From there on it was downhill all the way, right through “My Sharona”, “You Really Got Me”, and every other frat party drunken revelry standard, a horribly misadvised ska attempt, and ending at an overly clunky “Louie Louie” that included a drunk jock spewing an incredible amount of pizza/beer vomit across the front of the makeshift stage. Lon Root was disgusted to the core, and worse than that, he absolutely loathed his life as never before. It was well after midnight, but there had to be someplace open where he could down a few double Jim Beams to help launder out the stench of frat party suds that fairly oozed from his every pore.

Within a block and a half he spied a low adobe building that looked like it used to be a Mexican restaurant, lit with purple and dark red neon announcing “The Underworld Gate” in gothic lettering. Painted on the wall less visibly it said “full bar and dancing till 2 AM”.

“This should do the trick,” Lon thought to himself as he entered. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the murky interior, but he then saw at a table near the door an elderly couple. The man had long flowing white hair and was dressed in corduroy, the kind with leather patches on the elbows of the jacket. The woman was notably younger and had her hair pulled back in a tight old-world bun and wore a Euro style peasant blouse with a dark blue silk skirt covered with silver moons and planets. “Fuckin’ hippie professors,” thought Lon.

The remaining 30 or so customers were all younger, almost all in black. Some with black eyeliner and some with white pancake makeup; there was much black, green, and blood red lipstick too. Among the astonishing variety of hairstyles there were a couple mohawks, many wild and colorful extensions, and several gleaming shaved domes. There seemed to be more females than males, but it was hard for the bluesman to tell, since a number of the men wore black, skirtlike garments and at least one shaved head belonged to a full-breasted woman.

“Sheeeeeeit fire and save matches,” mumbled Lon under his breath. “It’s a gawd damned freakshow!”. He went in to the far side of the bar where it seemed more sparsely populated and sat at a small, circular table for three. As he pondered going to the bar for his Jim Beam, having noticed there seemed to be no waitress, a strange couple approached his table. The woman was the most beautiful thing Root had ever seen, with hair so black it looked like gun-metal bluing. Natural too, he could tell by the sheen. Her eyes glistened like black sapphires and her alabaster skin was so lovely and wholesome he could hardly take his eyes from her. It was that creamy sort of complexion which shows violet and rose blushes where the blood runs beneath. Her lips were sensuous, dark red, and full. Also sans embellishment. The man could have been her twin brother, which puzzled Lon for a moment. He noticed a nearly feminine grace in the man, despite obvious physical prowess, and an aura of almost masculine power in the woman. He wasn’t into men the way he was into women though, and his gaze returned to her, until the man spoke, both of them sitting down uninvited as he did so.

“We would like to do a reading for you,” the man said, in a voice that rumbled low and leonine. “a tarot reading, palms, astrology, throwing of runes... we do them all.”

“I believe tea leaves would be appropriate for Mr. Root,” said the woman, in a buttery voice that came through as though a curious mixture of honey and blood. “Damn, you know my name!” said Lon. “You must be pretty good at that shit.”

“Well, you are semi-famous,” she replied. As she did so a waiter appeared with a large shot glass, a metal teapot with steam rising from it, and a bowl of loose black tea. He poured a double shot of Beam into the shot glass and put a generous pinch of the leaves into the pot, followed by the double shot. Lon was slack-jawed – he hadn’t even ordered the Beam!

As the tea steeped, Lon said half jokingly “What chew mean semi-famous?! Hell, I toured with the best: the Allman’s, Skynyrd, Jay Geils, Bonnie and Delaney, Leon Russell... you name it”.

“Ah, your Precambrian years” remarked the leonine male, while the female began a chiding mockery of Skynyrd, singing “...Iiiii’m a siiiiimple ton’o man...”. Her male twin stifled a low, smirking laugh.

The joke went right past Root at first, then he almost bellowed “Damn straight I’m a ton o’man!”, then the whole import of what she had sung hit him. “Watch that shit about Skynyrd, that’s one of my favorite songs.” In the background a female voice intoned over bowed strings “...why don’t you do right, like some other men do...”

“What is that shit!” queried Lon Root. “That’s an old blues song, but that shit sucks!”. Both his guests laughed. “Rasputina mix CD,” replied the woman. “We love it”.

