The Bargain

The death of Terry was the final straw for Bert. Once again, life had short changed him. English Bull Terriers were supposed to live for more than a decade. Terry Bull only made it just past his sixth birthday. If that wasn’t bad enough, Terry checked out with what the vet referred to as complications. Translated into layman’s terminology, this meant that the vet was going away for two weeks all-inclusive and Bert was footing the bill.

Soon after Terry passed Thanksgiving reared it’s fat and ugly head. A holiday of excess enjoyed by people who lived to excess. The original holiday made sense to the lean and hardworking peoples of the past. Those lot lived hand to mouth and when they gave thanks, it meant something. These days, the vast majority of people never experienced the sensation of hunger and they were presented with an array of choices that their ancestors would have drowned in. 

As far as Bert could see, people were drowning and the very idea of Thanksgiving was an insult. Just like Christmas, the meaning of the festival had been erased and all that was left was a green light to consume.

Well Bert was sick of it. He was sick of it all. He was sick of the job that ground him down and left him with barely anything left in the tank for his so-called social life and he was sick of absence his ex-wife had lumbered him with. He’d been lonely when Terry was curled up on the sofa next to him, but now the very last warmth and companionship in his small and crumbling abode had gone and left him and done so earlier than expected.

Now, even with all the lights on in his decrepit house, it still felt dark as Bert sat on the sagging sofa and stared into the screen of his laptop. He tapped on the keys as though they were a part of the problem, and somehow they were.

Screw Thanksgiving

Two words entered into the search engine to express his displeasure at the world and it’s lack of value.

“I’ve got nothing to be thankful for,” he muttered as he pressed return.

What he’d hoped for was a t-shirt or sweater with this sentiment emblazoned upon it. He was of a mind to purchase it and parade around broadcasting his message. For once, his visit to the local supermarket might just amuse him. That would be a welcome change from the drudgery of his weekly visit to a place where the dregs of humanity shambled about and caused Bert to feel a frustrated and vindictive sadness towards his fellow sufferers of this thing called life.

There may have been apparel with anti-Thanksgiving sentiments, but he did not see them advertised. Instead he saw something quite, quite different. The first hit on his search for something to lift him from the foul and stinking mud of his existence caught his attention so completely and utterly that his face went about as slack as it were possible to be whilst he continued to reluctantly live and breathe. His lower jaw relaxed and he was oblivious to the slight, tickling itch that resulted from a trail of saliva escaping the corner of his mouth.

Bert was hooked.

The strange things with the ad was that he knew there were other words, but they blurred into relative insignificance as the phrases relevant to him came out of the screen and spoke to him. Bert had never experienced that before. Banks of text intimidated him. He was a slow and careful reader, painfully aware that were he to miss a word then he’d miss the meaning and all of it would pass him by in a fog of confusion.

Had enough?

All too much?

Why not sign it all over to me and relax?

Yes! It’s too good to be true – but let’s face it, what have you got to lose, Bert?!

Bert blinked hard as though the words had caught in his eyes, and when he open his eyes again, the text remained barring that last word…

…what have you got to lose?!

He knew it had been there though. Would have sworn it on his dear mother’s life. But in its absence he did what he always did. Did what he knew everyone did. He dismissed it. He squared it. He made sure it didn’t matter so he could ignore it and go ahead anyway. That petty laziness was how things went badly wrong. A small stone in the shoe that rubbed away at the walking foot until it bled and kept on going until that foot was bruised and infected and the walker could walk no more. One small, innocuous stone. That was what a person told themselves until they reaped the consequences of the lie they had told themselves so they could avoid the smallest amount of effort. The effort of the lie, were it to be part of a mathematical equation, would be at least equal to stopping for a moment, taking a breather, undoing the laces of the shoe, liberating the stone and rubbing a little life back into the foot that was so relied upon to convey a person on the journey of life. 

Small things weren’t always unimportant.

Bert did a small thing now. He clicked on the add to find out more.

The website he was transported inside of was unexpected. If there was an Oscar for a website then this was this year’s winner. The visuals were stunning and drew Bert in. They were accompanied by a soundtrack that tickled and poked Bert’s soul in ways that made him feel a certain brand of shame-filled good. That was a type of good that Bert had thought long gone. In fact, he’d sometimes considered paying someone in a last ditch attempt to attain that sordidly good feeling just one last time. He’d never gone through with it though. Never wanted to spend the cash, telling himself he couldn’t afford it, when really he could. But some habits die hard and Bert had never been comfortable with splashing the cash. He’d never found a way to justify it. That was a predominant reason for his childless marriage ending. Shirley had been constantly tortured by their bank balance and the constant need to save. She’d left six months after Bert had brought Terry home telling her soon to be ex-husband that he’d spoilt his dog more in six months than he’d ever done with her. Bert had watched her go, unable to comprehend how a person could be jealous of a dog. That was Bert’s abiding memory of the end of his marriage, Shirley was envious of Terry.

