But I never thought I’d stake my roll in a sucker’s game like this.”
“Well then, walk off,” says the Devil. “Nobody’s tied you down.”
“Walk off where?” says Billy. “It’s the only game in town.
But I just wanna say ’fore I make my play, that if I should chance to lose,
I will this guitar to some would-be star who’ll play some honest blues.
Who ain’t afraid to sing the words like damn or shit or fuck,
And who ain’t afraid to put his ass on the stage where he makes his bucks.
But if he plays this guitar safe, and sings some sugary lies,
I’ll haunt him till we meet in Hell—now gimme them fuckin’ dice.”
And Billy Markham shakes the dice and yells, “C’mon . . . thirteen.”
And the dice they roll—and they come up—blank.
“You lose!” the Devil screams.
“But I really must say ’fore we go our way that I really do like your style.
Of all the fools I’ve played and beat, you’re the first one who lost with a smile.”
“Well, I’ll tell you somethin’,” Billy Markham says.
“Those odds weren’t too damn bad. In fourteen years on Music Row, that’s the best damn chance I’ve had.”
Then the Devil takes Billy under his cloak, and they walk out through Linebaugh’s door,
Leavin’ Billy’s old guitar there on the sawdust floor.
And if you go to Linebaugh’s now, you can see it there today.
Hangin’ . . . from a nail on that wall of peelin’ gray . . .
Billy Markham’s old guitar . . .
That nobody dares to play.
BILLY MARKHAM AND THE FLY
Billy Markham slowly turns on a white hot spit,
And his skin it crackles like a roasting pig, and his flesh is seared and split,
And sulphur fills his nostrils and he’s fed on slime and mud,
By a hairy imp with a pointed stick who bastes him in spider’s blood,
And his eyeballs boil up inside his skull and his throat’s too charred to scream.
So he sleeps the sleep of the burning dead and he dreams unspeakable dreams.
Then in walks the Devil, puttin’ little screaming skulls as the bells of Hell start clangin’,
And his last shot rolls right up to Billy Markham’s toes
And he says, “Hey, Bill, how’re they hanging’?
I’m sorry we couldn’t give you a tomb with a view, but right now this is the best we got.
But as soon as we’re done with Attila the Hun, we’ll move you right into his spot.
Have you met your neighbors? Have you heard them scream? Do they keep you awake in the fire?
Hey, a little more brimstone on number nine—and hoist up them thumbs a bit higher.
Ah, you can’t get good help these days, Bill, and there ain’t much profit in Hell.
No, turn that adulteress upside down—do I have to do everything myself?
I tell you, Bill, it’s a full-time job, tending these red hot coals,
And all this shovelin’ and stokin’, fryin’ and smokin’, proddin’ and pokin’, stretchin’ and chokin’, why I hardly got time for collecting new souls.
Which brings me to the subject of my little visit, now you’re one of them natural-born gamblin’ men,
And I’ll bet you’d give most anything to get those dice in your hands again.
So instead of swimming in this muck and slime and burning crisp as [Tastes him.] toast . . .
I’ll trade you one roll . . . of the dice for the souls . . . of the ones who love you most.”
“Trade the souls of the ones who love me most? Not a chance in Hell I will.”
“Spoken like a hero,” the Devil says. “Hey, a little more fire for Bill.”
“You can roast me, bake me, or boil me,” says Billy.
“Go and have your fiendish fun.
A coward dies a thousand times—a brave man dies but once.”
“Oh, beautiful, sensitive, and poetic too,” says the Devil.
“But life ain’t like no rhyme.
And I know ways to make a brave man die a million times.”
“Hey, take your shot . . . Throw what you got . . . But I won’t trade love away.”
“That’s what they all say,” laughs the Devil, “. . . but when I turn up the fire, they play.”
And the flame burns white and Bill’s flesh burns black and he smells his roasting stink.
And the hell rats nibble upon his nose . . . and Billy begins to think.
He thinks about his sweetheart who loved him through his crazy days.
He thinks of his gray-haired momma, hell, she’s gettin’ old anyway.
He thinks of his baby daughter—he ain’t seen her since last fall.
He thinks about walkin’ the earth again and he thinks of the horrible pain he’s in, and he thinks of the game that he just might win and he yells, “Hey—take ’em all.”
And—zap—He’s back again at Linebaugh’s, kneeling on that same old floor.
And across from him the Devil squats, ready to play once more.
“I guess my point is still thirteen?” Billy Markham asks.
“The point’s the same,” the Devil sneers. “But the stakes are your loved ones’ asses.”
“Well, one never knows,” Billy Markham says, “when lady luck’s gonna smile on a man.
And if a charcoal corpse from Hell can’t roll thirteen, then who the hell can?”
And Billy Markham shakes the dice and whispers, “Please, thirteen.”
And the dice roll out a . . . six . . . and a . . . six . . . and then, as if in a dream . . .
A buzzing fly from a plate nearby, like a messenger sent from heaven,
Shits—right in the middle of one of them sixes—and turns it into a seven.
“Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen! I have beat the Devil’s play.”
“Oh, have you now,” the Devil says, and—whoosh—he blows that speck away.
