Demon at a Crossroads Prologue

Prologue

Robinsonville, Mississippi: 1930

Rain pelted the ground around him as the sun dipped down below the horizon, barely even visible by the cloud-filled sky. The cold chill of the night nipped at the 19-year-old wanna-be Blues musician's cheeks as he stood at the crossroads of Highway 61 and 49. He was standing there trembling. It wasn't just the rain causing this either; deep down, he was terrified. He was cold and frightened at what he was out here to do. He was left wondering, would it hurt? The story that brought him out to this crossroads had been told to him by a man named Kalaki, a Native American elder that worked at the bar he played at.

The man looked at his watch. "Any minute now," he thought to himself. The rain had soaked him all the way down to his toes. He wasn't sure if he was shivering due to the cold or his ever-growing fear.

A second later, he felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach as he made out what he assumed were headlights coming his way from the distance. His legs were pleading to run away as fast as he could, but his mind had stopped working, and he just stood there in the rain as the car approached him. Even in his ever-increasing panic and every muscle and fiber in his body telling him to run, Robert was still a simple man and couldn't help but admire the fancy car approaching him; he had never seen anything quite like it. The extravagant vehicle quickly covered the distance between them and stopped right in front of him. The door opened, and a woman with pinkish-purple hair stood in front of him.

The first thing Robert noticed was that she was very cute. She had sensuous small lips and a little nose that was neither too high nor too low. Her unusual hair is the first thing that caught your eye, but her face was accentuated by her beautiful, piercing eyes. Her stature was perfect for her petite, lithe feminine body. She wore a black suit and skirt with red trimming that fit her nubile body snugly and did wonders to show off her femininity. Actually, now that he thought about it, she looked almost perfect; she was an angel. At least, this is what he imagined a female angel would always look like.

Robert was quickly snapped out of his reverie as soon as she opened her mouth to speak. "Man, these Rolls-Royce's are fucking something else. Damn!"

"Excuse me, ma'am?" He had not expected that from her. He half expected her to speak in a haughty reverent tone and cite scripture to him.

"I'm just saying, this car is the shit! I had it imported last week. They're fucking awesome!" Robert was flabbergasted and was left wondering if the shock he felt was from her way of talking or early onset hypothermia.

"Fuck you, Mr. Ford! You ain't got shit on Rolls!" She shouted into the night sky as she pointed her fingers into the air.

"Is this the demon he had summoned?" He thought to himself. Surely there must be some mistake; this couldn't be her. Robert had much to learn about women; if she cursed like a sailor, she probably was a demon.

"So, I'm guessing that you're Robert?" She said in a much more serious tone. Robert could feel that the mood had changed, and her once jovial countenance was now replaced with a more stoic one.

"Uh, yes, ma'am," he said to her. Robert was still frightened, and he did not wish to anger her.

"Okay, so you summoned me. What do ya want?" The woman asked Robert curtly.

"I wanna be able to play this here guitar," he said to her while pointing to his weathered and battered-up guitar case.

"What do you got to trade?" She asked him. The night was dark, only the brief flashes of lightning illuminating their exchange, but Robert could swear that he saw her grin as she said this.

"I is poor. I ain't got much to offer," he said. She could tell he was nervous about the situation, but he was the one that called her.

"Yeah, you do. You've got a story." The woman said. She was still grinning from ear to ear.

"A story, ma'am?" He was confused; he wasn't sure what she was talking about. How could he pay her with his story?

"To tell you the truth, business hasn't been good since coming back from Asia. I want some advertising, and sadly, you're the best I've got." She said as she pointed at Robert.

"M-M-Me?" Robert asked, stuttering. The cold had soaked him straight to his bones, and with the added fear of the situation, he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering.

"I want to start a legend about you. I have a feeling that you're gonna be well known, that your name will go on throughout the generations. I can see it now. 'The Story of Robert Johnson.' I could write a book about it or something, all about American folklore." He could tell she was getting excited thinking about all the possibilities.

"I thought you wanted my soul?" The man asked her, shocked and relieved that his soul might remain intact.

"I only go after the souls of folks with fewer guts than you; you've got moxie, kid. I'll trade you for that instead. Is that okay with you?" She asked Robert as she extended her hand out towards him.

"Yes! Yes, ma'am! That'd be fine!" Robert joyfully replied as he shook her hand. The deal had been made.

"Bully!" The woman exclaimed with joy.

"All right, hand me your guitar," she said, pointing at it.

"Yes, ma'am." Robert eagerly replied as he took off the guitar strap.

Robert laid his guitar case down on the ground and opened it up. In it sat his Gibson, rain pouring down on it. He reached in and pulled it out, wiping away some of the rain. He had tried so hard for many years to master this guitar but to no avail. His dream had always been to be a Blues artist, like the crooners that inspired him. After many years of disappointment and not getting any better, he thought he'd have to sell his soul for it to happen, but now it's looking like he won't have to. He was able to finally breathe a sigh of relief, knowing his dream was so close at hand and all it would take was his 'story.' He figured it was a small price to pay for eternal glory. He handed the Gibson L-1 to the woman.

