The Sunday Scaries
Volume I, Number 8
Microfiction by Pat Harrigan
Content Warning: Language and Horror
The Midlife Crisis
It’s just a midlife crisis!
It’s not a midlife crisis, said the Devil.
I never meant to cheat on my wife!
You absolutely meant to cheat on your wife. You did cheat on your wife.
What do you know, anyway? This guy was making Carl mad.
Keep your voice down, said the Devil. This is a public bar.
Are you some kind of blackmailer?
Yes.
Well, you’re out of luck. I don’t have money. The most of, what I got, it’s tied up in retirement.
You won’t need it.
Now just a minute.
You won’t need it, Carl, insisted the Devil. You’ll be dead by sixty.
I’m only fifty-eight!
You’re fifty-nine. You lie about even the most trivial things.
Who are you? I don’t deserve this kind of third degree.
I think they’ll call it first degree, Carl. Once they find her.
Carl went quiet. The Devil poked him in the shoulder with a sharp fingernail. Carl twitched away. I’ll suck you off in the bathroom, suggested Carl.
No thank you, Carl. That wouldn’t be a healthy way to start your last year of life.
I wish you’d stop saying that.
Do you see that man at the end of the bar, drinking alone?
Yes.
He wants to kill his wife too. Why don’t you go over, have a word with him, give him some pointers.
What.
Go on now.
Carl stood up, wondering at himself. He crossed to the man at the bar and sat down next to him. They spoke quietly for a moment. Then the man stood and rushed out the front door. The bartender asked Carl something. Carl shrugged and finished off the last of the man’s beer, then returned to the Devil.
What did he say?
You saw. He got freaked and split.
The Devil was commiseratory. You’ll get better at it. You’re just starting out.
I won’t have much time to meet new friends if I’m going to be dead in a year!
You might not think so, said the Devil. But you won’t lack for company.
Well, aren’t you the sinister motherfucker, said Carl.
Mmm, said the Devil, we should probably talk about that too.
💀
