When a thespian devotee of the local repertoire theater grows desperate to finally gain a leading role, they throw hazard to the wind and decide to make a deal with Old Scratch. However, the Devil has more interest in selling rather than buying, specifically the soul of Benito Mussolini, the long dead fascist dictator of Italy. What follows is a chaotic mess of improperly switched souls and increasingly disastrous misunderstandings. Joined by a muscle-bound man of God and an elderly English housekeeper possessed by Il Duce, our would-be performer embarks on a cross-country hunt for a stray dog needed to set everything right. On their way they will encounter lackadaisical slackers, polyamorous corporate strivers, gun-toting rideshare drivers, self-important theater folk, greedy business tycoons, and religious fetishists, all while pursued by two cockney accented goons. As the trio struggle with each other and their inner demons, tensions rise and the stakes grow, until the future of the entire good old U.S. of A. is at risk.
Part 1 - Il Bivio
I could tell that the Lyft driver was getting nervous because he kept bringing up the fact that he kept a .45 under his seat.
“Not loaded,” he said with what I took to be false bravado. “I’m scared to death I’ll hit a bad bump and shoot a toe off or something, but the magazine is in the glove box and I can get it ready to go faster than you can say my slap happy pappy has a crap happy grandpappy.”
“That seems like quite the mouthful,” I answered, a bit incredulously.
I expected him to say something like that’s what your momma says, because he seemed like the type, but evidently he wasn’t all that clever.
“I’m a Second Amendment man,” he declared.
“I’m more of a Third Amendment man myself,” I answered.
“Pardon?”
From the look he gave me in the rearview mirror he was obviously confused.
“It wouldn’t work out,” I answered, “my apartment just isn’t that big.”
I won’t bore you with all of the lengthy conversation I had with this particular Lyft driver. Everything from why the cars no longer have to have the pink moustache on them, to his favorite kinds of salted cured meats, capocollo being an especial favorite, to his evidently very strong opinions regarding newscasters with a prominent vocal fry. To be fair, as I said before, he was obviously nervous, and lots of people are talkers when they’re nervous. After all, we were going to a crossroads far out in the middle of nowhere in the very early morning, though I guess it wasn’t nowhere for the people in the area, I’m guessing pretty few judging by the lack of other vehicles or house lights. Either way, it was kind of funny. Given I’m such a slight person it was hard to imagine anybody finding me all that intimidating.
The distant sky was just beginning to have a purplish Midwestern haze when the driver’s phone announced we were mere minutes from our destination. I had a twinge of conscience.
“Look,” I said to the eyes watching me in the rearview mirror, “I need to level with you. I’m out here to meet old Jumpin’ Jack Flash to make a deal.”
The eyes narrowed.
“This better not be a drug deal. It’s against the terms and conditions of my contract with Lyft to be involved in that kind of shit.”
“No narcotics,” I promised, “I’m out here meeting Old Scratch if you catch my drift.”
The driver grunted in response.
“If it was me, I’d look into getting friends with normal names who don’t ask to meet in out of the way places so early in the butt fucking morning.”
We stopped about fifty yards from the crossroads. There was nothing but long rows of immature corn around us, black in the twilight, latched to the horizon by distant lines of shadowed trees.
“Stay here and wait for me,” I told the driver.
“I can’t be involved in illegal activity of any kind. My contract…”
“I’m not buying or selling narcotics,” I promised.
“Whatever,” he answered.
A tall wooden signpost stood at the corner, none of the lettering directing me back to Chicago, though if I turned around I would have undoubtedly seen its light on the horizon. I got out of the car and started making my way down the gravel road toward the meeting spot. The Devil hadn’t yet arrived.
That’s right, I actually was out there to meet the Devil, hard as it might be to believe. My buddy Teddy hooked me up. Teddy knows all sorts of people.
“Of course I know him,” Teddy had said with a braggadocious tone of voice. “I just sold an old dirt bike to him last month.”
Teddy had given me directions on how to get things set up. He didn’t even ask me why I wanted to meet with the Devil in the first place. Teddy was good like that.
