The Guilded Butterfly

On an unseasonably cool Summer morning as the sun was just starting to rise above the horizon, Roger Charles tapped a bit of ash from his cigar off the side of The Gilded Butterfly into the waters of the Smotren River. The steam powered riverboat been chugging down the mighty waterway at a steady pace for several days and was nearing the next port of call, Genard City. Roger’s black wool suit, a “sack suit” his tailor called the new style, helped to keep him warm against the chilly air that came off the northern gulf.

Suddenly, the boat came to a jarring halt. The unexpected and rough stop caused Roger to drop his cigar into the water. He looked down and watched it float away. When he looked up again, he startled by a strange looking man standing directly in front of him. The man was exceptionally tall, taller than anybody Roger had ever seen before. The white suit he wore was perfectly fitted, something only the very rich could afford. His coal black mustachios and chin beard came out to a thin point whereas Roger’s were blonde, large, and bushy. It was the man’s eyes, however that was the most striking. He had never seen anybody with such piercing blue eyes. “Here, take one of mine.” The man said in a deep, rich voice as he held out a cigar that Roger recognized as being incredibly expensive.

Roger was tempted to accept the offer for no other reason than he didn’t know if he would ever have another chance for a cigar of such high quality, but something about the strange looking man was off-putting so he said, “Thanks, but no thanks, stranger. Meaning no offense, but I don't know you and I don't take gifts from fellas I don't know."

The man in white smiled wide revealing perfectly straight and clean teeth. He chuckled and said, "Well there, what better way to get to know one another than over a meal. I have a feeling we shan't be going anywhere for a bit. Care to join me?"

Rodger was instantly suspicious as to why this man was so interested in getting to know him, but he WAS getting hungry and the man seemed to have money to burn. "I s'pose, stranger, but you're buyin.' He said with a laugh. As the two walked inside to the dining area, he added, 'I'm Rodger, Rodger Charles by the way. And you are? Or should I keep calling you "stranger"?"

The tall man in white with impeccable taste and grooming habits chuckled once again. He seemed to purposefully wait until they had sat down to say anything. "Mr. Charles, good sir, what would you say if I told you my name is Lou Cypher or Bill Zebub or I.M. DeVille or another silly coy reference to Satan?"

Rodger scowled at the man sitting across from him and said with a snarl, "I'd say you had better watch it with your blasphemy. All that money you have won't do you a lick of good when you meet the REAL Satan, Mr. Cypher or Zebub or whatever your name is." He tried to get up to leave but found that he was stuck to the chair. "What in the Sam Hill is going on here?"

"Sam Hill? I like that name. Call me that.' said the newly christened Sam Hill. He raised a long fingered hand to signal a waiter to bring over the coffee pot. The waiter appeared to be completely oblivious to Rodger's struggling as he poured two cups and walked away without a word. Sam took a long, slurping sip of his drink, smacked his lips and continued, 'You should know, Mr. Charles, you were damned as soon as you got on my boat. But while you're here you might as well enjoy your stay until we reach port. The coffee is quite delicious."

Sam raised the hand holding the mug and Rodger felt himself come free from the chair. He instantly lunged across the table at Sam knocking off the plates and silverware that had meticulously been set. He grabbed Sam by the expensive collar and was about to punch him when Sam snapped his fingers and Rodger was sitting again and the table was perfectly set once more. "You should have a scone too." Said Sam offering him a pastry, "The chef has worked on them all night."

Rodger let out a defeated sigh and asked, "What in the he- what on Earth is going on?"

Sam raised his perfectly groomed eyebrows and held out a scone. He shook it slightly as if trying to tempt a dog with a treat. Rodger took the hint and the pastry. "To get into the exact complexities of what is 'going on' we'll need something stronger than coffee. Have you ever had a mimosa? No, silly me of course you haven't. They were invented sixty years after you… well anyway. WAITER! Two mimosas for my colleague and I and keep them coming."

The same waiter as before arrived with two drinks in tall glasses. Nothing Sam said or did made Rodger want to trust him, but he wanted answers. And he had to admit, the scone was amazing. "So who are you? Why am I here? Why was I "damned" as soon as I got on your boat? How did you do those fancy magic tricks? And can I get another one of these?" He asked in rapid succession.

Sam drained his drink before answering, "The short answer to those questions is: I'm the boatman of the devil. You're dead. See answer two. See answer one. And yes, of course. Anything else you want to know?"

Maybe it was the orange flavored drink or maybe it was something else, but Rodger didn't seem to mind all that much that he was deceased. He did ask, "Is there anything I can do to maybe not be damned?"

Sam smiled and booped Rodger on the nose, "I like you, Mr. Charles. I'll tell you what. If you can beat me in a little game of chance. I'll let you go home."

"And what happens if I lose?" Asked Rodger, his wits slowly returning to him with the stakes of his soul on the line.

"Like I said, I like you. So I'll be a good guy about it. Win, you go home. Lose, and all you have to do is spend the rest of the day with me. Do we have a deal?" Sam stuck out his long-fingered hand and Rodger shook it, not seeing a downside.

"What is the game?" Asked Rodger hoping for something he was somewhat good at.

Instead, he was dismayed when Sam pulled a silver dollar out of his pocket and asked, "Heads or tails? Call it in the air.' He flicked the coin up high.

Rodger watched it trying to guess. He didn't want his fate to be a fifty-fifty chance but there it was. "Heads. No, tails. No. Heads." He finally said.

The coin landed in the palm of Sam's hand. He flipped it to the back of his other and quickly said, "I probably should have mentioned, a day here lasts about a thousand years on Earth. Anyway, good luck."