Many afternoons Paul Cantor stood at his office window in the English Department and looked down at the campus below watching the students walking to their classes, some riding bicycles, others romantically holding hands, some sitting on the benches or along the wall of the large circular fountain sending splashing rainbows of water into the air. This day, however, a weary sigh escaped from deep within him before he went back to his desk to attempt reading the papers his students had turned in two weeks ago but which he had been avoiding. Normally, he would have read and graded them, writing extensive comments and handing them back within a week, but now he could not face looking at another paper. He sat back in his black leather chair, reclining, closing his eyes, stroking his white beard with one hand and tapping his red pen on the desk with the other wondering why he was procrastinating, but knowing the lethargic moods that had been darkening his generally cheerful, energetic spirit for the last several months was now unbearable.
He knew he was depressed, tired, frustrated, anguished and fighting off despair. What frightened him the most was thinking about suicide, ending it all, but shoving that thought away, knowing he did not have the courage. Still, it was a thought that had previously never entered his mind and was now lurking in the shadows, poking him from a hidden corner, scaring him with its presence, its insidious whispering in his ear.
He should be happy that his latest book of poetry, his fifth, was on the short list for a major award. He had been invited to give readings at several colleges and was proud of his growing reputation as one of the more important poets writing today. He hadn’t written a new poem in at least eight months and though he had several drafts of a new poem started, he hadn’t looked at the three lines he had in his notebook for weeks and knew he was stuck. He also knew from experience that when he was unable to let the lines flow and pour from him, he was not ready to write the poem and was okay with that. It was part of the process, but this was different. Now he didn’t care if he ever wrote another poem and realized that the passion that made him such a prolific and highly regarded poet for the last thirty years was withering like so many other aspects of his life.
Paul loved women and though he was faithful to his former wife, Evelyn, for most of their twenty five year marriage, in the last few years before their divorce, he had several passionate one night stands while he was off giving readings. “Why not,” he’d think when the opportunity presented itself and his sex life at home had died. He was frustrated, often horny and knew he was getting older. It was flattering to see how a student or even a young female instructor or PhD candidate practically threw herself at him after a reading and so, he would willingly let it happen and have no regrets when he’d hook up and they’d go out for a drink then end up in bed, knowing it was not a relationship but just a hot night of wild sex with no strings attached.
He had married Evelyn when they were both in graduate school where she earned her masters in anthropology but decided not to continue. They met at a party and became immediately attracted to each other and fucked in the back of his car that night and as often as possible after that. She was smart, sexy with long blond hair and a body that made men’s eyes turn, but she only wanted Paul which amazed and gratified him.
For the first three years of their marriage, their sex life was exciting, imaginative and wild, never kinky but definitely daring and on the edge; however, after their two children were born, three years apart, their sex life didn’t disappear but was definitely not what it was before the children. Eve gained weight, in fact, a lot of weight so that by their eighth year of marriage, sex became a once a week event, usually on Saturday nights after going to dinner and a movie.
Paul missed the sexy blonde woman he married and found himself fantasizing about the attractive young students he saw everyday on campus. Though he would never act on his fantasies, he liked how they flirted with him, how they told him how much they loved his last book of poems, how his classes were their favorite. He maintained his professional, distant manner with them, never indicating how their tight shirts, jeans and tiny mini skirts aroused him.
Even their eighteen year old baby sitter, Becky, made it difficult not to look at her now that she was no longer the skinny fourteen year old they had used and who was adored by their two boys, Daniel and Jonah. Paul tried ignoring the dramatic changes that had gradually taken place right before his eyes and now, she was a sexy young woman and not a child. He tried to ignore how her skimpy clothes tantalized him, how her unselfconscious way of laying on the floor with the boys with her ass straining her jeans or her short skirts showing more thigh than they hid made him look away, but then he’d swallow and couldn’t help but look back at her in a way he knew he shouldn’t.
Still, he never indicated how Becky gave him fantasies to jerk off to and had no idea how the distinguished professor and highly regarded poet lusted for her, nor did his sexy female students realize how he looked at their bodies when they walked away, their hips swaying. They had no idea how he had to close his eyes and turn away, knowing he would never cross the professional barrier between teacher and student, though often he was tempted and wished he was not so uptight. Still being around so many sexy young women fed his imagination, often stimulating poems which he never published.
