"And so will drink the final drink that cuts the brain in sections where answers do not signify and there aren't any questions." Dave Van Ronk—Last Call.

  The screams of the damned and moans of the whores' fake orgasms filled the streets like a twisted symptom of madness. It felt like Noir York City.

  The dead in the street told the story of this town.

  All it said was Get out!

  The smell of debauchery ran thick.

  Through my shades, the world lost its color. Only black and white.

  I felt like grabbing a match and burning it all to the ground. I saw the poor battering each other over the smallest fragment of food. Violence leaked throughout the walls of this town, damn near flooding it. The buildings were falling apart, and when the people would look at me, the only things staring were hollow pits looking back at me. The only way out for these people seems like the business end of a short sword or a few feet off the ground hanging from a rope.

  I found a bar that didn’t reek of shit and went in. Five tables. A counter with bar stools. There were three old guys playing cards at one table and another guy at a different table who could have been passed out or dead. I took a stool and asked the man for a beer and a cheeseburger. I took a long sip from the beer. The beer tasted like poison, burning my heart. I took a bite from the burger. It had a burnt taste to it with a good amount of crunch. A young lady was singing a song about a lost love.

  A man came in. He was a few years younger and a few inches shorter. He wore glasses, a suit vest, and a white dress shirt. There was a pocket watch chain that could be seen coming out of his pocket, and he wore a pair of black loafers. He was smoking—who wasn’t?—and looked dead on his feet, with deep, drooping eye bags. He sat down next to me and ordered a beer. Too clean to be a local. Five clicks to the south. There was a nicer place. One too nice. I’ll be passing by there to the hell I’m going to. The place I’m going is demon country. The man gave me the once-over. I took a drink.

  “You see something you like,” I said.

  The man smirked. “No. Your clothes just seem too nice to be in a place like this, but everything else seems right.”

  “And you seem to be too clean to ever come to the slums.”

  “I was here researching the town to the south and the lord of this land. The only reason I’m here is to get a full view of the land.”

  “What is he like, the lord, I mean?”

  “He was untouchable. So he doesn't act agreeable or competent. He lives like an animal, only going off his base instincts: eating, drinking, sleeping, and screwing.”

  He pulled a self-rolled cigarette out of his breast pocket and patted himself down, trying to find his matchbox.

  ”You got a light?”

  “Yeah.” I pulled out my lighter and lit it. He took a drag.

  “Interesting thing.”

  “I guess.”

  “Why are you in a place like this?”

  “Heading to the demon country. I heard a story about it, and I wanted to check it out myself.”

  “The demon land is filled with nothing but death. Just bodies piled on bodies. And the only smell that comes from the land is death.”

  “Seems like my kind of place,” I said.

  The sound of smooth jazz had filled the room. I took long swigs from the glass. I was never a heavy drinker in my homeland, but it all changed when I got here. I drank, I killed, I died, and I smoked. Everybody gets what they deserve, so they say, and the Devil getting sent to hell only makes sense. I finished my drink and decided to leave the bar.

  “Until we meet again, have a good one.”

  “You too.”

  I left the bar and realized it was snowing. I didn’t know this country could have snow. The snow had piled up to about 5 inches.

  Only black above and white below.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  I took a swig from my flask, and it was bitter. It felt like a knife cutting me from the inside until it made it to my stomach, warming me. I decided to light one of my cigs, leaving me with 15. I smoked and walked the land that had become so black and white. I turned into an alleyway. I found the pale white snow turning to a dark rose red, surrendering the corpse of a young lady, and a girl crying over death. The wailing of the girl shook me like an opera singer's voice to glass. She meant something. Stranger, don’t weep like that for the damned.

  All the demons I made rose up and pulled me back to hell. Back to that dream.

  I shook my head and remembered I was on a bridge.

  A dream…

  No, a memory.

  A memory that repeats every time I dream.

  It was December 14th, 1997, the first December I was alone.

  Every road brought me back to this damn bridge.

  To these little sands of time.

  Shallow breaths and whimpering led me back where it all started. To the girl I’d seen thousands of times before.

  The girl who made an 18-year-old man become this fucking Devil.

  There was a girl around 5 feet 2 inches, skinny. She looked like death had already come, and she was just finishing the journey.

  She hadn’t yet realized I was there, and the girl was on the other side, gripping the railing.

