Chapter 1: The Baristas(1)
Thursday, June 6th, 2013 – Mark Glassner – Southern Pierce County
“That’s it?” I asked, my thumb still throbbing from the pen prick.
“That’s it,” the Devil answered jovially, putting the contract into his satchel. “Well, I’ll be going. Unless you have any more questions, Mark?”
There was an awkward pause as I tried to think, but I was still too amazed that it actually worked—that it wasn’t some huge prank. I had summoned the Devil, and he appeared and appeared to have granted me three wishes in exchange for my soul.
After 27 years of life, I still hadn’t gotten laid. Not even a handjob from a girl feeling sorry for me. I wasn’t an ugly guy, just average looking. Well, I was a little overweight. It was just that I was painfully shy around women. I guess it was a mix of a lack of confidence, nervousness around strangers, and a fear of rejection that led to my current status: virgin. If I was being honest, my number one problem is fear of rejection. I only ever had the courage to tell one girl I liked her. “That’s nice,” was her kick-in-the-balls response. And the older I got, the more pathetic it seemed. What girl would want to date a guy my age with zero experience.
It was that soul-crushing desperation that brought me out to this lonely crossroad, at midnight, in the forested foothills of the Cascade Mountains.
I had read that if you buried a box containing certain items – a photograph of yourself, dirt from a graveyard, bone of a black cat, and a yarrow flower – at a crossroad at midnight, you could summon the Devil. In exchange for your soul, the Devil would grant you three wishes. Feeling ridiculous, I had gathered the items and buried a shoe box full of them where two gravel roads crossed.
And I waited, feeling like a complete moron.
And waited.
And waited.
Eternity seemed past; my stomach twisted into knots. I was just about to leave when the Devil appeared, stepping out of the shadows. I was stunned—my thoughts scattered at his appearance. He walked towards me, a handsome man, dark hair, dressed in an expensive black suit. He had a broad, friendly smile. Not the oily, fake smile a used-car salesmen wears as he tries to sell you a lemon, but an honest and very genuine grin. The only thing unusual about him was the scarlet of his eyes.
“Hello, Mark Glassner. What can I do for you, tonight?” the Devil asked pleasantly.
“I ... uh... ” I stammered painfully, surprise tangling my tongue. He waited patiently as I gathered my thoughts. This was actually happening; my hands were drenched in sweat and I wiped them on my slacks. “I want to make some wishes.”
“Of course, of course,” he said; his tone was matter-of-fact. For the Devil, this was just business as usual and nothing to get excited about. “What would you like?”
I swallowed; my voice cracked as I told him my first wish: “A long, healthy life.”
The Devil nodded, “That’s good one. The second?”
“Sexual stamina,” I said, my cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “I want to be able to ... uh ... perform as many times as I want.”
Again the Devil nodded his head; there was understanding in his eyes—not judgment. Feeling more confident, I told him my third wish: “I want people to do whatever I tell them to do in a friendly and helpful manner.” The Devil grinned—a predatory, hungry smile and for the first time I felt unease curdling my stomach. I swallowed my nerves; I wanted my wishes to badly to stop now. “Do we have a deal?”
With a flash of scarlet light and yellow smoke, a contract appeared in his hand. The smoke smell acrid and foul, like rotten eggs. “Look it over,” he said as he handed me the contract.
I did. The contract seemed straightforward: three wishes for my soul. It seemed cheap. What was my soul really worth? What had I done with my life? Nothing. All I had to show for it was a cheap, one bedroom apartment, a shitty car, and a terrible job trying to sell vacuum cleaners to stuck-up, rich bitches. I nodded and with a flourish, the Devil produced an old fashioned, black fountain pen. He pricked my thumb with the it; I signed the contract in my own blood.
Then the Devil signed in his.
“Well, I’ll be going. Unless you have any more questions, Mark?”
The Devil took my silence as a no. With a friendly smile, he vanished back into the shadows. And it hit me, what I just done. I stumbled under the weight of my actions, bumping back into my beat-up old Ford Taurus. I made a Pact with the fucking Devil. It was so surreal, I was starting to suspect I was dreaming. One of those dreams that were so real it was only after you woke up that you realized just how absurd it really was. My legs felt weak, wobbly like a newborn animal. I set heavily on my car’s trunk, the shocks squeaking as my weight rocked it, and I stared up at the stars as they wheeled across the night sky.
This was going to change everything. I thought about what I would do with my powers and fantasies flashed through my mind: getting even with people, living a life of luxury, and getting laid. I smiled, definitely getting laid. I made plans, playing out scenarios over and over in my mind. I would need money, a new car, a nice place to live. And most importantly, which girls did I want to fuck? Where would I find the hottest girls around here? How many would I want to keep as my personal toys?
Before I knew it, the sun was rising, blushing the horizon pink—a shy maid.
As I watched the sun, I felt different. I felt like I had been taken apart and stitched back together as I watched the stars travel across the night sky. I was remade—reborn. Better than I had been. I was no longer that virgin loser from yesterday; I had a whole new life ahead of me. I was someone now. Smiling, I slid into my car, started the engine, and peeled out down the gravel road to find this new life.
I drove back into civilization, passing shopping centers on the edge of Spanaway. I was a mix of excitement and exhaustion. I felt like I could sleep the day away, but I was far too excited to put my powers to the use and finally get laid for that. Seeing one of the many Starbucks – I swear they were on ever street corner in Washington State – I realized I could fulfill both of those desires. Getting some desperately needed caffeine was just the a pleasant bonus.
I was nervous as I entered the coffeehouse and doubt started gnawing away at my confidence. All the certainty I felt watching the sun rise was leaking out of the holes my doubt had made. This wasn’t going to work, echoed in my mind. Last night was a dream. A hallucination. Some horribly, elaborate prank at my expense. Possibly with hidden cameras and some Ryan Seacrest look-a-like about to ambush me and broadcast my humiliation to the world as part of some terrible reality TV show.
The Starbucks was crowded with people on their way to work. Three baristas worked the shop. A nerdy looking guy and two, attractive women, all dressed in the baggy, black polo shirts tucked into black pants. Over such drab uniforms, they all wore the trademarked, green aprons with the Starbuck’s mermaid embroidered in white. The first barista – whose nametag read ‘Cynthia’ – was a tall women, mid twenties, with black hair cut short in a vaguely punkish style. Both her nose and her right eyebrow – above dark eyes – were pierced with gold rings; all these featured combined to give her face a certain predatory wildness.
The second female barista – Mary, who was maybe nineteen or twenty – stood a little shorter than Cynthia, with long, auburn hair pulled back into pony tail, and a heart-shaped face dotted with freckles. God, I loved redheads. Our eyes met, hers were a deep emerald, and I felt a foolish grin broadening my face. She returned my smile, gorgeous dimples appearing on her smooth cheeks transforming her face from simply beautiful to absolutely stunning.
I got in line behind a cute twenty-year old. Curly, brunette hair fell about her purple hoodie. My eyes traveled down her back to stare at perky ass covered by a jean skirt; long, tan legs, well-toned, peaked out beneath the frayed edges of the skirt. Staring at the bubbly ass, I wanted to reach out and squeeze it—my cock hardened.
Gathering my courage, I croaked out, “Hi.”
The brunette turned, eyed me up and politely smiled, before turning back.
I can do this, I told myself. You’re a new man. Reborn. I cleared my throat. “Hi, I’m Mark. What’s your name?”
This time the brunette’s smile was far friendlier. “Vivian Anders,” she answer; her voice had a smokey, sultry quality about it.
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