He also found himself, at dinner parties with their friends, sitting next to his overweight wife, looking at the wives of people he had known for twenty years wondering what they were like in bed, knowing several of their husbands cheated on them with students or female colleagues, wondering if they knew their husbands cheated or if they also had affairs. Sex was often on his mind and the lack of lust he felt for his wife now made his desire for other women more intense and his fantasy life more vivid, even resulting in looking at porn on the internet. Still, his outward appearance gave no indication what was going on inside. He felt he had a secret fantasy life that both excited and frustrated him.
One woman, in particular, Jenny Davidson, the wife of his office mate, Charles, or Chuck as he preferred being called, often cornered him after she had a few drinks. He liked how close she stood to him, how she touched his arm to emphasize a point, how she smiled looking into his eyes, or commented on a poem of his she read in Atlantic Monthly or, depending on how drunk she was, told him how stuffy and boring Chuck was, though he was kind and generous to her. She had a way of biting her lower lip when she said that, looking into his eyes and he knew she was just flirting and drunk and nothing would happen. Still, he thought she was pretty with her large, sparkling green eyes. It was exciting to have these private conversations with Jenny, especially because she always wore low cut dresses or a blouse with several buttons undone, practically touching him with her breasts, arousing him and causing him to wonder what he would do if her seductive ways became even more aggressive and they arranged to disappear to a room upstairs or make a rendezvous at the local Super-8 Motel, something he fantasized about but knew would never happen, still he was tempted.
So, here he was, sitting in his office, ignoring the papers he should be grading, realizing he was one year from retiring, now divorced from Evelyn for three years, living in a small but comfortable apartment but feeling empty, lonely, sensing his life was almost over at sixty five. He had a prestigious position at the university, was highly regarded as a poet, yet he was feeling despair and a longing for something he couldn’t quite name. He knew it was related to the lust he still felt for the young sexy students but most of all was the realization that the women who used to look at him, flirt with him when he walked by no longer did.
Painfully, he remembered when he was a younger man with a dark beard, long hair, how the female students looked into his eyes and smiled when they passed, how they came to his table in the university cafeteria to sit with him, ask for his autograph or show him a poem they had written, wanting his comments, or they would come to his office with a question or advice, dressed provocatively and clearly wanting more. Even as he got older, his dark hair turning grey, flecks of white in his beard, his skin showing wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, he could feel their attraction to him, several saying as they leaned forward, how they liked older men, how more experienced and patient they were than the young studs on campus, clearly coming on to him. He enjoyed the flirting and in his subtle, distant somewhat shy way, flirted back, though still not going over the professional line regardless of how tempted he was.
He now had white thinning hair, a much larger wrinkled brow with his receding hair line, a paunch that he had recently developed, despite watching what he ate, knowing he should exercise; his walk much stiffer than before. Though he would look at the lovely women he passed, noticing their bodies the way he always had, now, when he looked at them, hoping to catch their eye, it didn’t happen. He was an old man and they didn’t see him.
Sighing deeply, glancing at the pile of papers, he wondered if he was foolish not taking advantage of all the sexual opportunities he passed by because of his professional ethics, and now he was old and what he longed for was impossible. He remembered a line from one his poems, “Sometimes life is like licking honey from a thorn.
” The line made him chuckle then shaking his head, “It’s true. My fucking life has been more thorn than honey.”
When he said that, he threw down his red pen, stood up and grabbed his brown tweed sport jacket with the leather pouches on the elbow, thinking again that he looked like a cliché and wished he could be as far from this campus as he could be. He wished he could start over, be a carpenter like his dad, drink beer and watch ball games instead of getting a four year scholarship to Princeton then spending forty five years in the stuffy ivory tower of the university with all its protocol about teachers and students, much of it ignored, he knew, but not by him, at least not until ten or so years ago on reading tours.
Now, at sixty five, no longer attractive to younger women and not interested in the shrivelled-up older women he met, he realized like a dagger at his back, those days were behind him.
He had to do something. He had to get away. Realizing he left his brief case in his office and didn’t care, he walked, head down, across the crowded campus to the parking lot, trying not to look at the sexy young women who ignored him but still hoping one would notice his vigorous walking, his determination to do something about his life, something real, something passionate, but what? He had no idea. He got into his old Suburu and drove away, not sure where he was going but left the small college town with its tree-covered streets, remembering Huck Finn’s words about not wanting to be civilized and said out loud his favorite line from the novel, “Civilization, I’ve been there before. I’m lighting out for the territory.”
