Infernal Opportunities for Acoustic Guitars

When Eric sold his soul for a chance at stardom, open mic night at a half-empty coffee shop was not what he had had in mind.

"This is not a big break," he said, gesturing to the small room. The devil stood behind the wooden counter, stacking handmade mugs.

"For some people, it is." The devil was tall and pale and had a scruffy goatee that hung down to the top of his khaki overalls. Wispy red hairs trailed dangerously close to the cold brew spigot as he leaned over to wipe the counter.

"Are there talent scouts in the audience?" The constant threat and eternal hope of talent scouts hung over Eric's every performance. The Schrödinger's Cat of fame.

"People owe me favors."

Eric glanced around. Was it the short man in the hoodie? The blonde woman with the severe bangs?

Guitar in hand, he climbed the small platform. People glanced at him with varying degrees of boredom and annoyance. A couple, seated in the front row, moved to the back of the room. He tried not to take it personally.

It wasn't the best performance he had ever given, but it was a solid effort. If he closed his eyes when the man in the hoodie put on noise-canceling headphones, then he hoped it looked like passion rather than self-preservation.

After his set, Eric found a seat near the back to allow people to speak to him. He didn't want to lose a chance at fame because no one could find him. Two college-aged women walked past, and he waited for a "good job," but they didn’t meet his eyes. Screw them. They were too young to be the agent anyway.

"Hana Sampson, Sampson Talent Agency." The blonde woman from the audience shoved her well-manicured hand into his face. She'd come out of nowhere, and he wondered if she was a demon or a ghost.

"Eric Howard, nice to meet you." He shook her hand, his heart slowing in anticipation. "If you're here, I assume you have a deal. Can I take a look?" She pulled a chair up to the table.

Eric dug into his guitar case and pulled out the contract. He'd expected it to be in blood on parchment, but it was on regular office paper. He'd even had to buy the manila envelope himself.

The woman read through it. Pursing her overfilled lips, she sighed. "This contract is for a chance of stardom, not a guarantee. This is why you need agents and lawyers to look at these things before you sign them." She handed him the paper and stood.

"That’s not fair,"" he protested. "Anyone has a chance at stardom."

"Exactly." The agent looked at the counter. "Whatever you do, don't try the brownies."

Eric glanced at the devil, who shrugged his flannel-clad shoulders and continued cleaning the bar.