timely sanity came crashing down on him, a
sense that Devil or no, if he laid hands on this fucker he really would be
damned, somehow. It might just have been the hypothalamic implant that the
sheriff had added to the list of his parole requirements working its arcane magic
on his brain chemistry, but it certainly felt like a drenching, cold-sweat
sense of immanence, and not in a good way. So as the raging impulse to glass
the cunt died away, Davy found himself contemplating his own raised fists in
perplexity, the crude blue tattoos of LOVE and HATE standing out on his
knuckles like doorposts framing the prison gateway of his life.
“Who telt ye aboot them,” he demanded hoarsely.
“Cigarette?” The stranger, who had sat perfectly still
while Davy wound up to punch his ticket, raised the chiselled eyebrow again.
“Ya bas.” But Davy’s hand went to his pocket
automatically, and he found himself passing a filter-tip to the stranger rather
than ramming a red-hot ember in his eye.
“Thank you.” The stranger took the unlit cigarette, put
it straight between his lips, and inhaled deeply. “Nobody needed to tell me
about them,” he continued, slowly dribbling smoke from both nostrils.
Davy slumped defensively on his bar stool. “When ye wis
askin’ aboot Morag and the bairns, Ah figured ye wis fuckin’ wi’ ma heid.” But
knowing that there was a perfectly reasonable supernatural explanation somehow
made it all right. Ye cannae blame Auld Nick for pushin’ yer buttons. Davy reached out for his glass again: “’Scuse me. Ah didnae think ye existed.”
“Feel free to take your time.” The stranger smiled
faintly. “I find atheists refreshing, but it does take a little longer than
usual to get down to business.”
“Aye, weel, concedin’ for the moment that ye are the deil, Ah dinnae ken whit ye want wi’ the likes o’ me.” Davy cradled his
beer protectively.
“Ah’m naebody.” He shivered in the sudden draught as one
of the students–leaving–pushed through the curtain, admitting a
flurry of late-May snowflakes.
“So? You may be nobody, but your lucky number just came up.”
The stranger smiled devilishly. “Did you never think you’d win the Lottery?”
“Aye, weel, if hauf the stories they tell about ye are
true, Ah’d rather it wis the ticket, ye ken? Or are ye gonnae say ye’ve been
stitched up by the kirk?”
“Something like that.” The Devil nodded sagely. “Look,
you’re not stupid, so I’m not going to bullshit you. What it is, is I’m not the
only one of me working this circuit. I’ve got a quota to meet, but there aren’t
enough politicians and captains of industry to go around, and anyway, they’re
boring. All they ever want is money, power, or good, hot, kinky sex without any
comebacks from their constituents. Poor folks are so much more creative in
their desperation, don’t you think? And so much more likely to believe in the Rules,
too.”
“The Rules?” Davy found himself staring at his companion
in perplexity. “Nae the Law, right?”
“Do as thou wilt shall be all of the Law,” quoth the
Devil, then he paused as if he’d tasted something unpleasant.
“Ye wis sayin’?”
“Love is the Law, Love under Will,” the Devil added
dyspeptically.
“That’s a’?” Davy stared at him.
“My employer requires me to quote chapter and verse when
challenged.” As he said “employer”, the expression on the Devil’s face made
Davy shudder. “And she monitors these conversations for compliance.”
“But whit aboot the rest o’ it, aye? If ye’re the deil,
whit aboot the Ten Commandments?”
“Oh, those are just Rules,” said the Devil, smiling.
“I’m really proud of them.”
“Ye made them a’ up?” Davy said accusingly. “Just tae
fuck wi’ us?”
“Well, yes, of course I did! And all the other Rules.
They work really well, don’t you think?”
Davy made a fist and stared at the back of it. LOVE. “Ye
cunt. Ah still dinnae
sense that Devil or no, if he laid hands on this fucker he really would be
damned, somehow. It might just have been the hypothalamic implant that the
sheriff had added to the list of his parole requirements working its arcane magic
on his brain chemistry, but it certainly felt like a drenching, cold-sweat
sense of immanence, and not in a good way. So as the raging impulse to glass
the cunt died away, Davy found himself contemplating his own raised fists in
perplexity, the crude blue tattoos of LOVE and HATE standing out on his
knuckles like doorposts framing the prison gateway of his life.
“Who telt ye aboot them,” he demanded hoarsely.
“Cigarette?” The stranger, who had sat perfectly still
while Davy wound up to punch his ticket, raised the chiselled eyebrow again.
“Ya bas.” But Davy’s hand went to his pocket
automatically, and he found himself passing a filter-tip to the stranger rather
than ramming a red-hot ember in his eye.
“Thank you.” The stranger took the unlit cigarette, put
it straight between his lips, and inhaled deeply. “Nobody needed to tell me
about them,” he continued, slowly dribbling smoke from both nostrils.
Davy slumped defensively on his bar stool. “When ye wis
askin’ aboot Morag and the bairns, Ah figured ye wis fuckin’ wi’ ma heid.” But
knowing that there was a perfectly reasonable supernatural explanation somehow
made it all right. Ye cannae blame Auld Nick for pushin’ yer buttons. Davy reached out for his glass again: “’Scuse me. Ah didnae think ye existed.”
“Feel free to take your time.” The stranger smiled
faintly. “I find atheists refreshing, but it does take a little longer than
usual to get down to business.”
“Aye, weel, concedin’ for the moment that ye are the deil, Ah dinnae ken whit ye want wi’ the likes o’ me.” Davy cradled his
beer protectively.
“Ah’m naebody.” He shivered in the sudden draught as one
of the students–leaving–pushed through the curtain, admitting a
flurry of late-May snowflakes.
“So? You may be nobody, but your lucky number just came up.”
The stranger smiled devilishly. “Did you never think you’d win the Lottery?”
“Aye, weel, if hauf the stories they tell about ye are
true, Ah’d rather it wis the ticket, ye ken? Or are ye gonnae say ye’ve been
stitched up by the kirk?”
“Something like that.” The Devil nodded sagely. “Look,
you’re not stupid, so I’m not going to bullshit you. What it is, is I’m not the
only one of me working this circuit. I’ve got a quota to meet, but there aren’t
enough politicians and captains of industry to go around, and anyway, they’re
boring. All they ever want is money, power, or good, hot, kinky sex without any
comebacks from their constituents. Poor folks are so much more creative in
their desperation, don’t you think? And so much more likely to believe in the Rules,
too.”
“The Rules?” Davy found himself staring at his companion
in perplexity. “Nae the Law, right?”
“Do as thou wilt shall be all of the Law,” quoth the
Devil, then he paused as if he’d tasted something unpleasant.
“Ye wis sayin’?”
“Love is the Law, Love under Will,” the Devil added
dyspeptically.
“That’s a’?” Davy stared at him.
“My employer requires me to quote chapter and verse when
challenged.” As he said “employer”, the expression on the Devil’s face made
Davy shudder. “And she monitors these conversations for compliance.”
“But whit aboot the rest o’ it, aye? If ye’re the deil,
whit aboot the Ten Commandments?”
“Oh, those are just Rules,” said the Devil, smiling.
“I’m really proud of them.”
“Ye made them a’ up?” Davy said accusingly. “Just tae
fuck wi’ us?”
“Well, yes, of course I did! And all the other Rules.
They work really well, don’t you think?”
Davy made a fist and stared at the back of it. LOVE. “Ye
cunt. Ah still dinnae
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