Unsoul'd
Authors: Barry Lyga
About this Book
Unsoul'd
a dirty little fable
by Barry Lyga
"That day, I had a bagel for breakfast and sold my soul to the devil. In retrospect, the bagel was probably a mistake."
Randall Banner is thirty-five years old, a middling mid-list author who yearns for more of everything: More attention. More fame. More money. More fans.
Then, one quiet morning, he meets the devil while pounding away at his laptop at his usual coffee shop. Soon, a deal is made, a contract is signed, and Randall is on his way to fame and fortune unlike any he ever imagined.
What follows is a bawdy, hilarious, yet harrowing tale of one man, one devil, and a deal that could change the world.
UNSOUL'D
a dirty little fable
by Barry Lyga
Wherein I Meet the Devil
That day, I had a bagel for breakfast and sold my soul to the devil. In retrospect, the bagel was probably a mistake.
I met both the bagel and the devil at Construct Coffee on Bond Street. "We don't make coffee," their motto proclaimed. "We build it!"
They knew me there. I was one of the small legion of people pounding away at a laptop while drinking overpriced coffee by the quart, usually eating breakfast and lunch (and sometimes an early dinner). I had sampled everything on the menu at least twice. (I recommend the cilantro grilled chicken sandwich, by the way. To. Die. For.) As far as I could tell, though, of the Legion of Keyboard Pounders, I was the only one successful enough to make a full-time living at it. I based this on comments overheard between my fellow Keyboard Pounders, eavesdropping on the occasional cellphone call, and the fact that they spent most of their time dicking around on e-mail while I actually worked.
I know that sounds smug, but it comes with the territory. Brooklyn + coffee shop + authorial bent + Apple laptop + four books published in six years = Smug.
The bagel tasted a little off that morning. Not enough for me to stop eating it, but just enough for me to notice. I thought maybe some coffee had dripped into the cream cheese, accounting for the slight bitter taste. But, no -- nothing so vague or boring. It had instead gone bad, leading later to what could only be described as several epic bathroom encounters that each lasted the length of a sitcom.
"Would you really?" a voice asked.
I looked up from my laptop screen. Sitting across from me (in flagrant violation of unwritten coffee-shop-writing etiquette) was a guy in his mid-to-late twenties. Skull shaved sheen-smooth under a backwards-turned ball cap. A lazy grin over a scruffy chin beard. Weathered Hawaiian shirt over khaki shorts. Your basic look from the Summer Hipster Collection.
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"Why do people say that?" he asked with a complete lack of curiosity. "Why are you sorry? I'm the one who sat down and interrupted you. Know what I mean?"
"Right. Can I help you?"
He shrugged and flicked a hand in the general direction of my laptop, as though he could barely summon the energy to move even that much. "Would you?" he asked. "Would you really?"
I looked down at my screen. There, in the middle of the page, I had typed:
I WOULD SELL MY SOUL TO THE DEVIL FOR A HIT BOOK
Digression time: Yes, I was the most successful of the regular members of the Legion of Keyboard Pounders who frequented Construct Coffee while the rest of the world worked its soul-deadening nine-to-fives, but "most successful" is, by definition, relative. Four books in six years was nothing to dismiss out of hand, but those four books had not exactly skyrocketed to the top of the bestseller lists. Indeed, those books had not exactly skyrocketed to the bottom of the bestseller lists. The books had skyrocketed exactly nowhere, and the bestseller lists didn't invite my books to their parties.
I am most charitably described as having a "cult following," which sounds vaguely sexy and intriguing until you realize that it means no one except for about five thousand hardcore fans knows my name. Just enough people to keep my publisher buying books, but not enough to "break out" and get the movie deals, the fat advance checks, the stuff you see in movies about writers. I'm the middle class, suburban cul-de-sac of authors.
It's not a bad life. Certainly better than most. But, yes, I wanted -- just once -- to experience the rush of capital-S-Success. I wanted to see a book of mine on a shelf with the words "NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR" above my name. It wasn't ego -- not entirely, at least -- but rather that it would be nice to achieve the top honor in my field. Every player on a baseball diamond dreams of winning the World Series. Every newspaper reporter dreams of the Pulitzer.
I dreamed of actually selling enough books that my father could stop calling to tell me he couldn't find my books on the shelves at his local Barnes & Noble.
"I'm trying to work," I said to the guy, gently. I'm not sure why I said it gently. He was interrupting me, again in flagrant flouting of sacred unwritten coffee shop rules, which state that people safely ensconced behind their laptops are Serious Artists, Hard at Work, and Not to be Bothered.
He smirked as though he knew better. And the truth of the matter is that I'd spent the better part of the last hour skimming through what I'd written yesterday, noodling around with the wording in an e-mail to one of my publisher's publicists (wanting to sound insistent without coming across as needy or pushy), and filling in an online crossword puzzle. And at some point in all of that, thinking about my new book, slated for publication in mere months, I'd typed the bit about my soul.
"I'm just curious," he went on, again without the slightest hint of curiosity. "Would you really sell your soul?"
"Sure," I said testily. "Why not?"
"Dude!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide, as if to hug me, but still leaning back in his chair. "It's your lucky day! Let's make it happen."
I glanced around to see if anyone was disturbed or even paying attention. But everyone else was engrossed in their laptops, most of them plugged into their earbuds and ignoring the world around them in favor of the worlds of their individual screens.
"You're going to buy my soul?"
He nodded, his eyes green and clear, like lily pads on water. "If you're selling, I'm buying."
I laughed. "So, what, are you the devil or something?"
"Uh huh. Do we have a deal? Your soul in exchange for a hit book. Not a bad deal, I have to say. I've made worse in my day."
I shook my head and pointedly returned my attention to my laptop, hoping the lunatic would get the point and absquatulate. (That's an Old West word for "run away." Don't you love stuff like that? I do.)
Before I could get my fingers on the keys, though, the following appeared on my screen:
COME ON, MAN. LET'S MAKE A DEAL!
Over the lid of my laptop, the slacker dude still grinned lazily at me.
"How did you do that?" I asked.
He said nothing.
"Are you hacking in or something?"
He held up his empty hands and waggled his fingers. At the same time, this showed up on my screen:
NOTHING IN MY HANDS...
I looked around. "Is there someone else in here with you? Is this some kind of--"
JOKE? NO. I'M ALONE. WELL, SORT OF. AFTER ALL, "WE ARE LEGION" AND ALL THAT. BUT YOU GET MY POINT, RIGHT?
"You really
are
the devil," I whispered.
His head bobbed. "Yep. Let's go ahead and do this, OK?" Before I knew what was happening, he'd pushed my laptop to one side and slid a sheet of paper over to me.
CONTRACT
I, Randall Banner, do hereby sell my soul to the devil in exchange for a hit book.
It had a blank for me to sign my name, as well as a spot where the devil had already scrawled something indecipherable.