For the next hour, Isaac sat in silence. The Devils drank, talked boorishly, selected awful songs on the jukebox, and generally made him wish he were someplace else. He resisted the urge to look around, knowing that eye contact was a sign of aggression and there was no need to give the Devils any excuses. They seemed to have forgotten him and that was just fine. So, he traced lines through the condensation on his bottle until the door to the bar swung open with a bang.

The new arrival towered over six feet but held a markedly thin frame. He was dressed cowboy to the hilt—leather boots, a black Stetson, long brown duster over a once-white t-shirt, tattered jeans. Dark gloves and a grimy saddlebag on his shoulder finished the look. He walked slowly, his head down so that the brim of his hat cast his face into shadow. Isaac guessed that the newcomer would have enjoyed having a pair of spurs so that the jingle-jangle emphasized each step.

The pool game paused. Bandana-man snickered and elbowed Panzer and Skid-row Santa. Ed raised an eyebrow. Isaac rolled his eyes.

Maloc the demon. So fucking dramatic.

He paused near the bar, all eyes on him at this point, and raised his head, so that the light crept slowly up his face, like a curtain rising on a theatre set. By the time he was fully pulled from the shadow his face was angled toward the ceiling and he stood there as if posing for a sculptor.

The mood of the room shifted slightly because once the bikers got a good look a wave of uneasiness swept through. The dry skin of the demon’s face hugged too tight around his head, like leather that had been pulled taut and left to bake in the sun, hardening until it took on the shape of the skull beneath. It had an unhealthy tinge to it, yellow or green, depending on how the light struck it. His wide bloodshot eyes sported yellow and brown pupils, accompanied by cracked, splotchy lips. It really appeared that a man suffering from a variety of diseases had crawled from his deathbed to go and fetch a drink.

Isaac scanned the bar, gauging reactions. Ed had resumed his “looking busy” routine—wiping dirty glasses, and eyeing Maloc like someone who might need to be thrown out before the evening was over. The Devils appeared conflicted—amused by his outfit, irritated with his cocky entrance, and disgusted by his appearance.

Maloc laughed when he saw Isaac, revealing teeth yellower than his skin. It was boisterous and overdone, the way someone laughed at a joke they didn’t understand to avoid looking stupid. “Isaac!” he called out loudly, not because he was that far from him, but so that everyone in attendance had to listen. He strode to the bar, pausing to say “howdy boys” to the Asphalt Devils, who narrowed their eyes at him and plopped down heavily on the stool next to Isaac. “If I had known this place was four-star, I would have worn my t-shirt with the caviar stains. What’re you drinking?”

Isaac held up his shot of whiskey, swirled it around, and then brought it to his lips. With a swiftness that could scarcely be followed, Maloc snatched the drink, downed it, and handed the glass back, all before Isaac could close his anticipating mouth.

“Like I said, what are you drinking?” Maloc repeated with a smug smile.

“I suppose I need another.”

Maloc patted him roughly on the back, knocking the magician forward into the bar. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll order. You can just pay.” Despite Ed being only three feet away, Maloc shouted, “Hey barkeep!”

Ed glowered. “Yeah?”

“We’re going to need another round. Right here.” He tapped his index fingers on the countertop as if there was any other place to put them. As Ed went about his work, Maloc turned to Isaac and said, “As soon as we have our libations we’ll get down to our dirty dealings. You look like crap.”

Isaac simply shrugged as he bit back a counter remark about Maloc’s general appearance.

“Now Ed, I gotta tell you, you look like a real bartender,” Maloc said to the proprietor as he plunked their drinks down.

“What’s that mean?”

“I was just out in L.A. and it seemed that every place I went to had these really handsome guys working all the bars. Struggling male models and actors. Just too pretty.”

“So, you’re saying I ain’t good-looking?”

“What I’m saying is those guys can’t be bartenders. They have their heads in the clouds thinking they’re the next big movie star. They don’t know about life in the gutter. And that’s what you want when you go to a shit-hole bar. You want to be surrounded by miserable bastards who are clinging to a lower rung on the universal ladder. Scumbags who wallow in the mud, eat from the trough and go back for seconds with eager piggy faces. You want cheap, watered-down booze, bad lighting, and dirty bathrooms, which I haven’t checked out yet, but I have a good feeling. And finally, you want a bartender who carries the mantle of King of the Miserable Shits. A man who looks like life beat the hell out of him and he just doesn’t care. A bartender who will scream out to God, ‘Fine God, if you only give me shit to eat then I will eat shit with a smile on my face.’ In short, what I’m saying, Ed, is that this is my kind of place.” Maloc lifted a beer in salute, then turned and walked to the most secluded empty table.

It took Ed a moment to process the rant. “Did he just say that I was the King of Shit?”

“I’m not sure what he just said,” Isaac lied.

“How’d he know my name?”

Again, Isaac lied. “He must have heard me say it.”

Ed leaned forward, lowering his voice, “He crazy?”

Wincing at the man’s breath, he whispered back, “No. He’s just an asshole.”

“I reckon. Your friend has troublemaker written all over him. Me, I don’t mind some harassment from the drunks. But he best watch his step as long as the Devils are here. They go looking for trouble, just like he does.”

“I’ll try and make it quick.” Isaac grabbed his beer and joined the demon.

Maloc leaned back in his chair, balancing it perfectly on the rear legs. “Y’know Isaac, I like this hee-haw, howdy-doody cowboy shit. I never bathe and I still fit right in.”

As Isaac sat down at the table the demon’s gaze fell onto the satchel and didn’t veer from it until the magician had removed it, set it on the floor, and then finally nudged it under his chair. Only then did those jaundiced eyes float upwards to meet Isaac’s stare.