Bert had no concept of how long the flashing images and dramatic music went on for, only that he was exhausted as they abated and the urbane man appeared on the screen. Bert thought the man was English, or possibly British, he’d never bothered to clear up his understanding of the difference between the two. They all looked and sounded the same, so what was the point? 

When the man spoke, Bert nodded. He’d been on the money with the Brit or whatever it was accent. The man was finely dressed and that included his hair and face. This was a hirsute man who would wear a five o’clock shadow if it were not attended to, and so it was clear to Bert that it was attended to and that that would always be the case. No stubble or stained and well-worn jogging bottoms for this man. He was the real deal and he would consistently be the real deal. 

By rights, Bert should have taken against this man. This man was everything that Bert was not. This man had fallen down the money tree and collected a vast sum on his way down, landing in a pool of tremendous good luck for good measure. But Bert felt no resentment, only intrigue and of course, the lingering glow of sordid goodness that had somehow leaked out of his laptop screen and bathed him in an impossibly sultry manner. 

“Hello Bert,” said the man on the screen.

Bert’s eyes bulged and he shook his head as though to clear it. He hadn’t expected the man to speak, let alone speak directly to him and use his name, “how do you know my name?”

“Cookies,” the man shrugged self-deprecatingly, looking almost apologetic for the existence of said cookies, but they were a fact of life and so he was going with it and he fully expected Bert to do likewise.

Bert nodded like he knew that cookies would give up the detail of his name. He didn’t and he didn’t know much of anything right there and then. Something had crept into his brain and frozen it.

“So,” said the man, smiling a disconcertingly warm smile, “are you ready to sign up for the best Black Friday bargain ever?”

“Well…” said Bert. And what he’d wanted to say, what he should have said if he’d remained true to the self he had been since the last of his dreams had died in the gutter was for this man to go and do something painfully sexual to himself. Black Friday was black because it was tarred with the same brush as Thanksgiving as far as Bert was concerned. Black Friday was a con, just like Christmas was. There was a sucker born every minute and they lapped up this crap. Bert didn’t.

Only…

This seemed different. And that ad. Bert wanted out. Bert did want to give up on the rat race and the wheel he was plodding around in. There was nothing left for him here, not now Terry had gone. Bert had nothing, so surely giving up on nothing, giving nothing away, that was a pretty good bargaining position. Something for nothing was what he was looking at here.

And this guy had something. He was obviously rich and he was also handsome. Bert didn’t judge guys like that, but if he did, then this guy was a ten. No doubt about that. He could walk into any bar or club and half the women in the place would conspicuously check him out. The rest would be a little more subtle about it. He was a catch, a piece of prime male real estate that would always command a premium. 

And he was talking to Bert.

That had to be a good thing as far as Bert was concerned. It all seemed good, so Bert was going to hear this guy out. Why wouldn’t he?

“So,” said Bert, “what’s the deal?”

The man smiled that smile of his, “direct! I like it! Let’s not beat about the bush, eh?!” said the man seemingly doing just that.

“How much?” asked Bert, staying with the direct approach.

“Right,” said the man, “this is a one-time deal only, OK? I’m doing something a little different and you’ve landed the big one. First in line, and that’s a bit of a first for you isn’t it, Bert?”

Reluctantly Bert nodded, “I’m usually back of line, if that is, I ever find the line in the first place.”

The man chuckled, “well today is your lucky day! Or more specifically, this Friday. This Friday is your lucky day and for that day only.”

Bert leaned towards the screen and said quietly, “so what is this deal?” he was in on the deal now, fully invested, and they both knew it.

The man nodded, “give me a moment, Bert.”

He disappeared and Bert felt like the bottom of his world had fallen out. Like he’d missed out on something really big. He eyed the laptop screen suspiciously, expecting it to announce that he now had a virus and the most valuable item in his house was now an expensive, oversized beer mat.

Instead there was a gentle knock at the door. Bert jumped at the sound of it and only just managed to keep hold of himself and the laptop. He blasphemed as the shock hit him. He was staring at the living room door for the knock had been on that door and not his front door, nor his back door. The door was ajar, but whoever was behind it was obscured by the door itself.

