Please.

It rolled off my lips easily

Aware that I would ask

And be polite

If I wanted anything

And I did

Please

He would want me to say it again

And add the word “Sir”

And keep my eyes down

And my hands folded

And my back straight

Please

It would be an anthem

A sign that I would comply

That I would give myself to his wishes

If just in that moment

And just this once

Please

He would want me to please him

Ask him what he wanted

And provide it

Without any hesitation

A thin barrier of sheer black lace between us

Please

And thank you

As I took the money from the table outside the room

After I had waited for permission

Knowing I had solved both our problems

His for fake control, mine for cash

Please

I would disappear

Disposable phones already discarded

Oh please, I knew he didn’t care

Any more than I did

It had been a transaction.

AI, being what it is,

And robots being more human

At a significantly impressive rate,

Questioning if sheep count people

Seems less relevant than questioning

If sheep exist at all.

What if P K Dick was right,

And robots dream of electric sheep,

And humans,

Who count such things

Know there are not enough sheep to count,

Even in imaginary fields.

And what if the sheep,

Having read Animal Farm

And Oryx and Crake,

Know better than to limit their dreams

To the misguided world

The people have created.

It would be a better use

of ovine talent,

and time,

to count the rails in the foldings,

and hope for a talented non-AI shearer,

with bandaids.

The devil just stood there, forlorn and somewhat glassy eyed as he asked. Sublime in his beauty, as always.

“The favor should be pretty easy for you. You have all the skills I gave you, so no problem.”

“Then why don’t you do it yourself?” Mark asked, not even sure what he wanted yet, just knowing he had zero desire to comply. Yes, his life had been exactly what he had wanted it to be since selling his soul. That probably made both the facts of killing, and the ability to still sleep at night even possible. Whole lot easier to sleep at night if you already knew your end fate.

At least that is what Mark believed. He had been killing and sleeping fine for over a decade, and he felt stronger and more capable than ever. Money had come, luxury with it, and his face remained attractive, and his body remained strong. Even worry and stress had not affected him, just as promised. And Jill was safe. Always safe. That was the point after all, wasn’t it?

“I could, maybe, but it would cause some, um, discomfort, to some in my immediate vicinity.” the guy in the black suit said, looking at his fingernails and not at Mark, and not at the crime scene Mark was currently turning back into a clean and happy home.

“Look Bez,” Mark had taken to calling Satan “Bez”, short for Beelzebub in his estimation and sarcasm, “I have some work to finish here already. Work that is kinda what you and I already have an arrangement about, right? Can we talk about this, um, I don’t know, later?” Mark hoped later would turn into never, but not likely.

“Of course. I will come find you around midnight. Is that enough time?”

“Sure, sure, now let me to it, please”

As if there had been a large clock striking the twelfth gong, and not just a single beep on his watch, Bez showed up, Mark just hanging out by the pool in his backyard, watching the lights turn the night an icy blue-green, and sipping whiskey he didn’t really like.

Bez unbuttoned his jacket before lowering himself onto the lounge chair next to Mark. He was graceful as he casually stretched his tall legs out on the pads, and picked up the whiskey Mark had poured for him from the table. The soft tinkle of the stainless steel chilling balls against the crystal made him smile just slightly as he lifted the glass to his beautiful red lips.

“I always appreciate the fineness of chilled beverages. I know that everyone thinks the ice would just melt if I was drinking at home. But truth is, the ice stays fine, but because I have to think about it and make it happen it loses some quality. There is the aspect of time that is totally missed on the immortal.” Bez sipped and closed his eyes.

“So what am I missing then? Seems you really could do anything you need done without much, um, effort?” Mark hesitated at the word work, knowing that was exactly what had got him without a soul to begin with. Jill’s work to save people who were in pain, save people who were dying from addiction, save souls who were trying to sell themselves to the devil, but had nothing to offer, so would end up in hell anyways, one worse than the one they had created for themselves, on earth at least. Bez would have all of them eventually, so there was no need to create deals and make bargains. He was nothing if not a consummate businessman, not likely to get played, and never for much. The fact that he wanted something from Mark was ludacris, and manipulative, and spoke of a type of desperation that was rare in Bez’s world.

“I need for you to kill someone. Naturally. But I need it to look like a murder, with all the evidence, but zero suspects. Dirty. Ugly. Framable. Enough gore to catch the media attention, but not enough of anything for the police to have any leads. It will need to be glorified, and bloody, and well, perfectly without a trace. It will need to be a cold case file for the next 100 plus years. You would not be caught or implicated in any way, and it would essentially be the same as any job, minus the cleaner responsibilities. You get your soul, and everything that you and I have arranged until now stays the same.”

“And Jill? She stays clean, and able to work, and still, you know, you leave her alone?” Mark wanted that very very clear.

“Nothing else about our previous agreement changes, but for your soul and this one death.” Bez folded his arms casually on his lap, with the glass still in his hand, not spilling a drop as it tipped slightly, his slender and smooth finger edging the rim of the drink.

“Who?”

A projection popped up, with no immediate source, directly in front of Mark. Life sized, with color and sound. Like a movie, but inside it. It was a woman. Young. White summer dress, and sandals being carried. The ties of a bathing suit showing out from the top, and sunglasses holding back her dark wavy hair from her face. Her feet sinking just slightly in the wet sand of the beach she was walking on. Only a minimal hint of a baby bump as the dress fluttered around her middle. You could hear the ocean and feel the breeze. Mark closed his eyes. He knew exactly who she was.

She remembered the way he tasted. Salty. Warm. Of coffee and brandy and toothpaste and cigarettes. She remembered his coal-black hair falling in his eyes. Short and slightly curled above the ears. She knew his eyes. The color of new jeans just washed and damp. Damp, the way his hands were as they touched her face and shoulders and neck and breasts and stomach and back, and between her legs. She remembered every moment. Every detail. Every movement. She remembered. She knew him. Even as she identified him as number three in the rape suspect line-up.