“Another coffee, as long as you’re going over.”
Keeseville State didn’t have anything as grandiose as a faculty dining room, so professors with afternoon classes either brown-bagged it in their offices, or ate in the Student Center cafeteria along with the undergraduates. Administrators, of course, usually ate in restaurants downtown.
Martin and Croft, the two youngest members of the History Department, had lunch together once a week. They used the occasion to trade gossip, share ambitions, and bitch about the untenured professor’s lot in life.
When Martin returned, he gave Croft his coffee and said, “So this web site, how is it supposed to work? You just log on, type in the Lord’s Prayer backwards, and then play ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ for your soul?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Apparently the site’s hard to get into.”
“How come? It’s got a really long URL or something?”
Croft shook his head as he stirred a third packet of sugar into his coffee — he always said he needed the energy to get through his 2:00 o’clock class. “No, as I understand it, you can try and try, but you don’t connect— usually. But once in a while, somebody gets lucky, if that’s the right word under the circumstances. Then, I guess it’s like you said: “Let’s Make a Deal.”
Martin put on a resonant game show voice: “Beelzebub, Prince of Darkness— come on down!”
They both laughed. Then Croft asked, “I wonder if it improves your chances of being picked if you dress up like a carrot?” More laughter.
Martin concentrated on his pie for a few minutes, then pushed the empty plate away. “So tell me,” he said to Croft, “did you try getting into this ‘Take my soul— please’ site? Or have you been too busy surfing for Internet porn while pretending to do research?”
“No, I haven’t bothered. I mean, what’s the point? It’s either an urban legend, like you said, or some kind of scam, like the e-mails I get from all those Nigerians who keep offering me ten million bucks in return for my bank account number.”
“Do you even have the URL for this thing?”
“According to the kid who told me the story, it’s supposed to be www.damnation.com. Cute, huh?”
Martin scribbled the information on a napkin and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “Maybe I’ll give it a try, sometime, just for a giggle.”
“If you do manage to get in, check and see if they have a chat room.”
“Why? You want to talk to Old Scratch personally?”
Croft grinned at him. “Just long enough to find out whether my eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Landry, is down there with him. If she’s not, then there really is no justice.”
* * *
Back in his tiny office, Martin decided he’d better start grading the History 102 quizzes that were piled on his desk, since he’d promised to return them tomorrow. As he reached into his shirt pocket for a pen, his fingers touched the napkin from the cafeteria. He pulled it out and looked at what he’d written. After a long moment, he turned to his computer and brought up an Internet connection. Then, after another brief hesitation, he typed in “www.damnation.com.”
It only took a second for the computer to come back with a display that began: “The page you requested is not available at this time.” This was followed by a lot of small print positing several reasons why such a catastrophe might have occurred. It was the same screen Martin had encountered a hundred times before when following what turned out to be a dead link. Frowning at his own foolishness, he tossed the napkin onto the pile of book catalogs and other junk that sat next to his computer. He’d probably get around to throwing all of it out, sometime.
Martin logged off the Net and decided it was time to get his sorry, underpaid ass back to work.
* * *
Friday night, as was his custom on weekends, Martin indulged himself in the swinging lifestyle of the single young academic — that is, he made a big bowl of popcorn and watched old movies on TV.
He got mildly interested in one that came on TNT at 11:30, an old Hammer horror flick from the 1960s. About half an hour in, one of the characters — a wise old doctor who was apparently supposed to be some kind of Van Helsing figure — had a line that went, “Midnight, my friend, is the hour when the powers of evil are at their strongest.”
Croft sat up a little straighter, his eyes narrowing. After a moment, he glanced at his watch: 11:58. He stood up, and walked quickly into the spare bedroom in his apartment that he used as a home office.
Sitting at his rickety desk, he turned on his computer, an old reconditioned thing that he had bought second-hand while still in grad school. Then he plugged his modem into a phone jack and dialed up the Internet.
He stared at the clock in the bottom-right corner of the screen until the numbers changed from 11:59 to 12:00.
He had the URL memorized by now. Leaning over the keyboard, he typed “www.damnation.com” then hit “Enter.”
Martin did not believe in the existence of digital portals to Hell. He wasn’t all that sure he even believed in Hell. But he was cursed with stubbornness, combined with a high degree of curiosity. If this urban legend had a basis in fact, Martin wanted to see it for himself. Could be there was even an article in it, for one of the journals specializing in popular culture or folklore.