I got up to the crossroads and was just standing there, waiting, shivering a bit in the cold morning air, and eventually feeling kind of foolish, like haha, way to go Teddy, you really got me you fricking bastard, when as casual as you please out pops this guy from behind the signpost. This was pretty impressive given it was no thicker than my forearm. The signpost that is, not the guy. This was pretty impressive given working out is not exactly on the top of my to do list.
He wasn’t quite as I imagined him, and I doubt I would have believed it myself if he hadn’t just appeared right in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere. He was kind of a weaselly looking fella with a shaved head and one of those long chin beards like Scott Ian from Anthrax. He was wearing a black pleather vest hanging open over a white t-shirt covered in yellow stains, I want to say chicken satay maybe, ratty old dungarees, and those kind of boots that look like work boots but are actually super expensive and wouldn’t last a day if you tried to do any actual work in them. He also had the start of a beer belly, like the baby bump of a woman three months pregnant, which I know because that was the point all the women I hung out with in my twenties quit hanging out with me. All except Emily, who instead of opting for a baby bump decided instead to get six to eight abortions, which don’t get me wrong, I’m very pro-choice, but might be a few too many if you know what I mean.
But I digress. Regarding the Devil’s appearance, luckily for me I had gone through a leather daddy phase and been to Burning Man the year it rained really hard, so I wasn’t easily intimidated.
“Are you Old Scratch?”
“I prefer Harry,” replied the Devil.
He had the voice of a used car salesman. Even from a distance, his breath stank of brimstone and Cool Ranch Doritos.
“I’ve never heard you called Harry.”
“I think it’s kind of a Dorset thing.”
“Where the hell is Dorset?” I asked.
“Please mind your language,” he replied.
We stood there, just looking at each other. The Devil chewed off one of his fingernails and spit it onto the gravel where it caught fire.
“So, you’re looking to make a deal,” said the Devil in a rather matter of fact way.
“That’s right,” I replied, trying to sound casual about it. “I want…”
He cut me off.
“I know what you want.”
Of course he knew what I wanted, after all, he was the Devil, but I guess I should at least tell you what I wanted, because otherwise that’s all you’re going to be thinking about instead of listening to the rest of my damn story.
I was there to ask the Devil to give me the role of Captain Hook at the local repertory theater adaptation of Peter fricking Pan. I know, it’s fricking ridiculous, but you try being nothing more than the understudy to Mindy Gabaldon for ten years running and tell me you wouldn’t do the same. Fricking Mindy Gabaldon, queen of the local arts scene and seemingly blessed with the health of a damn horse. When we did South Pacific, I had to play a damn palm tree, seriously, a damn palm tree, because her fricking brother, Greg Gabaldon, our perpetual director, didn’t want to risk having to swap around too many important parts in case Mindy got sick or something. Which is a bunch of bullshit of course, all of it just being politics, you know, me not being part of the good old boys’ clubs that run such things.
“So do we have a deal then?” I demanded.
“Couldn’t you just Tonya Harding her or something? You know…”
The Devil mimed whacking a knee with a pipe.
“I’m not a violent person,” I answered.
“I see.” He kicked a bit of gravel with his boot. “Well, here’s the thing, you really don’t have much of anything I really want.”
“Excuse me?” I felt rather offended. “Is this because I’m queer?”
The Devil looked rather uncomfortable, raising his hands up in protest.
“Nobody gives a darn about that. Not me, not the people upstairs. It’s just that your soul is not exactly in mint condition, and if I’m being honest, I’m probably just going to end up with it anyways.”
Well, what could I say? I mean, anybody who knew me in my younger years would have to agree that it was probably a fair assertion.
“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”
I was letting my frustration fully shine through.
“Watch your language,” reminded the Devil.
We stared at each other. He just shrugged and mimed swinging a pipe again. I’m not proud, but I started to cry. That real ugly kind of cry where you try to hold it back, but it just makes it so much worse.
“This isn’t fair,” I blubbered.
“That’s not my doing.”
