The dark side

Sep 8, 2015 | Blog, Sketches

“OH GOD,” cried the man on the park bench, and buried his face in his hands. “God, what am I doing here? What’s the point? What does it all mean?”

The pinstripe-suited woman on the other side of the bench glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Then she wrapped her sandwich, stood up and walked away briskly.

“God, why am I such a loser?” he moaned. “And now I’m even talking to myself.”

“Not entirely,” said a warm and friendly voice. The man looked back at the place where the woman was just sitting. Someone else had plonked himself down. A rather dapper looking man wearing a black leather jacket like his, black jeans like his and black trainers like his. Only the other man’s things looked new. And posh. Like they came from Hugo Boss. Not Lidl, like his.

“Em, do you mind?” said the first man. “I’m having a very private nervous breakdown here.”

“Don’t let me interrupt,” said the dapper, Hugo Boss man. “Only you’re why I’m here.”

“Look mate, I’m not your type. Go hit on someone at the Four Seasons bar.”

“No, I think you’re exactly my type. I’ve been waiting for you for a while.”

‘I deal in the strongest drug of all’

The man looked at Hugo Boss man. Calling the police was not an option. He got up.

“Ah, you don’t want to leave just yet,” said dapper man.

“What do you want?” said Lidl man, suspicious.

“You.” Dapper man smiled. It was an oily smile.

“I told you, I’m not your type.”

“Oh, but you are. You see – sit down,” dapper man said as the other man reconsidered and prepared to make a break for it. “I won’t beat about the bush. I’m Mephistopheles, and I’ve – ”

“You’re messin’ with me?”

“Mephistopheles. Old Nick. I’ve come to help you achieve your wildest dreams.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, really. I can get you anything you want.”

“How about some coke?”

Mephistopheles – formerly dapper man – pulled a small plastic bag out of his smart leather jacket and held it out to his new friend.

“Well, em,” said the first man, pocketing the bag, “actually, I meant Coke. Like in the can? I’m dying of thirst.”

“Don’t go dying on me just yet. We have to seal our bargain first.”

“No bargains.”

Mephistopheles snapped his fingers, then bought a can of Coke from a vendor who instantly walked by them on the path.

“Wouldn’t you like the power to summon everything you want to yourself at any moment? For the rest of your life?”

“Are you a dealer?” asked the first man.

“Of a kind. I deal in the strongest drug of all.”

“Meths? Plutonium?”

“Those are human drugs.”

“Oh, and yours are from Mars, are they?”

“I told you, I’m Mephistopheles. My drug is the human soul. You’re not using yours, and I could certainly make use of it, so how about it? Do we have a deal?”

The first man stared at him, and took a sip of his Coke. “So, you could get me clothes like yours?”

“Better,” grinned Mephistopheles. “Take a look at yourself.”

The first man looked, and widened his eyes. He was now wearing the finest leather, the smartest jeans, the coolest trainers money could buy. Except he hadn’t bought them.

‘That’s like Mary Poppins’s fuckin’ carpet bag’

“Shite!” He took another swig of Coke. “How about a whiskey?”

Mephistopheles pulled a bottle of aged single malt out of his jacket.

“That jacket is like Mary Poppins’s fuckin’ carpet bag.”

“Good old Mary,” said Mephistopheles. “We dated for a while. Then I dumped her for Margaret Thatcher.”

“Sweet,” said the first man.

“So, do we have a deal, Johann?” said Mephistopheles.


“Do we have a deal, Johann?”

“Sorry, my name’s not Owen,” said the first man.

“Yes it is. Johann Faust.”

“No, I’m Nigel. Nigel McPartland. Or Nidge. And Feckface. But at least that’s better than, what was it? Owen Faust? Loser name.”

“But what are you doing here? I’m supposed to encounter Johann Faust on this bench. I’ve been waiting for… well, for ages,” spluttered Mephistopheles, who no longer looked so dapper.

Nidge reached into his new jacket. “Right, it’s still here. This the lad you’re looking for?” He pulled a credit card out of the wallet he retrieved and showed it to Mephistopheles.

“Yes, that’s him. What are you doing with his wallet?”

“I flattened the fucker and stole his car. I was just feeling bad about it when you turned up. I thought you were the fuzz. Nice to see you’re not, though.”

Mephistopheles stroked his chin thoughtfully, and a dapper pointy beard appeared on it beneath his fingers. “Hmmmm.”

“So, deal still on?” asked Nidge. He spat into the palm of his right hand and held it out.

Mephistopheles looked at him. Then he grinned, spat in his hand and grasped Nidge’s. “I think this will turn out just fine,” he said.


 A version of this story originally appeared in the German magazine Spotlight


Christine Madden is an Irish-German writer, editor and writing coach based in Berlin and southwest France. Her journalism has appeared in the Irish Times, the Irish Independent, The Local Germany, the Guardian and the magazine ExBerliner, and she has been broadcast on BBC radio.


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