[ WP ] After finishing a set at an old bar , a washed up musical legend is approached by someone who just wants to jam with him ... that someone is Satan

`` I must have seen it coming. `` 
 He rocked back and forth, watching the tall stranger. 
 
 `` You have seen me. In the crowds. `` 
 
 `` You look old. `` 
 
 He heard the tall stranger chuckle. 
 `` Surprised? Even I can grow old. `` 
 
 The silence.... He breathed in deeply. You never knew how much time you had left. Especially with him. 
 
 `` I am surprised theys did not send that pile of bones for me. `` 
 
 The stranger chuckled, and straightened his suit. 
 
 `` They remember what you did the last time. That was when you demolished half the house, was it? I never figured someone would choose an ass kicking contest as the game of chance with death. `` 
 
 `` That aint no death. What I beat up was an ugly ass skelleton. No style or nothing. And I did nothing wrong. `` 
 
 The stranger chose this moment to watch the old man, passionately, while stretching. fedora on his hat, slick white suit.... It seemed like he was looking in the mirror. He grabbed his stick closer. Hard hickory, with drilled in lead from a holy cross. You only make the same mistakes once. 
 
 The stranger choose that very moment to lounge himself back in his seat, and from somewhere, produced a hipflask. 
 
 `` You seem... calm about it all. Figured I had to beat you red ass as well. `` 
 
 Nothing but a shrug from the stranger. 
 
 `` You know, I must admit, I love the style. Quite a couple of people are very angry at you. You know that, I know that. And I find that amusing. `` 
 
 Silence, again. The old folks home was oddly quiet. 
 
 `` You still mad that I tricked you?'' 
 
 `` Initially, yes. But hell, I got you back, did n't i? `` 
 
 He nodded. Who would have ever thought even recording industry bosses talked to the devil? 
 
 `` You had three good songs in you, just as your manager wished for. You were quick about getting out of this. Very clever. Never touched your guitar again. Even cut the strings. Untill tonight, when you played for them. `` 
 
 He sighed, and sat down, keeping both his hands on his heavy walking stick. He had a feeling lady luck was smiling tonight. 
 
 `` Of course, I figured, why? Why that clinging to life? I mean, you were a prize. A soul that would have had the top shelf in my collection. `` 
 
 `` I aint no part of no damn collection. That's for wussies. `` 
 
 `` I guess your problems with being politically correct have not changed. Still, you knew what would happen...'' 
 
 He nodded. Looking around, he took in the old folks home one last time. The floor, the walls.... his home for fourty years. 
 
 `` What has changed? I would be curious about that. `` 
 
 `` Take a guess. `` 
 
 The stranger nodded. His head swiveled around, and for a second, even in the shade, he could see the yellow eyes of the stranger, glowing, as they looked around. 
 Nothing much to say. More than this. 
 
 `` Life. `` 
 
 Just one word from the stranger. 
 
 He knew. As long as it was good, it was better. He did not need much, and he was happy. 
 
 But the scene changed. Blues was no longer in. He had tried to go with the times, had tried to get it on. he had even managed to get into a group that was performing, butr even the groupies recognised his age. 
 
 Called him grandpa. 
 
 And his fans? Allmost as old as he was. Lived through it all, found it all, and now, nothing more then empty husks. Former beauties that once were full of life just... away. 
 
 `` So, sit your five dollar ass down before I make change. We got ta talk. `` 
 
 The stranger just smiled. 
 
 `` I have ran away too long. I can feel it. My hip starts aching, my bones start crumbling....'' 
 
 He sighed, Looking at the stranger, he wished he could look like that. Young again. Just to wake up and not curse yourself because you survived an other day. 
 
 `` So I take it you want an other contract? An other request for a longer life? I warn you...'' 
 
 `` Nothing like that, red-man. `` 
 
 He could see the stranger looking... intrigued. 
 