After driving for miles, getting off the turnpike, taking back roads, not knowing where he was, just driving past farms, through small towns, over hills, rounding bends, listening to music on the classical music station, he saw a bar up ahead with the words, “Luke’s Bar and Grill” written in red letters on a large black sign. He thought it was strange that there would be a bar in the middle of nowhere. Also, just as he saw it, the first thunderous chords of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony came on the radio, filling his car with that ominous sound.
Several pick-up trucks and a half a dozen motorcycles were in the gravel parking lot. He slowed down and suddenly, impulsively, decided to stop for a beer and some dinner, not sure what attracted him to the place but for some reason, he turned and parked next to a black pick up truck. He looked around at the motorcycles lined up in front of the entrance then up at the shabby white building, noticing the black trim around the windows and the black windowless door at the entrance.
“This looks like a bikers’ hangout,” he thought, imagining the black leather he associated with bikers and wondering if he would feel out of place. While sitting there he noticed the front door open and a blonde haired woman wearing jeans and boots clutching the arm of a big man in a black leather jacket walked, actually stumbled out. They stopped and she stood on her toes to kiss him while he put his hands on her ass then, with their arms around each other, they walked over to a shiny red motorcycle. He watched them put on their helmets, get on the bike, her arms around him from behind then drive off in a roar, zooming away down the road.
“Looks like an interesting place. I think I’ll go in, get a beer and just watch the scene,” Paul thought, recognizing his tendency to be an observer, always somewhat detached, his writer’s eye taking snap shots he might use in a future story or poem. He turned off Beethoven, got out of his car and stood in front of the black windowless door looking up at the sign, thinking about the name Luke and walked in.
It was smoky, dimly lit and the smell of cigarettes surprised him. “Guess they don’t care about the law of not smoking in public places,” he thought standing at the door, looking around the dark, smoky room before walking over to the bar on the other side of the room. He heard the loud booming music from the jukebox but was also aware that several people looked up at him as he walked towards the bar making him realize how strange he must look in a wrinkled tweed sport jacket with leather pouches on the elbow, brown corduroy pants, thinning white hair and a beard, obviously much older than anyone in the bar.
When he sat down on the red leather stool, touching the shiny brown wood of the bar, looking at the long row of liquor bottles on the counter, then at the pot-bellied bartender walking towards him with black suspenders holding up baggy jeans and a black t shirt with the words “Luke’s Bar” in red letters.”
“What can I get you,” the bartender asked, not smiling, but looking him in the eyes.
Paul was stunned by the bartender’s unwelcoming manner, “Just a beer for now,” he said, noticing the bartender’s black goatee and mustache, a silver round earring dangling from his ear, “What’s on tap?” Paul asked.
“Just Bud, that’s it,” he said.
“Well if that’s all you have, that will be fine. Yes, give me a Bud,” Paul answered, nodding, noticing the grim way the bartender looked at him before moving down the bar, pulling the shiny draught handle, filling the mug but glancing over at him, narrowing his eyes, shaking his head at what apparently looked odd, perhaps pathetic and in fact, was.
“What am I doing here?” Paul asked himself, suddenly feeling he was a stranger in a strange land then quickly turned away from the bartender’s eyes and looked around the room, noticing two of the booths were occupied by bikers, smoking, drinking and laughing. One table in the corner had a man sleeping with his head on the table, holding a shot glass, a whiskey bottle next to it. In the rear three guys were playing pool while two others were throwing darts at a board on the back wall. Four men sat at the bar several stools away from him wearing tight black t shirts, jeans and boots. They all looked over at Paul critically shaking their heads, then went back to talking to each other.
“Here goes,” the bartender said, putting the mug down with a thud.
“Thanks,” Paul said, lifting the mug, taking a big gulp, some of the beer dripping from his mouth. “Damn, I could sure use this,” he added then took another big gulp, nodding to the bartender.
“Oh yeah,” the bartender said, his manner relaxing, looking at Paul, “What’s happening, man?”
“It’s hard to say,” Paul answered, surprised to be asked.
“You’re off the beaten track, ain’t you?” he asked. “Don’t usually see guys like you here.”
“I bet,” Paul answered, beginning to relax, noticing the bartender’s grimness softening.
