Sharon Hurlbut's Pick
"Delightful twist on the old tale of a man selling his soul to the devil. Excellent pacing and writing."
"Your soul, sir."
Henry eyed the small, white package, then the bicycle messenger holding it. With his spandex shorts, red-tinted sunglasses, and clam-shaped bike helmet, the messenger resembled a cross between an alien and scuba diver.
"Wrong house, buddy." Henry propped the screen door open with his gut and took a swig from his beer can. "I sold my soul."
Like one of those bobble head dolls Henry despised, the messenger looked from him to the package and back again. "Henry Goodman?"
"That's me." Henry swatted a fly attempting to buzz its way inside. "But I sold my soul two weeks ago, and I sure as hell don't want the damn thing back."
"I'm gonna have to check on this, sir." The messenger dug a cell phone out of the courier bag slung over his shoulder. "Hey boss, it's Mikey. I got a package here for a ..." He took another peek at the envelope in his hands. "For a Henry Goodman ... yeah, that's right, St. Thomas Road ... but see, he says he sold his soul, and he doesn't want it back."
While the messenger nodded, a bobble head once more as he offered the occasional "uh-huh" to his boss, Henry drained the last of his beer and tossed the can inside. A buxom redhead in a French maid's outfit appeared to dispose of it, offering Henry a view of her thong-clad rear as she bent over.
Yeah, Henry thought, the soul was worth it.
"Sir?" The messenger covered the phone with one hand. "It seems your soul is defective. You have to take it back."
"Defective?" Henry snorted. "I'm gonna show you defective if you don't get your skinny little ass off my front steps."
The messenger rolled his eyes and returned the phone to his ear. "He's refusing delivery, boss ... no, he threatened me ... yeah, hold on." He held the phone out to Henry. "He wants to talk to you."
Henry took the phone — a device so slim that it almost disappeared in his meaty hand. "Henry here."
"Mr. Goodman, sir, how are you?" The voice was far too pleasant, like a politician on a baby-kissing frenzy.
"Skip the used car salesman routine." Henry squeezed the maid's butt as she sauntered over to hand him a slip of paper. "What's this shit about my soul being defective?"
"A direct man. I like that about you, Henry." A tinny chuckle sounded from the other end of the phone. "If you take a look at the contract that cute little doll of yours just handed you, you'll see it clearly states that, in exchange for everything I've supplied you with, you would supply me with your soul. And if you read clause 6.66, you'll see that the aforementioned soul must have enough purity and love left in it to keep the heat running in my establishment down here, or else the contract is void. And that's where we've got a problem."
Henry belched. "How so?"
"Well, I was looking over your record here ..." A shuffle of papers. "Extortion, armed robbery, credit card fraud, sexual assault. And that child pornography ring of yours was a beauty." Another tinny chuckle. "There isn't enough purity left in your soul to power my clock radio."
"No, we had a deal. I'm not taking that thing back."
"I apologize for the error, Henry, but our contract is void. With a track record like yours, your soul was already mine. You can't sell a man something he already owns."
The contract burst into flames, and Henry dropped it with a yelp. All around him, everything he had traded his soul for disappeared — the big screen TV, the custom-made bar, the French maid. A police siren wailed in the distance; Henry gulped. The clean police record he'd been given was probably gone now too.
The package containing his soul began to open on its own, paper peeling away from paper with a sound like fingernails clicking against each other. The messenger dropped the package and ran.
Henry backed away. The package tore open, and his soul shot out. Henry writhed as the soul knocked him to the floor and dug its way inside him, squirming into place beneath his skin. From the messenger's phone, still clutched in his hand, the ever-pleasant voice piped forth.
"I do apologize again for the error, Henry, but the truth is, your soul was barely worth the money it took to ship it back to you. I can't give you something for nothing."
Barbara A. Barnett is a graduate of the 2007 Odyssey Writing Workshop. Despite the "Would you like fries with that?" jokes made about her employment prospects during college, she has put her dual degree in English and music to practical use working in the arts administration field. You can visit her online at www.babarnett.com.