This Short Story was actually written in the fall of 2015. I’ve been so busy with various summer projects that I’ve run out of time and have to dig back into the archives of my computer hard drive to find this one so I could post it to my website/Blog. Entered it in a couple literary contests, but no takers.

 

Word Count: 1994

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making a Deal

With Your Devil

 

Sometimes you don’t have a choice. You’re producing this grandiose stage production, but in order to stage it you’re forced to borrow funds from the enemy. Not really an affirmed opponent, but a person I despise with a special hatred reserved for mass murders, childhood bullies, and corporate attorneys.

You know very well whom I’m talking about. The type of guy I walk to the other side of the street whenever I see them sauntering towards me. If you’re unlucky enough to have to work with the person, you purposely avoid having to converse with them whenever the you two want to waste time at the water cooler. Unfortunately, the boss likes this ingrate, so you’re forced to acknowledge their existence.

Sleeping with the enemy? Actually, more like the two of us are trapped in an airtight hurricane shelter. I despise the fact that they’re breathing the oxygen I should be ingesting.

You could say my predicament wasn’t that unusual. I’ve been a theatre aficionado since my formative years when my goals were creating modern art with my food, and transitioning off diapers. Distinctly remember the day I staged my own version of that Charlie Chaplin movie. Complete with hand-painted backgrounds, improvised dialogue, and lots of props. My Shakespearian attempt wasn’t exactly Tony award quality, but then again the production was darn good for a stage play engineered by a seven year old.

At that point in my life I was on my way to Broadway stardom. Complete with fame, fortune, and an over-priced Apartment off Central Park. A place where I’m paying the guy who walks my dog more money than most waiters make in a month of putting up with high maintenance/low tipping customers.

Getting back to reality, or a reasonable facsimile, this stage production is turning out to cost more money than my measly budget. Pisses me off that I’ll probably have to take out a loan from the king of arrogance in order to see the production happen.

Like making a deal with the devil. Only in this case I have to borrow money from the evil stepfather. I’ll bet Horatio Kingman spends time each day counting all the cash in his multiple piggy banks, and wondering why most mortals aren’t on a superior intellectual level like him. What makes him an accountant with more money than a President-for-Life Dictator?

Unlucky me, the guy’s home, even as I realize I forgot the flaming bag of dog poop. Time to swallow the ego and do some groveling. Oh boy, a look of superiority on his face even as he opens the door. Makes this tougher to pull off than rowing the Amazon in my Paper Mache canoe.

“Kirby Burwell,” said Horatio. “What brings you here?”

“Got a moment to talk with me?”

“I suppose I can take a bit of time.”

You’d better. No Burwell, quit rising to the guy’s level. Or maybe I’m sinking to the underbelly of a cockroach layer? “I’m not sure how to ask this, so I’ll just blurt it out; I’m getting our spring musical together and need financial assistance with the production. Think you can help us?” There, I said it. Guess pulling teeth with a pipe wrench isn’t so bad.

“How much do you want to borrow? I don’t think I’m in a financial position to give any money without having to lend the funds. My finances are somewhat limited.”

Give me a break Kingman. You’ve still got the first dime from your newspaper route. Actually, it’s a good thing I don’t have this nasty habit of thinking out loud. He probably wouldn’t appreciate that last comment. ”Of course. My intent is to pay you back ASAP. I appreciate anything you can do for me.” That’s it Burwell, pile the B.S. on thick so he’ll agree to a loan.

“How much money do you want?”

Since we didn’t get that state arts endowment grant, $50,000.00 would be nice. Probably shouldn’t get too greedy though. “Can you loan us $20,000.00 or $30,000.00? Our production is very intricate, so we need funds to do it right.” Do I sound like I’m needier than the average Crack addict looking for their next fix?

“Let me think about this. How about if we meet in three days to discuss options?”

Unbelievable, let’s face the music Burwell. Getting money out of this guy is harder to pull off than a plus sized model squeezed into a petite-sized dress. “I’ll call to arrange our meeting?”

 

Oh boy, now I get to wait while King Louie XVI contemplates throwing me a bone. Am I a guy that can wait till the day after the apocalypse for an answer? Not like I’ll never repay it. Maybe I should’ve told him that? Might’ve helped.

I’m convinced this production will be a success. We’ve got that off-Broadway actor onboard who’s got more hits on YouTube than all those cat videos. Our script is dynamite, set design is very cool, and the music is catchy.

Maybe I should explore other options for getting Dead Presidents to finance this play? How about borrowing from that local real estate development company. What have I got to lose? Only difference is the fact that Kingman and the real estate company owner, what’s-her-face, Helen Klosterman, are different genders. Then again, how do I know Horatio Kingman doesn’t imitate J. Edgar Hoover in private?

Kingman with his buzz-cut hairdo, perfectly manicured looks, gabardine suits, and driving that Studebaker of his. Probably just walked out of a time machine (circa 1952).

Klosterman just got back from her organic farm where she grows the main source of income for her real estate empire? How the Hell did that lady ever make all her money? Apparently she inherited it. Can’t be her looks, unless most of her “Johns” enjoy spending cash on a dumpier version of their mother.