“I’ve got what you wanted.”

Maloc took a swig of his beer. “Don’t be in such a rush. This is my last night in this mortal plane. I think that we’ll take this slow. I’ll enjoy my beer, then probably your beer. Then you’ll buy me some more beers.”

“Can you even get drunk?”

“Not even close. Don’t even like the taste much. But I just have this feeling that once I’m back in Hell, I’ll start wishing I had a beer. This world does have its delights.”

Despite his revulsion at sitting with a Hellspawn, Isaac felt a twinge of curiosity. He had never assumed that Maloc would be so chatty. “Why do you want to go back so badly? It’s still Hell, right? Any place should be better.”

Maloc thought hard for a time, which was a disturbing sight—a death-mask face with furrowed brow, as a hateful mind searched for warm memories. “I love the randomness of this world,” Maloc finally said, and seeing Isaac bemused he elaborated. “When I reclaim my position in the torture pits those chained souls will know exactly what is going to happen. There’s no spontaneity to the whole ordeal. Not like here. There’s a certain gratification that you get grabbing someone off the street. Smuggling them away to a secluded spot. Going to work on them. And through the whole process, they never give up hope. Up until their dying breath, they think they’ll escape, or Prince Charming will rush in and save them. That false hope adds such spice to my work. In Hell, hope is an impossible thing.”

Isaac managed to hide his sour face by taking a swig of beer and pretending the taste disgusted him. “So, you’ll miss all that and beer. Well, if we could continue with the task at hand.” His curiosity replaced with revulsion, he reached for his satchel, but the demon resumed his soliloquy and Isaac reluctantly went back to the role of interested listener.

“On the flip side, I have to admit that I’ve become bored with mortal flesh and bone. So bored. I’ll get my hands on a fine specimen and they’re good for maybe a few hours before ruination. You only get one chance to do everything. In my pit, I could torture someone forever. Cut them all up, grind up the pieces, put them back together, and start over. That way you really get to know the poor soul. It’s some real bonding.”

“And I bet they appreciate that quality time,” Isaac said a little too sharply, but the demon didn’t seem to care.

Maloc tilted his head back, a dreamy look coming across his face as he savored dark thoughts. “And the tools Isaac. I miss my tools. I had such a collection there.” He opened his coat and took a large Bowie knife from a sheath on his belt. “This is the best I can do here.” He twirled the knife with phenomenal grace, flipping it back and forth from hand to hand. “Don’t get me wrong, mortals have made staggering strides in pain-infliction over the centuries and I always had a decent variety of weapons and bondage devices. But they pale in comparison to my collection in Hell.” He slid the blade smoothly back into its sheath. “It’s time to go home.”

Isaac glanced around the bar as casually as he could, hoping Maloc’s knife-play had gone unobserved. Nope. The seated bikers eyed them, saying something to each other. The pool players had paused but now returned to their game, the cracking of the billiard balls serving to break the silence. Finally, Isaac looked back at Maloc, who smiled so wide his head might crack.

“Can we get back to business here? Before trouble starts.”

“From who? These hicks? Screw ‘em. What are you afraid of? Aren’t you a powerful wizard?” The demon wiggled his fingers at Isaac, mock casting a spell. “You magicians are all the same.”

“You’ve known a lot of magicians?” he asked, his curiosity again overriding his desire to be away from the beast. Curiosity—killer of cats and magicians.

Maloc’s upper lip curled in disgust. “It was a magician who brought me into this world. He had more aspiration than talent and was unable to pull me through the void in my true form. Instead, he stuck my spirit in this dead mortal shell.” The demon pulled off a glove and rotated his hand around for examination. “He didn’t do a terrible job. He worked some incantations on the skin, made me strong and resistant to magic and mortal weapons. But he didn’t seal it very well and, as you can see, some of my true essence has leaked out over the centuries.”

Isaac kept a blank face. “You can’t even notice.”

“Eventually, this magician attempted some powerful summoning. An arch-demon that I may have suggested he attempt to convene with. And that was that. He was never seen again.”

“So, you set him up. You gave him a name he couldn’t control. You knew he’d die.”

“Of course. I may be in a mortal skin but I’m still a demon where it counts. That’s why people shouldn’t deal with my kind.”

“Funny you say that to me while I’m in cahoots with you.”

Maloc held up his hands and attempted what Isaac assumed was meant to be a who-me smile of innocence. The demon was incapable of this expression and in the end, only resembled a deranged mugshot.

“So, then I was free. I traveled the world. Met a lot of beautiful people. Killed them. Enjoyed myself.” He stood. “Get us another round of drinks. I’m going to go check out the stench in the shitter.”

Isaac winced. “That’s just nasty.”

Maloc walked to the rear of the building, passed the pool players without even looking at them, and disappeared into the restroom. Remembering Bandana-man’s warning about the bathroom being off-limits, Isaac casually scanned the table of bikers. They hadn’t budged but definitely looked unhappy. He guessed that Maloc’s unhealthy appearance forced them to keep their distance. It made sense that even the bravest would avoid someone who looked like the Ebola virus in a cowboy costume.

“How’s your date going?” Ed asked as he took Isaac’s money.

“Wonderfully,” he replied. “But I owe that to the ambiance of this place.” Ed just scowled.

He and Maloc returned to the table at the same time. The demon immediately downed the two shots and took both beers. Unsurprised by this, Isaac took the opportunity to smack his satchel down on the table. “You finally ready?”

In his first serious tone of the night, Maloc replied, “Let’s deal.”