Even so, he was not expecting anything to happen. Part of his mind was already preparing to turn off the computer and go back to his movie.
Then the screen changed.
WELCOME TO WWW.DAMNATION.COM, THE SITE THAT GIVES YOU FAIR VALUE FOR YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL.
Martin blinked, and then a slow grin spread its way across his face. So the damn thing existed after all! You just had to log on at the right time — the witching hour of midnight. He couldn’t wait to tell Croft about it on Monday.
IN ENTERING THIS SITE, YOU HEREBY ATTEST THAT YOU (1) HAVE REACHED THE AGE OF REASON (2) ARE OF SOUND MIND AND (3) ARE NOT UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL OR CONSCIOUSNESS-ALTERING SUBSTANCES TO THE DEGREE THAT YOUR ABILITY TO GIVE INFORMED CONSENT IS IMPAIRED (THESE CONDITIONS ARE SUBJECT TO VERIFICATION).
Then further down, you were offered a choice:
I ENTER FREELY, AND OF MY OWN WILL
or
I’M A WIMP — LET ME OUT OF HERE!
Martin clicked the first one, and in a moment was looking at a new screen with CONTRACT TEMPLATE at the top. Martin was invited to type in his full name (“true name,” the computer program called it) and date of birth. He did so, and pressed “Enter” again.
Then a new screen appeared.
IN EXCHANGE FOR DUE CONSIDERATION, THE CONTRACTING AGENCY, GEHENNA INC. (HEREAFTER REFERRED TO AS “THE AGENCY”) AGREES TO PROVIDE YOU WITH THE GOODS/SERVICES/EXPERIENCES YOU ENTER BELOW, SUBJECT TO FINAL APPROVAL BY THE ISSUING AUTHORITY.
“DUE CONSIDERATION,” FOR PURPOSES OF THIS CONTRACT, IS DEFINED AS THE ETERNAL POSSESSION OF YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL, SAID ENTITY TO BE SURRENDERED TO THE AGENCY AT THE END OF YOUR LIFE. THE AGENCY WILL UNDERTAKE NO ACTION EITHER TO SHORTEN OR LENGTHEN THAT LIFESPAN FROM ITS NATURAL PROGRESSION, AND FURTHER MAKES NO WARRANTEES AGAINST THE EFFECTS OF WAR, PESTILENCE, FAMINE, NATURAL DISASTER, OR OTHER ACTS OF G__.
Not “God,” Martin noted, but “G-blank.” He shook his head in admiration. Someone had gone to a lot of thought and trouble to make this look like the real deal. Clearly, there was a geek out there, probably living in his parents’ basement, with far too much time on his hands.
INDICATE BELOW YOUR PROPOSED TERMS FOR THIS AGREEMENT BY COMPLETING THE RELEVANT SECTIONS. EACH SECTION IS SUBJECT TO APPROVAL BY LOWER AUTHORITY, AND MAY RESULT IN A COUNTEROFFER IF ANY REQUESTED TERMS ARE UNAVAILABLE OR DEEMED UNACCEPTABLE.
The first section that followed was headed WEALTH.
INDICATE THE AMOUNT OF MONEY YOU WISH TO RECEIVE, THE CURRENCY DESIRED, THE FORM DESIRED (E.G., CASH, GOLD, GEMSTONES, STOCKS, ETC.). T
HE AMOUNT REQUESTED MAY NOT EXCEED ONE PERCENT (1%) OF THE GROSS NATIONAL PRODUCT OF YOUR COUNTRY OF RESIDENCE.
Martin was starting to enjoy himself. As adolescent wish fulfillment went, this was better than a subscription to Maxim. After a moment’s thought, he typed “One hundred million U.S. dollars. In cash.”
The screen went blank for a few seconds, and then produced the verdict: APPROVED.
The next screen was WORLDLY GOODS.
INDICATE OBJECTS YOU WISH TO POSSESS THAT ARE NOT READILY AVAILABLE EVEN TO A PERSON OF GREAT WEALTH, INCLUDING RARE ART OBJECTS (E.G., MONET’S “WATER LILLIES”) OR UNUSUAL HISTORICAL ARTIFACTS (E.G., A FIRST FOLIO SHAKESPEARE, JOHN DILLINGER’S PENIS, ETC.).