“They even do a Skynyrd cover sometimes, live,” added the man. The next song was something about a crazy woman in a crosswalk. “Damn, blues again. But this is some crazy hippie piece of shit” the bluesman moaned, using his favorite term for anything not manly or bluesy enough for his liking. The strange couple watched him as though studying him. Next came a song that started out sounding like a dobro but soon merged into cello – “...a secret message, that I must give to you. It contains suspicious blessings; I’m sure you’ll know what to do...”

“There outta be a law against doin’ that to the blues!” Lon complained “That shit is terrible... nothing could be worse than that piece of shit!”

“There’s always Lonnie Root.” commented the alabaster woman. This brought outright laughter from her companion, who was pouring the tea. Lon fumed as the man handed him the teacup in a delicate saucer. “I’ll bet you know Churlie Daniels too,” he commented.

“Hell yes I do!” the bluesman swaggered, missing the churl innuendo completely. “We’re drinkin’ buddies”. At this the woman again began to sing...“Since the devil went down on Georgia, that bitch Charlie ain’t the same...”

Lon was stunned. “Hey, you knock that God-damned shit off. God dammit!” he raged. Her reply stunned him even more: “Do you really think that tone-deaf buffoon could beat me in any kind of dexterity contest?” she fairly snarled at Root.

“Haw haw haw...” Lon rebuffed. “You tellin’ me you’re the Devil hisself?” He was enjoying the tea, and the Beam lent gusto to his defense of his music.

“Actually, we are both the devil,” the man answered.

“I felt like Gemini tonight...” added his twin, “Lucian and Lucy.” Lon Root finished the rest of his Beam-laden tea with a couple deep gulps and set the cup down. He surveyed the eerie couple and pondered the possibility that they might be crazy or the real deal. “My mama tol’ me I’m the seventh son of a seventh son” he announced. “I got my satchel o’ gris-gris and my mojo woikin’”.

“She didn’t, you aren’t, and you don’t.” responded the male, turning Root’s cup over on the saucer to let the remaining liquid drain. After a moment he turned it right side up to let the leaves dry into patterns within.

“That black witch in New Orleans,” remarked Lucy. “The one who cast voodoo spells to make you more talented – she was bogus. She doesn’t know voodoo from Abbot and Costello.” They both laughed.

“And that Amerind brujo, the Carlos Cosanostra or whatever medicine man,” continued Lucian. “He could have done things, but the Manitou sniffed your anus, found you unworthy, and urinated on your boot.”

“What the hell?” Lon was astonished. “That coyote was the Indian’s dog, dammit. And he said it was a good omen it pissed on me!”

“That was, in fact, the Manitou” chimed Lucy. “And the Indian threw some baloney at you more in the manner of coughing you out the door. He could have done serious magic, but determined it would be wasted on the likes of you.”

“That’s bullshit!” Lon Root, bluesman extraordinaire almost choked out. “And you might know some shit about me, but you ain’t no Satan. Somebody put you up to this shit.” Something the size of a crow flew past his head at that moment, crossed the room and affixed itself to the wall above the window. Several more of the creatures milled about there, landing and taking off again only to resettle on the wall. “Fucking bizarre” Root muttered inwardly. As he stared, he noticed dozens of the things around the room, definitely not birds or bats. The fucking things were insects of some sort; long, stinger lookin’ pointy snouts and silvery, translucent wings and fucking talons on their legs!

“Hell flies” Lucy informed him. “Goes with the territory” finished Lucian with a wry smile.

Something scuttled past the table and stopped a few feet away. Mr. Root could not believe what he was seeing. A black man who looked frighteningly like a long lost blues friend, only smaller. He had all four limbs amputated at the knee or elbow and the extremeties replaced with solid brass caps which had antique bathtub claw looking feet on the bottoms like caster wheels. He was also naked except for a little purple vest with gold webwork and trim, and a little red fez like an organ grinder’s monkey on his head. His teeth were filed to needle-like points and his ears were bobbed.

“What the fuck is that!” Root gagged in a combination of horror, anguish, and rage.

“Oh that... that’s just the bartender’s dog,” replied Lucian.