“So what’s going on? How come you came to a dive like this place in the middle of nowhere? Ain’t you on the wrong side of the tracks?” he asked, moving a small glass bowl of peanuts in front of Paul.
“Well, I guess I am,” Paul said, noticing the chubby faced bartender stroking his short goatee, looking into his eyes. “I just had to get away from the other side of the tracks. I need a change, not sure what kind of change, but it’s not working for me over there,” Paul added.
“You’re frustrated,” the bartender said, still looking into Paul’s eyes, nodding as if understanding.
Again, Paul was stunned by the bartender’s statement, surprised by the perceptive question and how he was looking at him. “Yes, I guess you could say I’m frustrated. I don’t feel alive. I feel disgusted with how I’m living,” Paul said, amazed at the intimate conversation he was having with this bartender in a bikers’ bar.
The bartender continued looking at Paul as if studying him but didn’t say anything.
Paul took another drink from his beer, wondering why the bartender was looking at him like that. Their eyes met.
“You need to meet Luke,” the bartender said after a long silence.
“I do?” Paul asked. “Why do I need to meet Luke?”
“Well, let’s just say he’s an impressive man. He’s the owner but he’s pretty good with helping people get on track. I think you should meet him.”
“Why not,” Paul responded, “Why the hell not?”
“Follow me,” the bartender said, nodding and walked to the end of the bar waiting for him.
Paul took a big gulp of his beer, finished it, then putting the empty mug down, walked past the four bikers who looked at him as he passed. One of the men shook his head and snickered then looked back at his friends, shaking his head.
The bartender led him down a narrow hall past two bathrooms one marked Guys the other marked Gals then knocked on the big black door at the rear of the hall, opened it not waiting for a response. “Hey, boss, here’s someone you should meet,” the bartender said, nodding for me to enter the office.
Behind the uncluttered desk sat a man leaning back in a large black chair, his feet in black boots up on the desk reading a magazine. Paul could see that the cover had a blonde woman wearing a skimpy bikini sitting on a huge motorcycle. In back of him, covering the window was a black velvet curtain making the room dark except for the reading lamp just over his shoulder with a red light giving the room an eerie atmosphere.
The man sat up, flipped the magazine onto the desk, looked up at the bartender, “Thanks, Zach,” he said then smiled at Paul removing his feet from the desk. “Take a seat,” he said, pointing to a wooden chair in front of his desk.
The bartender closed the door and left. Paul sat down and looked around the room then back at the man, noticing his thick black eyebrows, dark eyes, a thin, black mustache and long straight black hair that went down to his shoulders. He also had a round silver earring dangling from one ear. He wore a white t shirt with a black leather vest, black jeans and boots. Paul thought he was quite handsome and had a dignified air about him, unlike the others he saw in the bar. He also felt his penetrating eyes when he leaned forward, his head nodding as if he was looking deep into Paul.
“I’m Luke,” he said, touching his thin mustache with his index finger. “And I know why you’re here?”
“You do?” Paul asked then continued, “I don’t know why I’m here. In fact I don’t even know where I am. I just took off a few hours ago. What do you mean you know why I’m here?”
“You’re fed up with your life. You’ve even thought about committing suicide, haven’t you,” Luke said. “I know a desperate man when I see one.”
Paul gasped and felt a shiver shoot through him, a tremble. He swallowed searching for words.
Luke chuckled, seeing Paul’s response. “I can help you if you’re willing to make a deal,” he said, folding his hands in front of him, still looking into Paul’s eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Paul asked.
“I can help you live the way you want to live,” Luke said.
“How do you know how I want to live? This is nuts!” Paul said, suddenly bewildered, not sure if he should be here, the trembling returning. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”
“I can help you if you’re willing to make a deal,” he repeated, smiling, looking into Paul’s eyes.
“What do you mean by willing to make a deal?” Paul asked, shifting on his chair, taking a deep breath.
“Make a bargain,” Luke said. “You know. A deal…make a deal.”
“I don’t get it. What deal?” Paul asked, shaking his head, looking into Luke’s dark eyes.
“You’re upset with getting old, withering away. You’re feeling you haven’t lived,” he said, pausing, narrowing his eyes. “I know what you’re missing and if you’re willing to make a deal, I can give you another chance.”
“Another chance, another chance for what,” Paul asked.