  I’ve never been known for my world-class empathy or sympathy; that’s why I hate suicide. It was one of the only problems I could never solve.

  “They say when you're halfway down, you wish to be halfway up.”

  I never get a response, no matter what I say.

  One foot off now…

  The hourglass was almost full now.

  I tried to run, to do anything, but I was stuck, like a rat.

  Now her right hand is loose.

  The clicks from my pocket watch are the only sound now.

  No jazz.

  No air.

  “No, no, no—don’t do it, God”

  If there was a god, he wasn’t the type to barter.

  Even if I traded my life for hers.

  I was only a few inches from saving her …

  Just a little bit fast.

  Just a little bit long.

  Just a little bit better.

  Goddamn it…

  I collapsed to my knees, but I knew nothing would ever come out.

  I used to scream when I awoke from such a dream, but now?

  My throat is bloody.

  My voice is sore.

  The smell of beer hit my nose, and the smoke from cigarettes brought me to the present. I was covered in my cold sweat.

  The sound of jazz filled my ears.

  “Ah, you’re awake.”

  “Didn’t know I was asleep.” I took a sip of my half-drunk beer.

  “Well, after drinking as much as you did, I wouldn’t know whether I was alive or dead. How was your sleep?”

  “Like shit.”

  “Bad dream?”

  “Bad memory.”

  The man behind the bar rings a bell and calls the last call. The man beside me and I each ordered one last drink, and a song played in my head.

  "And so we've had another night of poetry and poses, and each man knows he'll be alone when the sacred ginmill closes."

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  "And so we'll drink the final glass, each to his joy and sorrow, and hope the numbing drink will last till opening tomorrow."

  We left the bar, and we both lit a cigarette and stood there.

  “And when we stumble back again, like paralytic dancers, each knows the question he must ask, and each man knows the answer.”

  The land was white from snow, and bitter winds kept hitting us. I took one long swig from my flask.

  “And so we'll drink the final drink that cuts the brain in sections, where answers do not signify and there aren't any questions.”

  The bitter drink went down like a boxer in his 15th round. I looked into the endless abyss above and felt the cruel coldness of meaninglessness.

  "I broke my heart the other day. It will mend again tomorrow. If I'd been drunk when I was born, I'd be ignorant of sorrow."

  “I don’t think I ever asked your name in there,”

  “The name Akuma. It's nice to meet you.”

  “The name is V. It’s been fun.”

  I shook his hand, and we said our farewells. The cigarette in my mouth was half smoked, and the streets, for the first time I'd been here, were silent.

  “And so we'll drink the final toast That never can be spoken: Here's to the heart that is wise enough To know when it's better off broken.” Dave Van Ronk—Last Call

  I walk the barren street of Weltschmerz, the same as I did in my dream. I felt eyes stalking my every movement. Uneasiness set in. The streets were uneven, and the roads were mostly unpaved. Silence was shattered with a horrific scream coming from an alleyway. Before I knew what was happening, my legs started running, and my hand was reaching for my gun. I was locked and loaded, ready for a fight. The only thing I found was a corpse. The smell always gets me when bodies show. The corpse looked twenty. On the wall where the corpse was slumped, there was something written in blood.

  “Good only comes with evil. But does this statement ring true when revised? If you dare come find me, you will learn the truth to all.”

  Truth to what, exactly, I ponder…

  I heard footsteps coming down a different alleyway I came from.

  “V?”

  “Akuma?”

  “What are you doing here?” We both said it at the same time.

  “I heard a scream and came to investigate,”

  “So did I,”

  He looked at the corpse and read the message in blood. He looked just as puzzled.

  I checked the corpse and found a letter.

  It was written with a pen this time.

  “So you accept this duel of wits.

  I see

  I see

  I’m ecstatic to find a second and third player…”

  How did they know there were two of us? The letter continues.

  “This woman was a whore…

  But you're a Devil

  Heaven could be on Earth

  But hell is

  Find it, and clue two is yours.”

  I felt like I was still stuck in my dreams. How could this person know there were two of us, and how could he know I was the Devil…

  Was he in that bar and saw the mask in my pocket? Maybe he was a mad god who needed something to do.

  I passed Akuma the letter.

  “The Devil”

  I saw Akuma become a bit panicked after reading that part out loud.

  Strange. I couldn’t tell whether the myth of the Devil scared him or something deeper, right into the heart of darkness.

  The night was young, and the game had just begun.