’m not going.”

He smiled down at Norman. “You have it backwards, Norman. I’m not here to take you anywhere. I’m just here to facilitate understanding.” Melvin turned from Norman and crouched down to look into the front row at a thirteen-year-old frozen in a scream like an epileptic fit, tears flying from her face. “Because it is only through understanding that we can truly understand pain.” Melvin patted his breast pocket. “You have a copy of the contract?” he asked scrutinizing the young girl’s face.

“I carry it with me. I keep a framed copy on my dressing room wall.”

“Very nice. Well, these people can wait.” Melvin stood and kicked Norman gently. “Get up, then, and let’s go to your dressing room. I’ll tell you what really happened to Robert Johnson on the way.”

To be continued…