Martin sat scratching his chin for nearly a minute. Then he typed rapidly, “Goya’s ‘The Naked Maja,’ a lock of Cleopatra’s pubic hair, George Custer’s saber from Little Big Horn, and a transcript of the seven minutes deleted from the Nixon Watergate tape.”
The screen quickly came back with:
THE GOYA PAINTING YOU HAVE REQUESTED IS CURRENTLY IN THE POSSESSION OF ANOTHER CLIENT OF THIS AGENCY. HIS CONTRACT IS DUE FOR COLLECTION IN THREE YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS, AND NINETEEN DAYS. DO YOU WISH TO WAIT FOR DELIVERY UNTIL THAT TIME?
Martin clicked on “Yes.”
NOTED. “THE NAKED MAJA” WILL BE PROVIDED TO YOU WHEN AVAILABLE. YOUR OTHER TERMS LISTED IN THIS SECTION HAVE BEEN APPROVED.
Then came SEXUAL PARTNERS.
LIST THOSE PERSONS WITH WHOM YOU WISH TO HAVE SEXUAL RELATIONS DURING THE REMAINDER OF YOUR LIFETIME. THE CONTENTS OF THIS LIST DO NOT EXCLUDE YOU FROM OBTAINING OTHER SEXUAL PARTNERS THROUGH COMMERCIAL TRANSACTION, COERCION, DECEPTION, OR EVEN MUTUAL CONSENT. CONSEQUENTLY, THIS CONTRACTED LIST MAY NOT EXCEED TWENTY (20) NAMES.
Martin typed in the names of six movie and TV actresses he was mildly hot for, a female professor in the Sociology Department he had been lusting after for some time, and three girls from his college days who he’d never gotten to first base with, despite his best efforts at the time.
Then, to see how vigilant the computer program really was, he typed in “Marilyn Monroe.”
Almost immediately, he was told
SUBJECT MARILYN MONROE IS DECEASED, AND DECOMPOSITION IS ADVANCED SUCH THAT THIS AGENCY WILL BE UNABLE TO PROVIDE TEMPORARY RESURRECTION FOR CARNAL PURPOSES. PLEASE CHOOSE ANOTHER SEXUAL PARTNER.
Martin chuckled, and typed in the name of a living actress. He added several more, almost as whims. Then, counting his selections, he saw he had nineteen women listed. After another few moments’ thought, he typed in the name of a former White House intern who had become better known for fellatio than for filing. “She may not be a movie star, but she sure went down in history,” he thought.
A moment later, the computer told him
LIST OF DESIRED SEXUAL PARTNERS APPROVED.
Other sections of the contract offered him opportunities to assure his professional success, bring grief to his enemies, receive public acclaim, and discover the truth about various historical mysteries. For that last one, Martin opted to learn who had plotted the assassination of John F. Kennedy, whether J. Edgar Hoover was really a drag queen, and what Julius Caesar’s last words actually were — Martin had never believed that “Et tu, Brute?” stuff).
Finally, it was done.
PLEASE REVIEW ALL THE TERMS OF THIS CONTRACT AND MAKE ANY CORRECTIONS NECESSARY. THEN SELECT “PRINT.”
Since Martin wasn’t taking any of this seriously, he didn’t bother to go back over what he had written. Instead, he went right to the “Print” icon and clicked it. After a few seconds the contract, all eight pages of it, began to issue from his printer. He was going to love showing this to Croft.
Curiously, there was something on the bottom of the last page that he had not typed: his name, followed by a line for signature and date. Next to it, under an indecipherable signature, was printed another name: “Astaroth, for the Gehenna Corporation, Inc.”
Martin frowned as he looked at that last page. Although his printer at the college was fancy enough to copy non-text items, the six-year-old piece of shit that Martin kept at home lacked the capability to produce anything besides print, in one of two fonts.
Or so Martin had thought.
After staring at the page for some time, Martin glanced up and saw that a new message had appeared on his computer screen.
PLEASE SIGN AND DATE THE CONTRACT THAT YOU HAVE JUST PRINTED.
Martin snorted quietly. How was the computer going to know whether he signed or not?
A moment later, there was something new.
THIS CONTRACT IS NOT VALID WITHOUT YOUR SIGNATURE.
Presumably, the program for this wicked little game was set up on the assumption that the player wouldn’t bother to sign. Making the computer appear sentient was a nice, macabre touch, Martin acknowledged.
He was on the point of logging off and going back to the TV when a new message came on the screen.
HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT SIGNING? PLEASE STAND BY WHILE THE VISUALIZATION PROGRAM IS ACTIVATED.