"Oh, a Gibson L-1. Nice! I want one more thing before I do this. Don't worry; it's not bad." She said as she examined the guitar all over.

"What's that, ma'am?" Robert asked; he felt his heart sinking again. He thought he had gotten away from it, but now he was worried she would definitely ask for his soul.

"After you die, I want your Gibson. I'm basically turning it into a supernatural artifact, and I can't have it falling into the wrong hands. If anyone else but you uses it, they will end up cursed." She explains to him. He knew it wouldn't be that easy, but he was starting to get worried. He would be playing a cursed instrument; what would that mean?

"Will it hurt me, ma'am?" Robert nervously asked. He was starting to have second thoughts, but he pushed them back. He wanted this more than anything and was willing to do whatever it took to achieve it.

"No, don't worry about it. It'll be bound to your soul, so you'll be fine. It'll be the same with the pick too. I'll need that back also." She told the rain-soaked man.

After a few seconds of mulling it over, Robert finally responded, "Okay."

"Perfect, so here we go," she said. He noticed a glimmer in her eyes as she responded.

The woman held the guitar flat in her hands and said some words in a language Robert had never heard before. The guitar started to hover in mid-air right in front of them. He was shocked at the sight of it and took a small step back as he saw the woman's eyes turn pure white. It reminded him of the gypsy woman in Jackson that he had gone to before. She ended up being no help at all. Robert could tell this was different than that; he could tell that this was real.

The guitar started to glow a demonic shade of red as Robert saw what looked like blood-red fireflies appear all around it. They circled the guitar a few times and then entered it. This was followed by an intense red flash of light and then everything went back to normal. The red fireflies were gone, and the guitar was back in the woman's hands.

"Here you go. Give it a try," she told him. She extended the guitar to the man; she could tell he was a bit wary about grabbing it.

Robert eventually took the guitar. It was warm to the touch even in the cold sting of the rainy night, and Robert thought he could see smoke coming off of it. He wasn't sure about it, the rain was still coming down on them, and it could just be the flashes of lightning playing tricks on his eyes.

He put his thumb pick on and started to play the guitar. He tried the song "Crazy Blues." He played it without any problems, almost as if he had been playing it for years. Then he tried "Down Hearted Blues." Again, he played it perfectly, without issues.

"My God!" He said joyfully. He couldn't believe it was actually real, he was overjoyed, and all the fear he had before had left his body.

"Thank you! Thank you, ma'am!" He said to her as he hopped around ecstatically.

"It's my job. I'm glad I could help." The woman said smiling at Robert. She too was happy that the contract had been completed without any issues.

"What is your name? I must know the name of the person who changed my life." He asked her. Any wariness he might have had about her had gone out the window.

"You can call me Abere," she replied. He noticed her grinning again, but he didn't care; he was just happy to finally be able to make his dreams come true.

"Thank you, Abere," he said, grabbing her hand and shaking it vigorously.

"Well, I better get out of here. It's already dark. Do you need a ride? The rain is going to be coming down even harder soon. I won't even charge you for it." Abere said to him as she opened the door to her Rolls-Royce.

"I guess I could use a ride home," Robert said to her. He knew he had no reason to doubt or fear her anymore. She had done in a few seconds what he wasn't able to achieve in many years.

"Come on. Get in." She said happily. He climbed into the vehicle as she turned it on and started the wipers. In a few moments, they were racing down the dirt road as the rain came down harder all around them. Robert took a quick look in the rearview mirror at the muddy crossroads that would change his life forever.

England,1969

"Damn it! It's got to be around here somewhere!" Abere screamed as she tore apart the home of the recently deceased famous singer. She was frantic to find what was promised to her.

"I don't think it's here," the bald man said in a rough English accent.

"You're his damn roadie! You said you had seen it," she yelled at him. She continued to turn the house upside down in her search.

"I had. Maybe he is gonna be buried with it?" The roadie said. He was worried about what she would do to him if they didn't find it.

"I've never heard of a musician being buried with a guitar pick. That's just stupid," she said angrily.

The music room she was tearing apart was very big; so it could be anywhere. Abere had completely turned Brian Jones' house inside out looking for the guitar pick. She knew that he came into possession of it after Robert Johnson passed away.

"I told him to make sure I got everything back! I forgot the fucking guitar pick. Ugh." Abere said as she looked under the dirty couch.

"Dear, you've been looking for this pick for seven hours now. I don't think it's here," the man told her.

"You're right, you're right. It'll show up again, and when it does, I'll retrieve it. I just hope no one else dies before I can get it back." She said, giving up her search. She was a bit annoyed at being duped, but she was trying not to let it show.

Topanga, California, 1970

"Damn it, Alan Wilson! Why do you have to have so much shit?!" Abere yelled, pumping her fist into the air in frustration.

"You're a fucking hippie! I thought hippies weren't into material things. That's like your whole fucking thing! You fucking hypocrite!" She yelled, getting angrier by the second.

"We've looked everywhere. I don't know where else we could look." The black-haired man told her.

"Shut up, Presley, just keep looking. Don't forget; you're still my bitch until I say otherwise!" Abere yelled, pointing at Elvis.

