Selling Out

by Randall Scott Henderson

     For the hundredth time, I hold the rifle close to my chest and peek over the edge of the roof to see if anything has changed in the alleyway below.  But there are no cars pulling up to the theatre’s back entrance, no line of bodyguards forming outside the door. Chris Starr has not arrived.

     But he will. And when he does, he will die.

     When the papers and news shows talk about me, or when the biographers tell the Chris Starr story, they will say I, Dave Davis, did this because I am crazy and will cite my history in the mental hospitals. But it’s a bit of a circular argument to say I’m killing Chris Starr because I’m crazy, when the only reason I was sent to those hospitals and called crazy is because I want to kill Chris Starr.

     What all of the so-called journalists won’t bother to consider is the possibility that I am not crazy, that my reasons for wanting to kill Starr are legitimate. Because to really consider that the devil stole my songs and gave them to Chris Starr would require believing the devil really exists and that he makes such cliché bargains for our souls. 

     I can’t blame them, I suppose. I remember growing up believing in God and the devil, yet when church leaders would claim that rock music and fantasy role playing games were the products of Satan himself I laughed.  I mean, imagine Lucifer sitting around in hell with paper and pencil and working out a system for battling imaginary goblins using a twenty-sided die. And surely the devil does not sit around writing songs like “Mmm-Bop,” as torturous and evil as such songs may seem.

     But now I know that the Devil does indeed make men and women into rock stars. It is just that, rather than writing the music, he steals it from one person and gives it to another. It’s the only possible explanation for what happened to me.

     “Is that a fact?”

     I nearly scream at the sound of the voice so close behind me, but manage to hold the sound down to a squeak. I scramble around on the gravel rooftop, trying to hide the rifle behind my body, expecting to see a policeman or security guard. But what I see is a man with a dark goatee and curly black hair, wearing a business suit and smiling at me.

     Stepping still closer, he says,   “And just what makes you think you owned those songs in the first place?”

     He is speaking in response to my thoughts, I realize. And now I notice little details, like how one curly lock at each of the stranger’s temples sticks up slightly like a horn; how his canines seem extremely long and pointed; how his eyes are entirely black.

     “Here to stop me, Satan?” I ask, and am impressed at how calm I manage to sound in spite of my shaking hands and a close escape from peeing my own pants.

     The stranger just laughs. “You can call me Nick. And why would I stop you? If you are right in your beliefs, and you kill Chris, then that is simply two more souls I get today – his for his bargain, and yours for your sin.” Nick arches an eyebrow, and waggles a finger. “Ah, but then again, maybe not, maybe you are wrong, my friend, and I made no deal with Chris Starr. Perhaps I am merely here to offer you the very bargain you are so convinced I gave to Chris.”

      I feel my righteous anger filling me with courage, and I spit back at him, “You want to sell back to me what you stole from me in the first place? Screw you. I think you are here because if I kill Starr, then that would somehow violate your deal with him. Maybe you promised him ten years or fifty years of fame, and if I kill him now, and then repent, you get nothing. Maybe, if your deal gets broken, then I get my songs back and nobody even remembers Chris fucking Starr.”

     There is a chuckle, and out of the shadows steps another man. He looks very much like Nick, though his skin is darker and his hair is red. Shaking his head, the newcomer says, “Or maybe you go to prison and become the plaything of a white supremacist gang.”

     Nick turns to face the newcomer. “Scratch, what are you doing here? I’m working this one.”

     Scratch shrugs. “Afraid of a little competition? I simply think I can offer our friend here a better deal is all.”

     “Wait a minute,” I demand of Nick. “If you are the devil, then who the hell is this?”

     “Yeah, Scratch,” Nick says. “Who the hell do you think you are, cutting into my action?  Don’t be a soul-blocker.”

     Scratch shakes his head and smiles at me, ignoring Nick. “Who we are really isn’t important, my friend. Call us jinn, fairies, imps, devils, leprechauns, whatever you like, but the important thing is not who we are, but what I can offer you.”

     “I have already made this man an offer,” Nick says angrily.

     “Yeah, and he sounded really interested, Nick.”

     Nick turns back to me, and says, “Look. Here’s the deal. In exchange for your soul, you regain the rights to all of your songs. Or you can ignore my offer, wait until Chris arrives, shoot him, and be remembered at best as the nutcase who killed a real rock star. Now which sounds better?”

     I laugh. “You’re still trying to sell me my own songs, and in exchange for my immortal soul? Excuse me if that bargain seems a little unfair.”

     Scratch starts to speak, but Nick cuts him off. “Unfair? Listen, your soul is just a bunch of energy, like a charge in a battery. You don’t go on living in some afterlife. You’ll be dead, gone, you won’t even miss it. And as for your songs, where do you think they came from? Think about when you were writing them. How did that feel, hmm?”

     I’m not buying into his soul story, but his question makes me think back to when I was writing the songs – the songs that I heard on the radio just months later, but performed by Chris Starr. If only I’d copyrighted them or been able to hold onto a drummer long enough to play some gigs, people would believe me now. But when I was writing those songs it had felt wonderful, like I was in the zone, the notes and lyrics seeming to pour through me.