“Which only proves,” the Devil says, “that Hell’s too big to buck,
And when you’re gambling for your ass, don’t count on fly-shit luck.”
“Well, luck and love . . .” sighs Billy Markham, “they never do last for long,
But y’know that fly shittin’ on that die would have made one hell of a song.”
“You’re a songwriting fool,” the Devil grins. “There ain’t no doubt about it.
As soon as you go and lose one damn game, you wanna write a song about it.
But there’s a whole lot more to life and death than the rhymes and tunes you give ’em.
And any fool can sing the blues, [Sings.] any fool can sing the blues, any fool can sing the blues, let’s see if you can live ’em.”
Then—zap!—Billy wakes up back in Hell, bein’ stuffed with white hot coals.
While imps dance on his head and shit in his hair and wipe their asses with his soul . . .
And he hears the screams of his momma as she turns in the purple flame.
And he hears the cries of his baby girl as she pays the price of his game.
He hears the voice of his own true love laugh like a child at play,
As she satisfies the Devil in her own sweet lovin’ way.
And buzzin’ ’cross Bill’s bumin’ bones and landing on his starin’ eye,
And nibblin’ on his roastin’ flesh is the grinnin’ Linebaugh’s fly.
BILLY MARKHAM’S LAST ROLL
“Good morning, Billy Markham, it’s time to rise and shine.”
The Devil’s word come grindin’ into Billy’s bumin’ mind.
And he opens up one bloodshot eye to
that world of living death.
And he feels the Devil’s bony claw and he smells his rotten breath.
“Wake up, Sunshine!” the Devil laughs. “I’m giving you another turn.”
“I’m turning now,” Billy Markham growls. “Go away and let me burn.”
“Well, you sure are a grouch when you wake up, but you wouldn’t let a chance go by.”
“Another chance to roll thirteen? Hey, stick it where your fire don’t shine.
I’ve played your game, now I feel the shame, as I hear my loved ones’ cries,
And I’ll piss on your shoe, if ever you come near me again with them fly-shit dice.”
“Dice? Dice? Who said dice? Anybody hear me say dice?
Hey, imp, pour my buddy here a cool glass of water and throw in a nice big chunk of ice.”
“And since when,” says Billy, “do you go around handing out gifts,
Except pokes from your burning pitchfork or buckets full of boiling shit?”
“Well, it’s Christmas,” says the Devil, “and all of us down here below,
We sort of celebrate in our own special way, and this year you’re the star of the show.
Why, just last night I was up on Earth and I seen that lovers’ moon,
And I said to myself, ‘Hey, I bet ol’ Billy could use a little poon.’”
“Poon?” says Billy Markham. “Last thing I need is poon.
Talk about gettin’ my ashes hauled, hell, I’ll be all ashes soon.”
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” cries the Devil. “He’s been too long on the fire.
I told you imps to fry him slow, now you gone and burned out his desire.
You gotta leave ’em some hope, leave ’em some dreams, so they know what Hell is for,
’Cause when a man forgets how sweet love is, well, Hell ain’t Hell no more.
So just to refresh your memory, Billy, we’re gonna send you back to Earth.
And I’ll throw in a little Christmas blessing to remind you what life is worth.
For exactly thirteen hours, you can screw who you want to screw,
And there ain’t no creature on God’s green earth who is gonna say no to you.
While me and all these burning souls and all my imps and fiends,
We’re gonna sit down here and watch you on that big twenty-four-inch color screen.
And we’ll see each hump you’re humpin’, and we’ll hear each grunt you groan,
And we’ll laugh like hell at the look upon your face when it’s time to come back home.”
“Well, a chance is a chance is a chance,” says Billy, steppin’ down off the sizzlin’ coals.
“But what if one won’t gimme none, what if one says ‘no’?”
“No? What if one says ‘no’? Ain’t nobody gonna say ‘no.’
Nobody quits or calls in sick when the Devil calls the show.
Not man nor woman nor beast!” shouts the Devil. “And no ‘laters’ or ‘maybes’ or ‘buts,’
And before one soul says ‘no’ to you I will see these Hell gates rust.
But . . . if anyone refuses you, I say, anyone you name,
Then you’ll be free to stay on Earth, now get out and play the game!”
Then a flash of light . . . and a thunderclap . . . and Billy’s back on Earth once more,
And the asphalt sings beneath his feet as he swings toward Music Row.
First he stops in at the Exit Inn to seduce the blond on the door,
Then the RCA receptionist he takes on the office floor.
He nails the waitress down at Mack’s, the one with the pear-shaped breasts, and four of the girls from BMI right on Frances Preston’s desk.
He screws his way from MCA to Vanderbilt’s ivy walls,
And he pokes everything that giggles or sings or whimpers or wiggles or crawls.
First Debbie, then Polly, then Dotty, then Dolly, then Jeannie, and Jessie and Jan,
Then Marshall and Sal and that redheaded gal who takes the tickets down at Opryland.
And Brenda and Sammy and Sharon and Sandy, Loretta and Buffy and May,
And Terri and Lynne at the Holiday Inn and Joey and Zoe and Faye.
