prompt: stoop, title: BALM IN GILEAD in misc. flash fiction

“You can’t beat the devil by a nose,” the old man said, on the stoop where he sat every night for years, at least since I’d moved into the neighborhood, “that’s not how it works. If it’s even close, the devil finds a way to cheat and win.” He slowly rolled a reefer, adding flourishes to folds, no mere analgesic, rather an ephemeral art. “A week ago,” I said, “you told me you were an atheist.”

“Atheism,” he replied with mock indignance, “does not preclude my use of metaphor. The Devil as a symbol of that which opposes you.” He futzed with the joint a little more. “You wanna beat the devil, you better beat him by six runs, by two touchdowns, because if there’s any doubt at all, he’ll steal it back. Failure finds a way.” He offered me the completed painkiller. “Everyone has something they need to take the edge off from.” He winked, suddenly seeming a little younger.

I couldn’t turn it down, of course, it wouldn’t be the Brooklyn way, to turn down marijuana there would’ve been akin to sending someone pornographic movies of their mother. I took a long drag then asked, “But what makes you the local expert on theology, anyway?” “Well,” he took a deep breath, “I mean, I should know. I am The Devil after all. Or anyways I was… once upon a time.” He waved a hand and the joint disappeared in a brimstone burst. “Still even have a few of the old tricks. Just kiddie show stuff, really. Anything useful would put me back upon God’s radar.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” He laughed then it returned in a green flash. “You never asked!” The unreality of the situation sunk in. “Wait, how is an atheist on the lamb from God?” “Just because something exists,” he grimaced slightly, “doesn’t mean you have to believe in it.”

I puffed again. What else was there to do but puff again? “In my day, oh yeah, I cheated with the best of ‘em,” he adjusted the brim of his baseball cap, “to fact, I invented that particular science. But even I couldn’t cheat like God can cheat.” He produced a clutch of brightly colored papers from thin air. “Steal all you like from the Monopoly bank, if the opponent can change the game into Chess on a whim, cheating doesn’t mean one hot damn. Eventually you just give up and try to play out your string in peace. Maybe here, here in the last vestiges of old Babylon.”

I couldn’t find steady work in New York City, had maybe three months more rent to hand. When that was gone, I’d be back home and the current girlfriend would be gone as well. “You can’t rig what’s already been rigged,” I said, passing the spliff, “you probably need the edge off as well.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, a glint in his eye, “that’s why I invented this stuff, too. That very same day.”