“Another chance to have the young women you lust after give themselves to you, only this time, you will not live in denial as you have your whole life.”
“What are you talking about? How do you know anything about me?”
“Intuition,” he said. “Listen, I’ve been around a lot of years. There’s not much I haven’t seen and when I saw you, I saw an uptight old coon who wants to make up for lost time before it’s too late.” He paused, stroking his chin, looking into Paul’s eyes. “I’m right aren’t I?”
Paul scratched the back of his head, puzzled by what Luke was saying, not sure how to answer and sighed deeply.
“Well, that’s a world weary sigh if I ever heard one,” Luke said. “Listen, I’ve seen so many men like you who suddenly realize their best days are behind them. I bet I know one thing that’s bothering you.”
“Really, what,” Paul asked.
“It bothers you that the pretty young women you see on the street or on that campus where you teach don’t notice you.”
“Wait a minute, how do you know I’m on a campus? How do you know I teach?”
Luke laughed, scratching his cheek with his finger and Paul noticed the long sharp finger nails. “It’s not hard to see you’re a college professor with that wrinkled old jacket with patches and I can tell by your eyes - eyes that know books but nothing about life. Anyway, it’s hard to explain how I know what I know and it doesn’t matter because of the offer I am going to make you.”
“What offer? What are you talking about?”
“I can make those young women want to look at you,” Luke said, rubbing his hands.
“This is nonsense. I’m an old man. They don’t even see me when I look at them. They used to when I was younger but those days are gone.”
“Right and that’s what’s bothering you,” Luke said. “And I can change that if you are willing to make a deal.”
“I don’t believe you. This is crazy. You can’t make young women look at me and suddenly want me in their bed.”
“I can understand you being skeptical - an English professor, a distinguished poet, an intellectual,” he said.
“How did you know that? How do you know anything about me?” Paul asked again, alarmed and amazed. “What the hell is going on?”
Luke chuckled at Paul’s questions.
“How badly do you want to be a handsome young English professor again, not so uptight about morality and just follow your carnal desires, your lust. How much do you want that?”
It didn’t take Paul long to know how much he wanted that feeling of being desired, how much he wanted to satisfy the urges he swallowed all those years every time one of the sexy young students came to his office, obviously flirting, looking seductively at him. He knew Luke was right, that’s exactly what was bothering him. He was an old man with white hair and beard and stiff legs and worse, he was single, free, available for a sexual encounter, still lusty, but what could he do. He was invisible to them.
“Tell me more,” Paul asked. “What’s this deal you are proposing?”
“I want your spirit, your soul,” Luke said, leaning forward, looking Paul in the eyes.
“You want my spirit, my soul,” Paul said, bewildered yet curious, sensing who he was talking to. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Well, first of all, my name isn’t Luke, its Lucifer,” he said. “Honesty is important in the matters we are discussing.”
“So why do you call this place “Luke’s?” Paul asked. “That’s not honest.”
“Would you go to a bar called Lucifer’s?” he asked. “Luke was a business decision.”
“Okay, I can see that,” Paul responded. “Now about this deal you’re talking about, I have to tell you something. I don’t believe in all of that. I think this is all nonsense, superstition.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that,” Luke said. “You intellectuals are all alike.”
“But tell me, if I did believe you, what would you do to make what you are proposing happen?”
“I have a potion you will drink but only after you agree to the deal and we shake hands.”
“And what will happen when I drink this potion of yours?”
“I’m not going to tell you what will happen but you will discover my power manifesting itself when more woman than you will ever want, desire you.”
“So if I drink your potion and we shake hands and make this deal, women will suddenly start wanting me. I won’t be invisible.”
“Exactly,” Luke said, “but you will give me your spirit and your soul. I will own you.”
“Well, if that’s what you believe, that’s your business,” Paul said. “I’m a poet, a prize winning poet and I don’t believe in any spirit or soul, there is nothing to own.”
“So you’re an existentialist,” Luke said. “You think you live and you die and that’s it.”
“Right, there’s no spirit, no soul, no afterlife, no God, no Devil, or arch angel named Lucifer. It’s all irrational mythology. The only thing that matters is my life and right now I’m miserable.”
“Paul, I know you’re an educated man, a scholar, a poet, a good poet. You’re a smart man, but not a wise man.”
“Listen, I beg your pardon for being so blunt, but I think this is nuts and you’re delusional. You can’t change my life. The only one that can change me is me and I have come to reluctantly and painfully accept that the days of having young women look and desire me are gone.”
