Hellhound On My Trail

It's not easy to make a deal with the Devil. First, you have to find Him, and in order to find Him, you have to be lucky or know someone who knows Him. Me, I looked for Him for years. I looked for Him in all His earthly manifestations, in prisons, brothels, and bars, on porn sets and battlefields. I tried to summon Him through ritual and sin. I tried to lead a life of piety, hoping to tempt Him into tempting me. And in spite of all my searching, when I finally met the Devil it was either through Chance or Fate, depending on how you frame it all when it comes to luck.

And so maybe it's luck that's brought you to me, or vice versa. I can't talk long, but if you want to find Him, the Devil lives in a pickup that's parked at a rest stop off the westbound side of I-40 in New Mexico, somewhere in the desert between Amarillo and Albuquerque -- you'll find it. The truck you can't miss: it's a beat-to-shit yellow S-10 with a grey camper shell. Decals on the side read "Bonded" and "Insured". The Devil, Him I can't describe as well. It was dark, I only met Him the once, and when I try and remember, all I can see is smoke, teeth, and eyes like cigarette burns. All I can tell you is he was short, smelled like piss, and wore cowboy boots.

It was two in the morning, under a big top of stars. I had stopped over just to stretch my legs and smoke. I rolled up next to the S-10, got out, and that's when He announced Himself with a foul-smelling tubercular cough. He crawled out of the shell, headfirst, like a dog would. Next thing I know, He's right beside me, hissing my name in my ear. He moves in quick. Then we're shaking hands, sharing a beer on his tailgate. I had just sold my soul to Him.

Now, a stranger can know you more intimately than you can know yourself, or so they say. If asked, I'd guess that my weakness is in a lack of foresight, but I might be wrong. All I know is when the day is done, when I've run all I can and I'm staring up at the sky or the ceiling, I see my mistakes, all of them, lined up like Roman columns, tall and white, each holding up my unfailing ability to center myself too much in the "present" as opposed to the future. When I made the deal, I simply did not think things though.

Why did I want do it? I wanted to play the blues, or a mean game of ball, or maybe I wanted a girl, some respect, or money in my pocket. Maybe I was sick in the head. It doesn't matter anymore. Now I've got to move on, and keep moving. The sky is looking green -- is it supposed to storm? Whatever I gained from the deal has lost all its worth, and quick, too. Ebbed away. These days are worrying me. Metal burns my hands now. I no longer walk alongside the road. I blacken fields with my footprints, it drives the livestock around here crazy. I've got to keep moving. I've got to keep moving. There's a hellhound on my trail.