Once I drank shot for shot with the devil in a biker bar at the corner of US 68 and the edge of the universe. This was our second meeting. He’d stopped in for a piss break and a beer on his way to meet someone else. That guy will wait, he said when he saw me. They always wait for me. He laughed and made some joke about how he was never the one who insisted on meeting at midnight, and how silly the stories got over time. But it gave him a little flair, a little mystery, he said on his 5th shot of Crown Royal Maple. Gotta leave it to those Canucks. I haven’t tasted shit that good since my nephew did that water to wine trick. Now THERE was talent. The devil shook his head and almost snarled. Then he spat on the floor and it burned through like hot acid. Ungrateful punk. 

He smiled again. He had a large toothy smile and dead eyes. He asked me what I wanted. Another shot I said. He laughed. That one’s easy. I don’t stop through here on the regular anymore.  He looked around the nearly empty bar. This place used to be lit. More scraps of furniture than furniture, blood and broken glass every night. He winked. And the women! It was almost too easy.

Almost. He looked at me. So. What do you want?

I didn’t have a ready answer. I said something about wanting an interesting life. He laughed. You’re gonna get that anyway, Kid. When I didn’t have an answer he drank his last shot, left cash for my entire tab and a generous tip on the bar. When you think of something, as he stood up, looking much taller than when he came in, say my name. I’ll find you.  He laughed. And I won’t make you meet me at midnight in the middle of nowhere, either.  He told me he sometimes stopped by to see his third cousin, who lived in a trailer in Aberdeen. He said I might run into him there, too.

_{[Day book 2026 // Winter 3.18.26]}

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Mick Parsons

@rivercitymick

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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.

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