“So you don’t believe if you drink my potion and we shake hands nothing will change.” Luke sat with his hands folded, looking calmly at Paul.
“That’s right, but I’ll tell you what, if it makes you feel better I will drink your potion and shake your hand because I have nothing to lose,” Paul said, shrugging his shoulder, “why not? By the way what’s in your potion? It won’t make me sick will it?”
“It won’t make you sick. In fact it tastes like root beer,” Luke said, getting up and walked to a small refrigerator on the other side of the room. “Do you like root beer?”
“Yes, I love root beer. It’s my favorite kind of soda,” Paul said watching Luke bring a wine bottle to the table.
“Well, Paul this tastes like root beer but it isn’t. I cannot reveal what is in it, but I promise you it will not make you sick; however, it will definitely do what I say it will. Young sexy women - blondes, dark-haired, red-heads, tall, petite, will be attracted to you.”
“I’m not sure I should drink it,” Paul said. “I don’t like drinking what I don’t know. How do I know I won’t get sick? Why should I trust you?”
“You’re a cautious, skeptical man, Paul. I don’t blame you for not wanting to drink this potion and not know what it is,” Luke said, getting two tall glasses from a cabinet behind him. “So I will drink with you. I wouldn’t drink something that would make me sick, would I? I guarantee it’s safe and why would I harm you if I want your soul and spirit.”
“Well, if you’re drinking it, I guess it’s safe,” Paul said.
Luke removed the cork from the bottle of dark liquid, a small amount of vapor rising, “The recipe for this potion is ancient and I’ve had this bottle for a long time.”
While he poured the dark liquid into both glasses, they could see the foam from the potion rising to the top of each glass. Luke paused, waiting for the foam to settle before pouring more. While waiting, holding the narrow bottle just above the glass, he smiled at Paul.
“See the foam,” Luke said.
“Yes, what about it,” Paul asked.
“It reminds me of how people fall in love, how they fool themselves.”
“How they fool themselves?” Paul asked, somehow remembering falling in love with Evelyn almost thirty years ago.
“Yes, you really don’t know how much root beer you have until the foam settles,” Luke said, watching the foam in the glass settling before pouring more. “People get fooled by the foam and think its love.”
“I guess, I did,” Paul said. “My marriage certainly died after about eight years though we stayed together for twenty-five.”
“Eight years,” Luke said. “Not too bad. Many don’t last that long.”
When both glasses were filled, Luke handed Paul a glass and lifted his up and they clicked glasses, “To lust!” Luke said.
“I’ll drink to that,” Paul said, lifting the glass to his lips, watching Luke take a big drink and he felt the sweet root beer tasting potion swirl around in his mouth before swallowing.
When Paul finished drinking, he put the glass down on Luke’s desk. “Not bad,” he said then stood up.
“Well, let’s shake hands now that we have agreed on our deal. You will see you have made a good bargain, Luke said, extending his hand.
“Okay, if you think so, you know what I think,” Paul said, reaching over the desk, looking into Luke’s eyes, shaking hands, “but I better get going. I have a long drive home.”
Luke came around the desk and walked over to the black door and opened it for Paul and smiled, “Have a good journey. Have fun. Your best days are ahead of you.”
“We’ll see,” Paul said and walked down the dark narrow hall to the bar-room, then past the four men, ignoring their glances at him. He stopped and put a five dollar bill down on the bar and nodded to Zach. He stopped at the front door, glanced around the dark smoky room and left.
Paul sat in his car, looking up at the shabby white building and at the black sign over the door, glanced around at the motorcycles and took a deep breath, “Well, I’ll be,” he said out loud, shaking his head. “Now that was strange.” He turned on the car, backed out and decided not to listen to the radio, instead drove in silence, trying to remember his way back to the university and the pile of papers on his desk, thinking about his conversation with Luke, or Lucifer and the deal he made, thinking how delusional people are, some thinking they’re Jesus, or the devil, or wishing they were a vampire or a movie star or a famous writer. “I’m not delusional,” Paul said. “I’m miserable and I know it and no potion or bargain is going to change that.”
(to be continued - will the potion work?)
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with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.
<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/supernatural/the-bargain-with-lucifer-pt-1.aspx">The Bargain with Lucifer Pt 1</a>