“Of course, the boomers who think Eric Clapton was a bluesman, don’t realise the compact at the crossroads was imported from Europe.”
“There was a Norfolk landowner — Berney Brograve — once said nearly to have lost his soul to me. A story from here. Local. That matters.”
“The compact isn’t about rumour or legend. It’s about you knowing yourself. Seeing that ghost in the machine.”
Scene: The Regency Café — Mentor & Compact
Jake’s phone vibrated in his pocket as he loitered under the neon of the Regency’s entrance. The SMS was blank except for the words:
“Tonight. Back booth. 7:30.”
No number. No signature. But he knew who it was.
He pushed through the door. Formica tables gleamed under tired lamps. The air was oily with espresso and old grease. Vinyl seats cracked under weight. In the back booth, Satan sat as always — upright, impeccably dressed, coat sharp, coffee steaming in front of him.
Jake almost hesitated before sliding in.
Satan smiled — a slow, knowing smile.
Satan. “You made good time.”
Jake. “Your message.”
Satan nodded. “Concise. I prefer it that way. Fewer words, more meaning.”
Jake. “What’s tonight’s lesson?”
Satan. “You know the old Robert Johnson myth, yes? Bluesman at the Mississippi crossroads, selling his soul, becoming legend.”
Jake leaned forward.
Satan. “Of course, the boomers who think Eric Clapton was a bluesman don’t realise the compact at the crossroads was imported from Europe. Brought there, adapted. Compact of soul, compact of self-mastery.”
He paused, letting the hiss of the espresso machine fill the gap.
Satan. “There was a Norfolk landowner — Berney Brograve — once said nearly to have lost his soul to me. A story from here. Local. That matters. I prefer land where the roots are thick, where people remember ancient bargains.”
Jake frowned.
Jake. “What happened to him?”
Satan. “Fear and superstition held him off. But he trembled at the weight of what might have been. He saw what he could lose. That’s what prevents many from making the compact. Not courage — clairvoyance.”
Satan sipped his espresso, crema still unbroken.
Satan. “Now. You have nothing to lose, but everything to gain. The compact isn’t about rumour or legend. It’s about you knowing yourself. Seeing that ghost in the machine. Controlling what you see. Acting from that place.”
Jake’s fingers curled around his mug, heat wavering.
Satan. (softly, but with force) “Wealth is not your aim. It is a consequence of mastery. But remember: consequence cuts if you are not careful. The crossroads lesson is this: the bargain is not the point — it is what you become in the bargain.”
In the dim glow of the Regency lights, Jake felt the weight settle on him: a promise, a challenge, a test.
🔗 Devil’s Pact
🔗 Petition to Lord Satan
🔗 Demon Summoning Ritual