The Devil and Mrs Jones

The air in the backroom of the Puffin Muffin Lounge carried the scents of stale whiskey, cheap perfume, and something akin to brimstone and broken promises. There, Mrs. Jones was found. She was difficult to find, and obtaining her file proved challenging. Easy dames brought easy money, and Jones seemed to attract both trouble and hard cash.

Her past was so shady it could pass for midnight. Her hair, the color of a bruised twilight, framed a face with sharp angles and secrets. Her eyes, like emeralds from a dead man’s dreams, observed from across the table. Her lips, a cruel splash of red, promised a kiss that tasted of poison and regret.

“So you’re the one they sent?” she asked, her voice a low, gravelly melody that rasped its way into the ear. Her voice made one want to believe every lie. “The Devil has a short fuse. He’s been looking for his property.”

A bottle of gin sat on the table. Taking a pull from it, the liquor burned a trail down the throat. “I’m not a delivery boy, Jones. I’m a fixer. And I’m not working for the Devil. I’m working for the other guy.”

A smirk crossed her face. “The ‘other guy’ is just a fancy way of saying you’re a nobody. This is between me and the big boss down below. He gave me a good deal.”

A worn, leather-bound folder was slid across the table. “Yeah, a real good deal. The kind that ends with a one-way ticket down the express elevator. He’s not mad that you double-crossed him, Jones. He’s mad that you think he’s stupid.”

She leaned in, her perfume a suffocating cloud. “I didn’t steal his soul, I just… repossessed it. He was a fool. A dirty, rotten, no-good fool who signed away his soul for a measly million bucks. I just helped him make it last longer.”

“By giving him a permanent dirt nap?”

“He was gonna die anyway. I just gave him a little nudge,” she said, her eyes glittering with a cold, predatory light. “Besides, his soul was a fixer-upper. Needed a lot of work. The Devil didn’t mind. He got a discount.”

The file was picked up and flipped open, revealing a faded, black-and-white photograph. “The Devil is a businessman, Jones. He doesn’t give discounts. He collects interest. And this guy, this ‘fixer-upper,’ was his biggest earner. His soul was pure, uncut wickedness. Worth more than a million.”

Her eyes widened, and the crimson on her lips seemed to fade. “You’re lying. The Devil wouldn’t let that happen. Not to me.”

“He didn’t,” a low, conspiratorial whisper, “He just sent me to collect the debt.”

Her facade crumbled, and Mrs. Jones was replaced by a scared little girl. The cheap perfume and gardenias were replaced by the scent of fear.

“You’re not the Devil,” she whispered, her hands trembling. “You’re just… a man.”

“A man who deals in souls,” a smile, all teeth and no humor, spread across the face. “And yours is overdue, Jones.”

A contract was pulled out from an inner pocket, a thin piece of parchment smelling of sulfur and desperation. “Sign it, Mrs. Jones. The Devil always gets his due.”

She stared at the contract, her eyes filled with terror. It was the look of a soul who had run out of time and had nowhere left to run.

“What if I don’t?” she asked.

“Then you go back to him, without the discount,” the voice as cold as a tombstone. “And I’ll be there to watch you go.”

She reached for the pen, her hand shaking so hard the ink splattered on the paper. The look in her eyes wasn’t of surrender, but of a woman who had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

The contract was signed. The ink, black as a guilty conscience, seemed to glow in the dim light.

“There,” she said. “Happy now?”

The contract was taken, folded, and put back in the pocket. “No, Jones. Just busy. The Devil always has work for a man who knows how to collect.”

As one turned to leave, her voice stopped them. “What happens now?”

Pausing, hand on the doorknob, “Now? Now you get what you deserve. A deal with the Devil always has a price, Mrs. Jones.”

The backroom was left, leaving her in the dark with her regrets and the faint smell of sulfur and broken promises. It was a good night’s work. The Devil was happy, and Mrs. Jones had a new account to worry about. Hopefully, she didn’t mind the heat