Then Sherry and Rita and Diane and Anita, Olivia, Emmy and Jean,
And Donna and Kay down at Elliston Place—right there in the pinto beans.
Then Hazel and Carla and an ex-wife of Harlan’s, then Melva and Marge and Marie,
And three fat gospel singers who all come together in perfect three-part harmony.
He is humpin’ the Queen of Country Music, when he hears the Devil moan.
“Make it sweet, Billy Markham, but make it short, you’ve got just thirty seconds to go.
And all of us here, we’re applauding your show, and we’d say you done right well,
And we just can’t wait to hear you moan, when you’re fuckless forever in Hell.”
“Hold on!” says Billy, with one last thrust. “If I got thirty seconds mo’,
Then I got the right to one last hump before it’s time to go.”
“Well, raise your voice and make your choice but you’d better be quick and strong,
And make it a cum to remember, Bill—it’s gotta last you eternity long.
So who will it, who will it, who will it be? Who’s gonna be the one?
Starlet or harlot or housewife or hippie or grandma or schoolgirl or black-robed nun?
Or fresh-scented virgin or dope-smokin’ groupie or sweet ever-smilin’ Stew?”
And Billy Markham, he stops . . . and he looks at them all and he says to the Devil . . . “I think I’ll . . . take you!”
“Foul!” cries the Devil. “Foul, no fair! The rules don’t hold for me.”
“You said man or woman or beast,” says Billy, “and I guess you’re all of the three.”
And a roar goes up from the demons of Hell and it shakes the earth across,
And the imps all squeal and the fiends they scream,
“He’s gonna fuck the Boss!”
“Why you filthy scum,” the Devil snarls to Billy, blushing a fiery red.
“I give you a chance to live again and you bust me in front of my friends.”
“Hey, play or pay,” Billy Markham says, “so set me free at last,
Or raise your tail and hear all Hell wail when I bugger your devilish ass.”
“OK, OK, OK, you win. Go on back to your precious Earth.
And plod along and plug your songs, but carry this lifelong curse.
You shall lust for a million women and not one’s gonna come your way,
And you shall write ten million songs and not one’s ever gonna get played.
And your momma and daughter and your own true love they gonna stay down here with me,
And you’ll carry the guilt like a movable Hell wherever the hell you be.”
So back on the streets goes Billy again, eatin’ them Linebaugh’s beans,
Singin’ his songs while nobody listens and tellin’ his story that no one believes
And gets no women and he gets no hits but he says just what he thinks,
Hey, buy him a round . . . it won’t cost much . . . ice water’s all he drinks.
But try not to stare at the burns on his wrists as he wipes the sweat from his head,
As he tells how the Devil burned him black
But he turned the Devil red.
BILLY, SCUZZY, AND GOD
We’re at the Purple Peacock Rhinestone Bar, all the low are getting high,
And Billy tells his tale again to anyone who’ll buy.
With waving arms and rolling eyes, he screams to the drunken throng,
“I’ve whipped the Devil and lived through Hell, now who’s gonna sing my songs?”
Then
from the shadows comes an oily voice. “Hey, kid, I like your moves.”
And out of the back limps a little wizened cat,
With black-and-white perforated wing-tipped shoes.
“Sleezo’s the name,” the little man says, “but I’m Scuzzy to my friends.
And I think I got a little business proposition you just might be interested in.”
“Scuzzy Sleezo hisself,” Billy Markham says. “Man, you’re a legend in these woods,
You never cut the Devil down, but you done damn near as good.
Why, since I been old enough to jack, I been hearin’ your greasy name.
It’s an honor to meet an all-star scuzz. Where you setting up your game?”
“No more games for me,” says Scuzzy. “I’m too old and too slow for the pace.
So I’m the world’s greatest hustler’s agent now and, Billy, I been studying your case.
I seen your first match with the Devil, and son, it was a Volkswagen–Mack truck collision.
And your second shot, well, you showed me a lot, but you got burned in a hometown decision.
And I says to myself, ‘He can go all the way, with the proper guidance of course.
The kid’s got the heart, and with a few more smarts, he’d be an irresistible force.’
Yeah, I can show you the tricks and show you the shticks just like a hustler’s training camp.
And I’ll bring you on slow—then a prelim or so—then—powee!—a shot at the Champ.”
“The Champ?” says Billy Markham. “Now who in God’s name is that?”
“Why God himself,” says Scuzzy, “you know anybody more champ than that?”
“Hey, a match with God?” Billy Markham grins.
“And what would be the purse?”
“Why, a seat in Heaven forever, of course, ’stead of livin’ this no pussy, no hits, no nuthin’ Nashville curse.
But I’ll drive you like a wagon, son, and I’ll sweat you like a Turk.
All for just 50 percent of the take—now sign here and let’s get to work.”
Now we find ourselves at the funky pool hall known as the Crystal Cue,
And the time is three months later, and the smoke is thick and blue.
And the pool table cloth is stained with tears and blood and ketchup spots.
As a fat old man with a dirty white beard stands practicin’ three cushion shots.
Best Monologues from the Best American Short Plays, Volume Three Page 9
