March 9, 1916
“Well,” says the Devil, “I haven't seen them in ages, you know.”
You shift in your seat, uncomfortable. At your wrist sits an untouched glass of gin and tonic, a napkin topped with haphazard silverware rearranged by the movement of your hand. A white tablecloth that you suspect may actually be yellow, and cleverly hiding it. And across from you sits a gentleman who reclines in his chair with the ease of a snake.
You bite your lip. “That isn't to say—but you still remember the story, don't you?”
“But of course,” he says, lifting a gracious eyebrow.
There is a locket at his breast, an oddly feminine thing for a man of his beauty to be wearing. Small and ovular. The sort of thing that would hold a miniature of a beloved nephew—not too precious, not too invaluable, but somewhere in between, something vaguely intimate. There is a warning glow about its dull brassy tarnish that tells you that you don't want to know what is inside.
You shift your eyes away, to the silverware at his wrist. Carefully, you swallow. In the scratched reflection, his eyes are a thick, solid, swirling golden yellow. No pupil to speak of. Only brass.
He coughs politely in his throat. You rip your eyes back up to his face.
“You know what I am,” he says, business like, folding his long fingered hands atop the table. “You know what I have to tell you. Therefore it should follow that you know what I require in return.”
"Oh, I know what you are," you say, and repelled by his evil arrogance you grab the plate of curled butter at your wrist and you throw it at him and his eyes widen as the churned milk melts and covers his skin and his flesh begins to burn, and now you have vanquished him, because since your childhood you have been taught what to do in such a circumstance: Butter the Devil you know.
Opening: Askance.....Continuation: anon