MASTER OF THE CROSSROADS - WRITTEN BY RICHARD KADREY


I went down to the crossroads to sell my soul to the devil. I was shocked to find my high school sweetheart there trying to do the same thing. "Belinda?" I called. "Belinda Porter?" She was catty-corner from me and looked around when she heard her name, which was kind of ridiculous as we were completely alone on a deserted country two-lane in northern California.

"Johnny Frankenheimer, is that you? Hi!," she called brightly across the road. "Long time no see. What are you doing way out here in the middle of the night?" I set down my bag and held up some of the cigars, candy, chicken and rum I was carrying. Not offerings to Satan, technically, but to the voudoun deity, Papa Legba.

When she saw what I had, Belinda grinned and held up an expensive bottle of 15-year old Demerara rum. We both laughed, seeing that we'd both chosen to invoke the powers of darkness at exactly the same time. She motioned me over. "How long has it been?" Belinda asked. "Fifteen years?". "More like seventeen," I said. "But who's counting?" "What a funny place to run into each other.

Have you been planning on selling your soul for long?" "No, not really," I said. "It was kind of spontaneous." "Me, too. That's so funny." "Yeah, it is." "So, what have you been up to all these years?" "I got married. Hooked up with some friends from college and rode the Internet bubble til it burst. Then, to settle some debts to some very questionable characters, I dealt guns for them to even more questionable characters. Turns out the whole thing was some kind of sting government operation. They seized my passport and froze all my bank accounts. My wife ran off with one of the loan sharks who got me into this mess in the first place. Oh, and I think the Mossad has a contract out on me. How about you?" "Wow. Rough," said Belinda.

"What have I been up to? Remember how I always used to say I'd never end up like my mother? Well, turns out we both have the same bad habit of marrying alcoholic pedophiles. Who would have thought that's something a parent could teach you with the potty training?" "Maybe it's not her fault. Maybe it's a genetic thing. I mean, I never wanted to be a business hotshot, but there was some part of me that wanted to be the kind of grown-up my dad was. I had with two cell phones, a portable fax machine, a Palm Pilot with the name and number of every Fortune 500 twonk I ever brown-nosed." "I just wanted a kitchen with all marble counters and an in-ground pool." "I owned my own shredder. The company didn't buy it for me. I bought it on my own. I never felt more important or better about myself than when I got that shredder home. It made my c*** harder than my wife ever did." "That's how I felt about the hand-made Mexican tile in our bathroom. Until I found the Polaroids, of course," said Belinda.

She fished in her bag and pulled out an unopened Sherman Fantasia pack. Tearing off the wrapper, she opened the box revealing yellow, pink, blue and green cigarettes. Belinda chose a bright pink one and lit it with a small gold lighter. When she offered me one, I shook my head. "I quit," I said. "Smart." There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Belinda piped up, "We've bleeped up pretty bad, but, you know, we could just go into therapy." "That takes too long. I've wasted years of my life. I don't want to waste another decade and a hundred grand I don't have whining on some quack's couch." "You're right. We're too far gone for ordinary solutions. We screwed ourselves up because we lived extremely badly. It only makes sense that the cure be just as extreme." "Spiritual chemotherapy."

That made Belinda laugh. Hearing her, I suddenly remembered how much I'd loved that laugh back in high school. As if she were reading my thoughts, Belinda said, "We used to have fun together." "Yeah, we did." "Why'd you break up with me?" "So that you couldn't break up with me." I looked at her sheepishly and shrugged. "I figured a girl as cute and fun as you would get bored pretty quick and dump me. Back then, that would have killed me. So I dumped you first." Belinda puffed on her candy-colored smoke and looked at me. "Boys are so stupid." "I'm living one's skin and I don't have a clue what's going on." "You really hurt me back then." "I'm sorry. If it's any consolation, breaking up with you like that has been a source of constant pain and wonder for me ever since." "Aw, that's sweet." She kissed me on the cheek and I felt a stirring in my gut that was not unpleasant. Belinda sighed. "It's along way from the backseat of your Camaro to this road." "I had my dad's old Rambler. Chuck Yarboro had the Camaro." "Right. Sorry. Chuck and I went out after you broke up with me." Another awkward silence.

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