Visualization program? What the fuck was that?
The screen suddenly came alive with motion, color, and sound. Martin was looking at what appeared to be some kind of movie that was playing on his computer. This fact presented something of a problem for him.
Martin’s elderly computer, with its black and white screen, possessed neither a sound card, speakers, nor the ability to play movies in any format whatsoever.
And there was another problem.
The star of this movie was him.
Jaw slack, Martin watched images of himself doing things he had only dreamed of.
FADE IN ON:
Martin walking into a sports car dealership and paying cash for a new Jaguar — the kind of car he had lusted to own since adolescence.
CUT TO
Martin having passionate sex with one of the actresses from “Friends,” a show he would never admit to any of his intellectual colleagues that he watched regularly in reruns.
CUT TO
Martin in an elegant apartment, unpacking a new 52-inch plasma screen TV.
CUT TO
Martin getting it on with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders — all of them.
CUT TO
Martin moving into his new office — as the Chairman of the History Department at Harvard University.
CUT TO
Martin receiving an enthusiastic blowjob from the former White House intern, who looked to be as orally skilled as all the smutty rumors had said she was.
FADE OUT
The computer screen now read
YOU HAVE JUST BEEN SHOWN A MANIFESTATION OF WHAT THIS AGREEMENT WILL ADD TO YOUR LIFE. PLEASE SIGN THE CONTRACT IN THE PLACE INDICATED, AND ALL OF THIS — AND MORE — CAN BE YOURS.
Martin’s gaze went from the screen to the waiting contract, and back again. His pulse was pounding in his ears. “What I just saw is fucking impossible, except that I just saw it. And if all these goodies are available for real, then the price must be real, too. That means I actually do have a soul — and these guys want it. They want it bad.”
Martin’s second-hand desk chair was on castors, and without consciously realizing what he was doing, he began to push the chair slowly back — away from the computer and the unholy bargain it was tending.
THIS OFFER EXPIRES IN 60 SECONDS,
the screen read now.
IT WILL NOT BE MADE AVAILABLE TO YOU EVER AGAIN. SIGN NOW, OR RESIGN YOURSELF TO A LIFE OF STRUGGLE AND MEDIOCRITY.
That was followed by
IF YOU FAIL TO SIGN, YOU WILL NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING, THUS PROVING THAT YOUR FATHER WAS RIGHT ABOUT YOU FROM THE VERY BEGINNING.
Martin just sat there, his fingers clutching the arms of the chair like claws. He was terrified that if he loosened his grip, even a little, his han
d was going to reach over of its own volition, pick up a pen, and sign away his soul to the ravenous appetites of Hell.
After the passing of the longest minute in Martin’s life, the computer screen suddenly went black. An instant later, the printed contract disappeared in a micro-burst of flame and a tiny puff of smoke. It was as if the thing had been printed on flash paper, the readily combustible material that bookies used to write their bets on in the old days, before they all got computers of their own. But Martin had never owned any flash paper.
The room smelled faintly of sulfur.
After a while, Martin got up and walked on unsteady legs back into the living room. He plopped down on the couch and pretended to watch whatever was on TV, his body curled into a tight ball.
He was still lying there when dawn brought its first rays of blessed light to the windows of his living room.
* * *
“Christ, you look like something that would give ‘death warmed over’ a bad name,” Croft said. “What did you do this weekend, man — go on a bender?”
Martin sipped some coffee, then shook his head. “Didn’t drink at all, actually. I just haven’t been sleeping too well.”
Croft looked at his friend in silence for a couple of seconds. “Anything you want to talk about?” he asked quietly.
“Nah, there’s nothing going on. I’m going to try some warm milk just before bedtime tonight. My Mom always used to say that would work.”
“Didn’t your Mom also used to say that you should be a druggist?”
“Yeah, well, at least druggists don’t have to read History 102 term papers. I was grading one this morning that explained how the Russian Revolution had been brought about by that well-known Bolshevik, John Lenin.”
Croft gave a bark of laughter. “Probably the same kid who told me about that ‘damnation’ web site. Speaking of which, did you ever get in?”
“No, I quit trying about a week ago. Figured there must be more interesting ways to waste my time than looking at the same fucking ‘Site Unavailable’ page over and over.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Wouldn’t it be weird if there really was a site like that, though? Where you could log on and make a deal for your soul?”
The Devil Will Come Page 6