“He’s really friendly, aren’t you, Pookie” chided Lucy with little kissy noises, leaning toward the unfortunate creature. It leapt at her with a snarl. She glared back and hissed something that sent the beast scampering away with a slippery clatter across the polished wood floor. Lucy threw her head back and laughed the most maniacal and malevolent laugh Lon Root had ever heard. He was getting scared now. He gaped at the retreating man/dog and almost puked when he saw that its asshole was nearly the size of an orange.

“Of all your misguided attempts at manipulating the arts in your favor,” Lucian was saying. “One... only one, had any veracity.”

“Do you remember that lonely night under the stars on Mulholland Drive in L.A. when you promised your soul to me in exchange for immortality in your field?” Lucy continued.

“Yeah, but I never believed that shit!” Root protested. “I was just looking for a sign.”

“But you repeated the performance six years later in Alabama.” Lucian persuaded.

“And once more a few months later in Dallas.” Lucy added.

“Third time’s a charm, Lonnie.” Lucian finished.

“Oh Gawd, no...” moaned Lon Root, remembering everything.

“Actually, no, not Him.” answered Lucian.

“Worse” said Lucy.

“But you are so half-assed, my tepid fellow.” Lucian said. “Since you only half believed in me, and only sorta promised your soul, and only kinda intended to keep the bargain... you only got sorta famous, and kinda immortal.”

“As in already a forgotten legend.” Lucy added.

“And so you will only sorta have to die and only kinda lose your soul. That fits you like a glove, my friend. You are, if anything, a sorta-kinda-mebbe, half-assed guy right to the, ahem, root... heh, heh.” Lucian said.

“Fuck this shit! I’m gettin’ outta here!” Root proclaimed, standing as he did so. “Lon Root don’t give it up for nobody. All my blues didn’t have nothin’ to do with no devil!”

“Au contraire, Monsewer Root,” chipped Lucy. “It took no small effort to raise you from nonentity to well known mediocrity. Lonnie Root, bluesman vin ordinaire.”

“What about your reading!?” protested Lucian.

“Amazing; look at this.” said Lucy, peering into the teacup.

“Nice” pronounced her twin. “I haven’t seen one so perfect in a long time.”

He turned the cup toward Lon revealing a leering, lipless skull formed by the dried leaves. It was so flawless, almost as if it were drawn in the cup. Lucy had stood up, stretched like a graceful cat, and spread a pair of black wings that looked more like sharkskin than anything from a bird or mammal. She sprang at Lon and was on him in an instant, her mouth sucking violently at his chest, draining away something like life essence.

“Oh Jesus Christ” the bluesman wailed, breaking free and stumbling away from his attacker.

“Not Him either,” said Lucian stonily. Lucy was almost guffawing as Lon did a perfect example of his patented guitarslinger shootout walk, only in reverse as he attempted escape.

“This is the OK Corral, Mr. Bluesman” she teased, pulling open her velvet wrap to reveal an astonishing body, manifesting toothed, squidlike suckers. The wood beams around the wall sprouted limbs and vines, entangling Root and holding him fast.

“What the fuck?!” yelled Lon.

“Oh my God,” said Lucy as Lucian snickered. Lucy leapt on him again with brutal force and began writhing all over him like a massive worm, sucking with terrific power. Lonnie was soon reduced to a gibbering twit remnant of hisself. The Satanic couple then dragged him behind the bar and out a rear door where they threw him against a dumpster like a homeless wino. Through glassed over eyes, Lon Root, bluesman, with the emphasis on the man, saw the pair embrace passionately and nearly fainted watching Lucy’s voluptuous mouth kissing something of what she had gleaned from Root to her twin. They became so erotically involved he thought they were about to have sex right in front of him, but they broke it off after a few minutes.

“If you manage to stay alive through the night and have the strength to escape, then I shall probably have no further dealings with you for what remains of your miserable life,” announced Lucian. “and you can keep your damned soul, I wouldn’t have the piece of dung stinking up my collection. But if you are still here tomorrow... well, the bartender could always use another pet.”

Lon’s beer gut heaved and he upchucked dinner and tea and Jim Beam all over his greying beard and workshirt. “His bass player is coming down the street to look for him” said Lucy.

“Yes I know; I believe another reading is in order.” replied her mate.