a hobo's song

Ages ago, in blogtime, I participated in a weekly writing meme called 5ive Minute Stories. They would put up a word and you would have to write a piece of fiction in five minutes without any preparation. This particular week, the word was resolution, and I was always rather proud of this piece. I may return to it at some point and move it forward.

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There was never any resolution, he realized, despite the fact that every time he took a job for Kennelly, he ended up dead.

Now that may sound like resolution to you and me, but to Devers, it was just a fact of life: work for Kennelly, you die. Simple, elegant, complete. And damn, that money he was paid for the gigs was good.

Coming back from the dead, now, that was the real bitch. There were only so many times that you can call on markers owed you by various demons and devils before they grew tired and started trying to just take your damned soul.

Now there was the irony of the situation: how do you give away something you never had? Devers was always amused when the bargaining started; the infernal kind never took kindly to the fact that he could out-maneuver them when it came to bargaining for his soul. He’d done it so many times, yet they never caught on. That was their weakness, which he’d picked up on early in his life: they were too proud to talk to one another over a cup of java. If they had even tried to network a little, they would have realized that they all kept butting their heads against the same wall when it came to Devers.

So it came as a bit of a surprise when one morning there was a knock on his door by an imp who held within its hands that very thing he’d never had to begin with — his soul.

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