CONJURING THE DEVIL

Sample from Firing Pin: 7+1 Stories About a Gun That Don’t Fire

Conjuring the Devil is an easy thing. Pay no mind to those fellas with their black robes and candles, picking through books, saying old dead words, fornicating, and drawing scribbles in circles. That’s all hooey. Those silly cult people, they got this false idea about what the Devil really is. Over and over again, I hear it and it just burns my ears every time. They all say the Devil is a tyrant. The Devil is the king of Hell. That’s as far from true as anything ever has been. You don’t worship the Devil. No sir. The Devil, he worships you.

The truth of it is that the Devil is an employee. No. That understates it. The Devil is a servant. And he’s the best damn servant you could ever ask for. He is there at your beck and call anytime you need him. No one’s as diligent and faithful as he is. You put your thumb and middle finger together and he’s there even before you can snap. He’s only got one job. Just one. And he’s the best at it. The absolute best. He’ll be there anytime you need him, day or night, to tell you what you want to hear. He’s so fast and so close that he’s already in your head hearing your thoughts. He’ll oblige you in your own voice, in your own mind. The Devil is the ultimate yes-man. He will kiss every inch of your ass. And he says yes to every fucking awful thing you dream up. You don’t conjure the Devil. He’s right here with you already.

What about the bill? You don’t even pay that bill to the Devil! He won’t take it! He is so generous and so loyal, he will refuse anything you could offer him. Don’t impugn his honor by palming him a tip. It’s not about that for the Devil. The Devil just wants you to have whatever it is you want, so long as what you want is something you shouldn’t get.

Make no mistake, though. You’ll pay that bill. You pay that bill to no one, but it gets paid alright.

This book you’re holding here… if it is a book, I mean. Maybe it’s a computer tablet or maybe it’s an actor reading these lines to you. Maybe this book is so old there’s some other contraption or method of telling stories that no person today would ever even comprehend.

This book is the story of a gun. Actually, it’s a story about people who got hold of this gun. They didn’t have much in common with each other except they all crossed paths with it. People say that gun’s got a curse on it. That’s what they say, but they’re wrong. The gun ain’t cursed. A thing can’t have a curse. People, though? People can be cursed. You know cursed people. I know you know a couple. We all do. People who can’t do nothin but the wrong thing. This gun has a knack—a talent—for finding cursed people. Good folks who don’t listen to the Devil never find no cause to hold on to it. They pass it along and forget about it. But sooner—not later—one of those cursed people always gets their hands on it. 

Where'd the gun come from? If you believe what the serial number says, the Colt made it in 1957 in Connecticut. Hard to believe that a gun like that has a history so humble. Maybe it was made by some avenging angel tasked to punish the wicked, but the angel got lazy and made a magical gun so the sinners could punish themselves. Maybe the gun is inhabited by the spirit of a woman who was murdered with it and she haunts any person who holds it, so long as they got a head full of ill designs. Or maybe it’s just a damn gun, and that’s all it is. That gun's been sold at countless police auctions, and year after year it always finds its way back into circulation.

As for why someone put an image of Elvis Presley on the grip… well… that’s a story in itself.

Who am I? One literary type once called me an "omniscient unreliable narrator." I wonder if she even considered the profound and terrifying cosmic implications of that. I hope she didn’t. It’s best not to ruminate on it too much.

Be careful out there. The Devil is a liar and takes many forms, but his favorite form looks a whole lot like you. Should you ever find this gun in your possession, just take the occasion to make an inventory of yourself, because whatever happens next is entirely your fault.

Oh, and one last thing. The gun don’t fire.