     “Exactly,” says Nick. “Are you so sure those songs came from your own mind, that you weren’t merely a conduit through which they manifested? Can you be certain they didn’t come from the divine, or a Muse, or even me? Perhaps Chris simply got the same inspiration that you did. Maybe they were never really yours to begin w –“

     “Smooth, Nick, tell him they weren’t really his?” Scratch laughs.  “Yeah, that will win him over. Listen kid,” Scratch walks over and kneels down beside me. “Here’s the thing. Nick there, he’s famous for trying to confuse his customers, get them so turned around they’ll agree to anything, then he pulls the old bait and switch.”

     Nick starts to make an angry retort, but Scratch ignores him.

     “It’s true. Sure, he’ll give you the rights to your songs back. Probably make the record company exec sell you the rights. But the songs will still be Chris Starr songs. Now me, I’ll be straight with you. We can’t turn back Time, that’s just not within our power. Those songs, they will always be Chris Starr songs as far as anyone else is concerned. But I can give you even better songs, the second album you might have written by now if Chris Starr hadn’t stolen your first one.”

     Nick steps closer and says, “I can do that as well, but I’ll still throw in the rights to your original songs.”

     Scratch sighs. “Old songs, old songs, okay, fine, I’ll throw in the rights to your old songs too, plus an all-acoustic album at the top of the charts for ten weeks –“

     “Twelve weeks!” Nick says, “And I’ll throw in a guaranteed tribute album to you when you die.”

     “Screw dead, I’ll get you a tribute album before you’re dead so you can enjoy it, and your own annual music festival tour!” Scratch stands up, smiling. “Top that, Nick.”

     By the look on Nick’s face, I can see he is indeed having trouble topping Scratch’s offer. “All the groupies –“

     Scratch shakes his head. “Now you know those come free. Don’t go pretending you control that.”

     Nick and Scratch start to argue, but I ignore them. I pull the rifle out from behind me and look at it, thinking. I was committed to this act, to killing someone. I hadn’t really thought too specifically about the cost to my soul of such an act. It had been more an issue of what was right, what was fair. Chris Starr had made a deal with the devil, I had been certain of it, and was even more certain now. Surely it wasn’t a sin to kill someone who’d made such a bargain, not the same as killing a normal person. Or was I just rationalizing?

     What if Nick was right and there was no afterlife? Then did anything matter but this life? And in this life, I should have won the Grammies. I should have made the millions of dollars. I should have attained the afterlife that fame does bring. Chris Starr had denied it all to me.

     I hear a noise in the alleyway and turn back to the ledge, peeking over. A Lexus has pulled up to the rear entrance and bodyguards are forming a corridor from it to the theatre’s door. I hear a scream from up the alleyway, and suddenly dozens of young men and women are running towards the car. This is it. This is the moment, while the guards are focused on the fans. I don’t think, I just raise the rifle and rest it on the edge of the roof, sighting on the space between the car and the door, just like I’ve practiced thousands of times on cans and bottles and melons, and pictures of Chris Starr.

     The car door opens and a familiar figure steps out. I exhale. I slowly increase pressure on the trigger. I feel sweat running from my hairline down the sides of my face. Chris Starr steps into the theatre, the bodyguards follow, the door closes.

     I stare at the door for a minute, then turn and slump down onto the gravel.

     “So what do you say?” Scratch asks. Nick is nowhere around.

    --------

     The hotel phone rings. It might be the front desk telling me the limo has arrived, or perhaps my publicist confirming the Late Night booking. Or maybe it is my agent, trying to convince me again to do a Chris Starr cover as a B-side now that I own the song rights. My new CD is playing on a stereo system in the living area. I just can’t get over how good it is, how much better even than my first songs, the ones that Chris Starr stole.

     I pick up the receiver.

     “Hi, stud, this is Jezzie.” The female voice is smooth, seductive, and I feel my body responding automatically. “I understand that Scratch is currently your bargain provider, and I was wondering if I might interest you instead in a revised bargain with better returns at savings of one tenth your soul?  I could, mmmmm, throw in a little bonus, a personal specialty.”

     “No thanks,” I say, wishing for the hundredth time that there was some kind of “do not call” list for supernatural wish granters.  I already have what’s rightfully mine and see no need to be greedy. After all, if there is an afterlife, surely God will recognize I was only getting back what was stolen from me and won’t let these devils take my soul for it.

     As I move to set down the receiver, I notice there is a small glowing red dot on my shirt.  I watch as it moves quickly up my chest towards my head. Confused for a moment, I look up, out of the hotel window, at the rooftop across the street.  Is that a man in the shadows? 

Realization hits me, and my reaction is not slowed by any sense of anger or betrayal. I do not stand there and accept the situation with a sense of irony or karmic justice. No, I quickly drop down behind the bed and press the phone against my ear.

     “Hello?  Jezzie?  On second thought, I might be open to negotiation …”