Excerpt from "The Devil and Webster's Third" from Transit of Venus
© 1990 Mark Seymour

The Devil and Webster's Third

I didn't flinch when he popped into the room this time. Last time I'd jumped, too right, damn near out of my Swedish ergonomic chair, seeing him appear like that, but I'd promised myself I wouldn't this time. Though it took an effort, I didn't even twitch when he leaned over, scanning the lines on the monitor, and his sulfur-tinged breath noted: "That's interesting."

I did jump, however, when I turned around. There was something, I don't know, discomforting about seeing him in an elegant, chalkstripe-on-grey-worsted three-piece suit. Especially one with all the tell-tale signs of bespoke, the hand-turned edges and the rank of functioning buttons on the cuffs. Perhaps not discomforting so much as incongruous, particularly the exposed appendage...

"Is it?" He arched his head over his shoulder, just a little too far over his shoulder, it gave the same turn to the guts as watching a contortionist at the circus, to check. "I told them I dressed left."

Perhaps they didn't understand you meant the tail.

"Probably." He nodded. "They are English, after all." One russet eyebrow rose on his tall bronze forehead."But it is better, isn't it?"

Better than last time? Sure. After all, when every third kid in the suburb dresses up for Halloween in a red union suit with a pitchfork...

"But people expect it. It's traditional."

And this?

"A classic, don't you think? Particularly the subtle pattern in the tie."

Great, if you're a young punk lawyer out to make a killing on Wall Street.

"I saw the movie."

Master of the Universe...

"Precisely! It's the new me, don't you think?"

Who am I to argue with the devil?

"So you've agreed?"

Not exactly.

"Look, it's late, but if you sign right now I can start immediately." He looked down at the gold Rolex on his wrist, as though he needed to. "They'll be up in London in less than an hour, and I could have the European rights sewed up by lunch."

I knew I was dopey from the time, and still a little dazed by seeing Old Nick himself standing in my study, so I stalled. Perhaps if we could go over the terms again...

"Didn't you read the prospectus?"

I shuffled the logjam on my desk. Must have misplaced it...

"No wonder, in this mess! Boy, have I got a special corner back Home for people like you."

Excuse me if I don't ask for the details.

"Quite understandable. You'll know soon enough, if you play your cards right."

Wrong, you mean.

"I meant right. Why everyone always hopes to go up There, I'll never know."

Because it's supposed to be nice there.

"Nice? There?" He shrugged, careful not to disturb the drape of the suit. "If that's what one likes, I suppose. But, no matter, it's not you we're discussing."

Yeah. My wife...

"It's simple. I always say, keep the terms simple, then everyone can understand them."

So simple, even an idiot...

"Exactly. Though even I wouldn't countenance you as an idiot."

Thank you. I guess. Though anyone who thinks he can bargain with the devil...

"Nick was better. Old Nick if you must." He smiled. At least, it looked like a smile. With teeth as pointed as his, it's hard to tell for sure. "But I really prefer Lucifer. Much more elegant, don't you think?"

Latin for 'light bringer'.

"Bravo!" A wave of his recently-manicured hand, the thick nails gleaming like Waterford scythes, swept the ranks of books and files of files along the walls. "I knew you were an educated man." His smile turned serious. "I rather like the poetic meaning, however: Morning Light. I'm a morning person, you see." His crenelated smile returned. "But you can call me whatever you like."

I'd done a lot of reading since the last time. The dictionary had acquainted me with several other names: The Old One. Scratch. Prince of Darkness. Asmodeus. The Dickens. Belial. Lord of the Flies. The Adversary. Prince of Liars...

"Oh, those..." He dismissed them with a jerk of his pointed chin, the neatly trimmed Van Dyke stiff with styling gel. "They're all outmoded. I should have the boys at the agency come up with some new ones. Something au courant, something hip."

Agency?

"Of course." He shrugged. "Advertising, PR, direct mail, I use all the latest tools."

Why am I not surprised...

"Anyway, who do you think invented advertising?"

Should have known, having worked in a few agencies myself.

"Really?" The yellows of his eyes showed. "Doing what?"

Copywriting. Before I decided to become a starving writer.

"Great! Any concepts come to mind?"

How about the Prince of AIDS? Extreme Badness? The Evil Empire?

"Good. Promising." His brow furrowed. "But that last one's being used, isn't it?"

We call them customers now.

"Okay, then what do you think of 'The Evil Emperor'?" He shook his head. "No, too twelfth-century. How about this: 'CEO of the Evil Empire'?"

Very cutting-edge. But Lucifer does have that instant recognition factor.

"You're right. We'll have to do some focus groups." He shook his head again. "But enough about me. We were discussing your future."