What about selling some theatre assets? How about unloading those knock-off paintings we’ve got in the style of famous Masters? Every single one of them looks like the genuine article. Fool people by telling them the painting is a famous artist’s earlier work. Lay the B.S. on nice and thick by telling them we’ll sell it at a drastically reduced rate. Only $70,000.00 or $80,000.00, a drop in the bucket as far as famous artwork goes.

Then what happens if they figure out the painting is a fake? Send in the cops, or maybe the FBI stooges to arrest me. Oh boy. That way I get to practice my best Fugitive-on-the-Run routine. Sounds kind of edgy and exciting. Sort of like owing lots of money to the Mob and playing cat and mouse with cousin Guido. Only drawback, cousin Guido has a big handgun that he isn’t afraid to use.

Lets face it Burwell, the only source of funding for our production is a fundraising banquet. The sort of affair that’s got invitees with tons of disposable income. They’ll part with their money faster than their last visit to the country club. The one where all those golf balls they hit slice straight into a duck pond. Besides, what else do these Donald Trump-wannabees have to spend their cash on? Kitchen appliances and exercise machines that’ll get used as supplemental clothes hangers.

Unfortunately, I’m envisioning all sorts of problems if we go with a Fundraising Banquet. First and foremost, finding a hall where the affair can happen. What about the facilities the Next Generation Oil & Gas Hotel has right down the block? Maybe I can convince them to loan the banquet facility out for free.

I’ve never really liked the color of Next Gen’s banquet hall. That pink motif. Looks like the product of a hyperactive chameleon mating with an albino salamander.

Finding a chef who wants to buy the food, prepare, then serve the stuff, and get some flunkies to clean-up the mess won’t be an easy task either. Most professional cooks are more interested in putting a piece of meat on the plate and decorating it so the food shouldn’t be eaten. Just peered at with a glazed look in the eyes of all our cocaine-sniffing patrons. Not to mention you eat the entrée, then feel hungry a half-hour after dinner.

———-

Something must be wrong. I’m actually looking forward to my luncheon with Kingman. Can’t get over feeling like a kid getting ready to go to Disneyland. Things should be the other way around?

Then again, this must be like the odd feeling a convict gets before their last meal. The food looks good, but get over it buddy. Death chamber waits so why you feeling upbeat? Can’t be that T-bone steak, particularly since it looks like it’s been overcooked to a nice blackness, and you like your cow a bit on the raw, blood-pooling-up-on-side-of-the-plate, style.

“I’ve made a decision Kirby.”

Oh boy. Quit delaying and put the strychnine-lased Gatorade in front of me. “What you got?”

“First off. I’m wondering, why didn’t you consider a Kick-Starter Campaign to get financing? I’m convinced it’d work.”

“That crossed my mind.” Admit it Burwell, except for all that time you waste watching YouTube on the ‘Net, you’re basically computer illiterate. The day you do Social Media is the morning after winning the Tony for Best Actor in a cameo.

“I’ve looked into your production, asked a few questions to various folks. Came to the conclusion that there’s a good chance you’d get the money if you did a Kick-starter campaign.”

Easy for you to say. Interesting how you’re going to use that as justification not to give us money. I suppose you can afford to do that since you’re basically a kingmaker. Kingman-king maker, how ironic is that? “Thanks for your time. My schedule is tight, so I need to cut our lunch short and move on to other funding sources.”

“Hold on Kirby. I didn’t say I wouldn’t give you anything.”

What? This situation is more incoherent than a rowboat navigating through a fog bank thicker than pea soup. “I’m confused.”

“Don’t be. I’ve been hoping you’d come to me asking for funds. I like you.”

Wait a second. Isn’t him saying that like Genghis Khan commenting that he didn’t enjoy invading new territory because he was a peaceful individual? “Can you explain that?”

“You look perplexed. Even though I’m a quiet, fairly guarded person, I’ve taken great interest in your theatre company. I want to see you succeed.”

“Really? I’m shocked.”

Horatio stared directly at me. “I’ve got the financial resources to help you out.”

“Yes, yes you do.” Isn’t that sort of like assuming surfers enjoy spending time at the beach?

“I want to see this play succeed on so many levels, and don’t think money should hold you back. How about if I give you people about $120,000.00 to help your production?”

Wait a sec, is this really happening? I’m fairly sure the affects of those hallucinogenic drugs I took last weekend have worn off, then again, maybe not. “That’s incredibly generous of you. I don’t know what to say. I’m shocked.”

“Don’t say anything, nothing would tickle me more than having you accept.”

Don’t blow it Burwell. “Okay.”

“You know Kirby, lots of people carry around this false impression that I’m an ogre and hoard all my money.”

You ever done anything to dispel that character trait, no? Since I don’t really want to beg on street corners, I won’t mention that. Don’t like trash floating in the gutters. “Where do people come up with these unjustified accusations? I hate it when those things happen.”

“So do I. Hopefully my doing this will be a first step towards dispelling these false impressions of me.”

“Oh definitely.” Wow, the guy even has a big smile on his face. Come to think of it, I’ve probably got a similar ####-eating grin on my mug.