 `` I learned my lesson. I take a wild guess and say you send me the broken hip. You had your bitchass fingers in there, when my sight went. `` 
 
 His fingers flexed around the staff. He could feel the arthritis in his fingers. Too sore to play. Good enough to hold a stick. Still enough for a beatdown. The sound of splintering bones was still in his ears. 
 
 `` I am willing to go quietly with you. `` 
 
 The stranger looked expectantly. 
 
 `` No buts about it. You have me, you found me, and you can take me. Ca n't be much worse then that. `` 
 
 His hands encircled the room, but he meant everything. His children dead, his grandchildren forgetting he even existed except for the royalty checks he dished out... as if he needed the money.... 
 
 `` All I ask for.... is a job. `` 
 
 The stranger nodded, but after a while. Seemed he had to think about it. 
 
 `` What job?'' 
 
 He had to chuckle. It was a thing of beauty. 
 
 `` Did my research on this one. Figure I am not the only one to occasionally... cause a ruckus? Tricks you or others like you?'' 
 
 Barely more then a nod. A crumpling of the eyebrows. 
 
 `` I figured... special cases... need a special hand. Special music, if you will. `` 
 
 This time, he was prepared. Not a single motion in his face, as the yellow eyes mustered him. 
 
 `` Why?'' 
 
 Just a question. Most people would have asked what job, what for,.... he only wanted to know why. 
 
 He looked down, and smiled. 
 
 `` I figured, a trophy is one thing. You earned it, put it on your wall.... Only queers' into that sort of thing. `` 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 `` Saw a lot of pictures. Talked to the right people. Seems the `` Other side'' loves trumpets and loud....No style, if you ask me. Just like the damn kids today. The opposite would be quiet enough to kill the noise in a room, but heavy enough to strangle everybody that says shit. Figured you appreciate a trophy that does not rot, that does not moan, but that helps you, and you can show off?'' 
 
 Very carefully, a smile crept over the strangers face. 
 
 `` I know you into some strange business, and I figured, what to give a... man... that got everythang? Only thing I could think off is more style. `` 
 
 A slight nodd from the stranger. His heart... was lighter? 
 
 He turned around and saw... himself. His guitar on his lap, the hands closed on it. 
 
 `` You died when I first showed up. Your heart gave up. One note does count as a song. 
 
 
 
 THAT is how I do my homework. `` 
 
 Now, he could see the stranger more clearly. 
 
 `` You stank less, but you way more ugly. `` 
 
 Night black flesh. even the gums. And the teeth. The blackest and darkest smile he ever saw. 
 
 `` So, whats next? `` 
 
 He wore his black suit. Crumpled, patched, but very comfy. His best shoes, his hat....In the right side were even his sunglasses, that he lost so long ago. Not a singular suit, but all the suits he ever wore, in one. 
 
 `` Dying. `` 
 
 `` I thought I am already dying? `` 
 
 The stranger shook his head, and started walking. Gravel, even though they went through the wards of the old folks home. 
 
 `` You are done with dying. This is the last step. `` 
 
 `` Will... will it hurt a lot?'' 
 
 The stranger looked back, and he saw something curious in the strangers face. Pitty? Compassion? 
 
 `` Not more then a bad gig. `` 
 
 The stranger opend one of the doors on the side of the old folks home. He was hit by the smell of smoke, stale beer, and the sweat of people. Louisianna weather. 
 
 `` I allways figured, a bluesman walks alone, but aint no bluesmann lived to tell of his deal with the devil. Well, guess I aint a bluesman no more till I do this. `` 
 
 He looked in the bar. They were all there. The girls, the guys, the bands.... His old comrades from the war.... 
 
 `` That is... more then I hoped for. `` 
 
 Honest feeling in his voice. His voice, now smoother, and how he remembered it. He looed up, and saw the stranger take off his hat. Bald except for two bumps. Ánd in his hands a Guitar. 
 
 `` Bad PR, mostly. Must be all those bluesmen giing us a bad name. Now, off to play the first gig of the rest of your life...'' 
 
 A door closes. A last breath. The dying notes of a guitar slowly waking up, and being played. 
 
 Silence.