I just kept crying, tears and snot flowing downwards. From the look on his face, the Devil was pretty uncomfortable with such a show of emotion. He must not have had an emotionally vulnerable father figure in his upbringing.
“Look,” he finally said, or something like that. I’m not a fricking recording device. “I don’t want your soul, but maybe I’ll throw you a bone if you buy a soul off of me?”
“Excuse me?”
I was so surprised I stopped my bawling, which if you know me, once I start I rarely stop until I’m done.
“I’ve got a soul I’ve been trying to offload for a while now. You buy it from me and I’ll take care of your whole Mindy Gabadalacious or whoever as a favor.”
I was instantly suspicious, you know, because it was the fricking Devil.
“How much do I have to pay?”
“However much you have on you.”
The Devil smirked a bit at me expectantly, but I paid it no mind. This was a bit of a break. I rarely carried much cash on me.
“Whose soul?”
I was still very much suspicious.
“Benito Mussolini,” he answered matter of factly.
“The fascist dictator?”
The Devil pointed finger guns at me and made a clicking noise out of the side of his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
I was puzzled.
“You would think he would be right up your alley.”
The Devil rolled his eyes.
“He’s so annoying. The guy is always bouncing off the damn walls and he constantly talks about himself in this bombastic self-aggrandizing manner. I conquered Ethiopia! I conquered Albania! I have larger than average sized genitalia! I mean c’mon, he was a tiny guy with a big head who ended up naked and hanging upside down at a gas station! Big whoop!”
The Devil paused to calm himself a bit.
“Plus he’s a filthy Italian,” he added.
I rocked a bit back and forward on my heels.
“That sounds a bit bigoted.”
“Well, I am the Devil.”
“Fair,” I said.
“Is it a deal?”
“Do Italians just not go to Hell then?”
I should probably mention that I have a bit of a problem with keeping my mouth shut. Emily calls me Sherlock Groans because I always ask one question too many. I don’t think it’s that funny, but she’s also told me that her jokes are meant to entertain her, not me.
The Devil kicked a little rock over with his fancy boot, scuffing it a bit.
“We mostly stick the bad ones in purgatory for eternity,” he answered. “Them and Latvians. I really dislike Latvians, but that’s more of a personal thing.”
“I see,” I said.
“Do we have a deal or not?”
I mean, what else was I supposed to do? It wasn’t like I had a lot of other options, you know, other than just walking away, but I didn’t get up at the ass crack of dawn to not get what I wanted most in the world.
“Sure,” I said, taking out my wallet and pulling out the fourteen bucks it contained.
“Give me that Subway card too,” he demanded.
“I’ve got a six inch coming my way.”
“You want the deal or not?” he growled.
I handed over the Subway card.
“Sweet,” he said. “I’m going to get me a Seafood Sensation.”
And with that, he reached behind him and pulled out an old pint bottle of Jose Cuervo from who knows where, holding it gingerly between two fingers as though even touching it disgusted him. The bottle looked vintage. The label was half rubbed off.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the soul.”
He answered with a wink, which left me wondering whether or not it was true. I mean, the liquid in the bottle looked a bit cloudy, but otherwise no different than any other tequila I had ever seen.
“Are you sure?” I was a bit incredulous.
“What do you want, like a bejeweled crystal decanter or something?”
I took the bottle. The Devil pulled an old beat up dirt bike out from behind the signpost. His foot rammed down on the kick starter. The bike sputtered but didn’t start. He tried again with the same result.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
The Devil was fiddling with the choke.
“I’ve got it,” he answered.
Another attempt failed.
“Maybe you flooded it,” I suggested, not really sure what it meant but knowing it had something to do with motorcycles.
“It’s a new bike,” tried to explain the Devil, “at least new to me.”
He tried again. The bike roared to life with a plume of black oily smoke. He flashed me a victorious grin and then slipped the clutch. The bike jerked forward and nearly died again, but he saved it with a sudden romp on the throttle that scattered gravel behind him as he careened wildly down the road. I watched him go, cradling the bottle in my arms.