“Is that you?” Bert said tentatively, shamed by the potential stupidity inherent in his words.

“It is, Bert!” said the man, “can I come in?”

Bert stood up and placed his laptop on the coffee table. He was brushing his sweatshirt and joggers down as though his palms would transform his attire to something that passed muster. If this was possible, then he’d have to use his magic palms on the entirety of his surroundings, so he wisely gave the wiping up as a bad job, “sure,” he said, “come in.”

The man stepped into the room and brought with him the biggest serving of charisma that Bert had ever encountered. He didn’t know whether to shake his hand, kneel or try to eat him, and so he stood and gawped.

“Can I take a seat?” ventured the man.

“Yes!” cried Bert, “please do!” he was gesturing at the chair in an exaggerated manner that he knew was weird, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.

“You should also sit, Bert,” the man said quietly and soothingly.

“Oh,” said Bert, “yes.”

He sat, and the sofa attempted to swallow him up.

“I’m going to tell you straight, Bert. It’s the least I can do. I’m the devil himself and the bargain I am offering you for Black Friday is a simple variation on the usual bargain I offer.”

Bert nodded, but remained silent. He didn’t have the words. The devil. That would explain it. Not luck after all. Of course he’d be first in line when it came to Beelzebub. 

The devil help up his index finger, “one day, Bert. That’s all I’m asking. You give me your soul for one day.”

“Just one day?” Bert asked. That didn’t sound so bad. 

The devil nodded solemnly, “One day. Black Friday only. I have possession of your soul and we party like it’s nine hundred and ninety nine!”

“Nine hundred and ninety nine?” questioned Bert.

“Oh yes!” chuckled the devil, “why do you think they were called the dark ages!?” 

“So…” began Bert.

“Yes,” said the Devil reaching into the inner pocket of his expensive Italian suit jacket, “you sign up for one day only and you get to do all the things I’d do if I were you! Amazing isn’t it?!” The Devil placed a one page document in front of Bert and gave him a quill.

Bert took the quill and examined it like it was a new species.

“Just prick your finger with the business end and sign, Bert.”

Bert looked from quill to devil to the parchment in front of him. Why not! That was the thought that came forth and prompted the prick and the mark that sealed the deal. The devil snatched up the paper, “well done!” he said congratulating Bert, “you can keep the quill,” and with that he pocketed the contract and left the way he came.

Bert sat in the drab and dreary half-light of his living room and were it not for the quill, he’d swear he was in need of medical attention for the loss of his marbles. With nothing else in his diary, he decided to go to bed. 

Friday was three days later and up until Thursday, Bert was surprisingly calm. That calm was somewhat ruined by the unwelcome appearance of Thanksgiving. That night sleep eluded him. Worse still, time dragged from his going to bed before ten of the clock and all the way to the last of the eleventh hour. He stared at the ceiling as midnight approach harrumphed and then knew nothing more.

When Bert awoke he was different and he was fully aware of this difference, or rather these differences. Mostly, he hurt. He hurt all over, but was painfully aware of a soreness in places he’d rather not talk about. Gently he arose and shuffled to the bathroom. Going to the toilet was painful. After washing his hands, he splashed his face with cold water. That was when he eyed himself in the mirror. 

And screamed.

He poked at the gaps where two of his front teeth had once been. Pressing lightly upon a corker of a black eye, to discover it was only too real. He gasped at the tattoo on his neck; Rita. He didn’t know a Rita and certainly wouldn’t have had her name tattooed upon his person, and if he had, certainly not in so conspicuous a place.

Groaning he stumbled back into his bedroom and examined his defiled body further. He sat heavily on his bed, regretting it as his body reminded him that it had been badly used during the previous day.

Holding his head in his hands, Bert sighed, “you fool! You gullible fool!” 

The devil had been true to his word. The problem was that Bert hadn’t attended to that word. He’d given his soul to the devil and for the entirety of Black Friday the devil had occupied his body and done as he pleased. 

Bert had stupidly thought that he would be present during all the festivities and that he’d have a say in them. 

Bert was very, very wrong.

He padded back into the bathroom, turning his back to the mirror, craning his head around. Somehow he knew what he was going to find.

“Really?!” he gasped, “now that’s just taking the…”

On each of his butt cheeks was a huge W. Somehow that was the worst of it. A shameful reminder of Bert’s one time deal with the devil, and Bert hadn’t seen the state of his living room yet…