London, September 1970

"Why do y'all keep using it? You know you're gonna die! Musicians can't be that stupid, can they?" Abere yelled as she searched the studio.

"Jimi, you damn moron, why'd you use it?!" The small British man with glasses asked.

"You know, if you don't get rid of that Yoko bitch, this is probably gonna be you, John," Abere warned him. She knew that he wouldn't listen to her, but she felt like she had to try anyway.

"You're exaggerating. Yoko is great," John said to Abere. He had heard all of this from his old bandmates before.

"She's a bitch, and you're a cuck, John. She ruined your career; why can't you see that?" Abere asked him as she continued to search through the studio.

"My career is fine. I'm doing great." John said, smiling at Abere. He didn't understand why everybody said his career was in ruins. He was still popular and didn't see why that would ever change.

"By the way, what's a cuck?" John asked Abere.

"It's a guy who lets other guys fuck his wife because they're too much of a pussy to stop it," Abere said to John as she looked under the studio couch for her prize.

"Oh, I see. I guess I am a cuck then. You learn something new every day." John said with a small chuckle.

"I bet you use your wife's dildos on your own ass, don't you?" Abere asked in disgust. She used to have a lot of respect for John, but it was all gone now, just like the damn pick.

"In fact, I do," John replied. Abere was busy looking for the pick, but even without looking up, she knew John was smiling proudly as he said it.

"I knew it!" Abere responded. "What a pussy," she muttered under her breath, trying to make sure John didn't hear her.

"I wish I were a pussy," John replied without missing a beat.

"Yeah, then you could get penetrated all the time. I bet one of Yoko's bulls wouldn't mind doing that." Abere said angrily. She didn't know if she wanted to find the pick to finally retrieve it, or just so that she could get out of this awkward situation.

"Exactly!" John said joyfully.

Paris, France, 1971

"What the fuck, Jim?! I told you specifically not to use it!" Abere yelled, angry that she had to do this all over again.

"Now, because of you, I've got to have another conversation with John Lennon about being a cuck!" Abere screamed as she once again continued to search for the pick that had eluded her for so long now.

"I like our conversations about me being a cuck! They're fun." John said to Abere while looking under the bed. He had learned from experience that all the guys fucking Yoko would hide under the bed, so he thought maybe the pick would be there too.

"You suck, John! I bet that Julian kid isn't even yours. It's more likely to be Jimi Hendrix's than yours!" Abere yelled back at John.

"Well, Yoko does like the ebony men. I like them too. The way they pound my ass makes me feel so much like a woman." John said joyfully. He could feel a tingle in his sphincter as he remembered his last time.

"What the hell, John?!" Abere shockingly asked John. She had to fight back her urge to vomit at the mental image of John Lennon getting split in half by one of Yoko's many "ebony" lovers.

"It's all about equality. I can't be a proper man unless I first know what it's like to be a woman. I do what I have to for women's rights. We're all the same in the creator's eyes." John said to her. She knew that even that asshole, God, wasn't okay with this shit.

"You know I'm a demon, right? I've told you this many times, John." Abere reminded the stupid cuck.

"You have. Aren't demons just booboo men in the creator's eyes?" John asked her.

"What the fuck is a booboo man? Are you on LSD again? You're gonna drive me to kill you sometime in the future, John." Abere was frustrated by the entire situation, and she had enough of listening to this fucking cuck.

Seattle, Washington, 1994

"So, John Lennon's death was an accident?" The man asked Abere incredulously.

"Yeah, Mark David was only supposed to shoot him in the leg. He had really gotten on my nerves that day." Abere responded to the accusation.

"It's still pretty cool that you knew him," the man said.

"True. I see great things in your future, Mr. Grohl." Abere said while looking around the room for the pick.

"Thanks, Miss Lucifer. Hey, did you know that the Allies and Axis saw UFOs during World War Two?" David Grohl made small talk with the demon as they searched for the legendary pick.

"I may have spoken too soon," Abere said. She wondered if somehow the curse rebounded on her. How else could she explain being stuck with all these dumbass musicians?

"Yeah, they were called foo fighters." David ignored her remarks and continued with his rant.

"Yes, I know all about UFOs and World War Two," Abere responded unenthusiastically.

"Hey, I think I found it!" David Grohl held up the blood and puss-covered guitar pick.

"Eww. I think it's been in Courtney Love's pussy." Abere said, grossed out. "Put it back; I'll get it later. You might want to wash your hands with acid now."

"Okay," David replied.

Abere couldn't believe she finally found the pick and couldn't even bring herself to touch it. She would just have to wait a few more years to finally get it back.

London, 2011

"Okay, there it is. It's in Amy Winehouse's toilet covered in her piss and shit, with a used tampon thrown on top of it for good measure." Abere said to herself, looking down into the putrid shitter.

"I have a feeling the curse is broken now. No curse could have survived that." She wondered if she should have just taken it back when it was covered in Courtney's nasty 'love' juices.

Abere turned and walked out of the bathroom, trying to cleanse her soul after what she had just seen. She was trying to make peace with the fact that she wouldn't have to deal with any more idiot musicians for now.