Old Scratch

No doubt about it, business was bad. Nobody was buying her painstakingly crocheted erotic greeting cards, not even when she put them on sale. She couldn't help it if they were pricey, all that detail work took a long time. Not to mention the hours she had spent learning to draw the human body. And to crochet.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Nobody valued craftsmanship anymore. They were too used to going to Walmart or Kmart or wherever and buying the cheap knockoffs made in China. Of course, her greeting cards hadn't been knocked off like that. Not yet anyway. She wondered if she should be insulted.

Her homemade jams weren't selling either. Granted that the ingredient choices were fairly exotic ("Rutabaga & Brussel Sprouts" wasn't generally regarded as an appealing flavor for jam; neither was "Pickles n' Berries"), she had hoped that people would be a little more adventurous in their purchases and give hers a try just for the variety. They were honestly scrumptious when you tasted them. Especially the "Thai Curry Lime". And the strange flavors made for lively conversation starters. But people were scared to even try the samples, let alone actually purchase a jar, so she left the farmer's market every Saturday disappointed.

Rhonda gazed at the crowded aisle and sighed. Old man Burton across the way was doing a brisk business with his heirloom peaches and plums. Of course he was... Everybody likes fresh fruit! Why wasn't she selling something so simple and universally appealing? And Cindy Ganzell's baked goods in the likenesses of famous Hollywood film directors were selling like... well, hotcakes. People seemed to like the idea of biting into a sweet, gingerbread flavored Stanley Kubrick. Why? What did Cindy's idea have that hers' didn't?

Even her clothing line had turned out to be a non-starter. You'd think people would be fascinated by hats made entirely out of dried bugs and pressed lawn clippings...

Her train of thought was interrupted by an eccentric looking man who stopped suddenly, wheeled to face her, and gazed intently into her eyes. He was wearing an odd mix of old-fashioned clothing (some of it, such as a vest and pocket watch, and also a bowler hat, looked as if it had been manufactured in the 1920's or 30's, though it was as crisp and spotless as if it had only recently been purchased) and more modern looking items (such as the "Rick and Morty" t-shirt he was sporting underneath it, or the bright white nylon parachute pants). The ensemble was topped off by a worn leather duster (the kind that might pop up in any given cowboy movie), a 70's mood ring, an antique cane, and old fashioned flat pane aviator goggles. She couldn't see his feet, as he was standing right up against the table, but she wouldn't be surprised if his footwear turned out to be something equally out of place, like baby blue combat boots, or those flat wooden Japanese sandals. He seemed at first glance to be in his forties or fifties, but could have been much older, or maybe even younger, once you gave him a good look. Rhonda would've had a hard time guessing if somebody had asked her to.

"Rhonda Tribbles" he murmured silkily, "Have I got a deal for you!"

"Wha... Who are you? How do you know my name?" Rhonda stammered.

The man grinned at her as a wolf might grin at a particularly plump sheep.

"They call me Old Scratch", he replied. "My given name is of no consequence". He waved it away jovially, as if to demonstrate the extent of its insignificance, and leaned in to whisper: "What if I told you you could easily make all the money you ever wanted with these brilliant ideas of yours? That the success you crave is attainable at a very fair price?"

Rhonda wasn't buying it. There was something off about this guy, and it wasn't just the clothes, or the weird nickname. "Uh-huh," she replied, "And just how high would this 'very fair price' be?"

"Oh it's nothing really, literally almost nothing", said the man with a soft chuckle. "All you need do is sell me your imagination".

"My imagination", said Rhonda, shaking her head. Just what she needed, some crazy guy standing here scaring off the other customers.

"What customers?" the man asked, buffing the nails of one of his hands against the sleeve of his leather duster, and then examining them as if to ascertain that they had achieved the proper luster.

That brought her up short. He had read her thoughts.

"How did you do that?" she asked, in a voice that turned out to be louder than she'd intended.

"How did I know your name?" he returned mildly, gazing at her with lids half lowered, like a lizard relaxing in the sun.

A chill went down her back. Maybe he wasn't crazy... maybe he was worse than crazy. She cleared her throat.

"So," she said (in as businesslike a tone as she could muster, as if reciting a spell meant to invoke normalcy), "you want to buy my imagination, huh? Does it bother you at all that such a thing is impossible?"

"Of course it's possible," he replied, "Don't be ridiculous. "I dislike wasting time, my own or other people's. If I ask to buy your imagination, I mean it literally".

Rhonda considered the implications of this. "Ok, suspending disbelief and taking you at your word, wouldn't that mean I'd no longer be able to come up with ideas like the ones you see displayed here before you?"

"Correct", the stranger replied, "you would not. Of course, you would retain for your own personal and professional use those ideas which have already occurred to you. Your idea notebooks, dream journals, and so on are full of them. Every single one would be a success. I offer my full and unconditional guarantee: if you try an idea, and it doesn't fly, you get your imagination back. Do we have a deal?"

Rhonda's eyes narrowed: "Assuming you aren't pulling my leg, what do you want with my imagination? What are you going to do with it?" (Was she seeing things, or had the man looked uncomfortable, for a fraction of a second, upon hearing this question?)

"That", he replied, "is none of your concern. Suffice it to say that I run a very well-established, not to say respectable, operation that is... well, it's hit a kind of wall. We're in a rut, and we need an influx of new ideas to... to give it an edge again. Breathe new life into it." He laughed nervously.

'Old Scratch.' Rhonda thought. 'Old Scratch'... She was sure she'd heard that name someplace before... She had the feeling that, if she were able to remember where she'd heard it, whatever this was would make sense. She cudgeled her brain...

And there it was. Jordan's beer bottle collection. The one he'd come back for after breaking up with her. When he'd told her what he actually thought of her and her creative inspirations.

Ouch. That memory hurt.

But the bottle...

Yeah, the bottle. Its label had read: "Old Scratch Lager". And there was a picture on it...

She wheeled on her visitor. "You're the Devil!" she growled. She could feel the little hairs on her forearms standing on end. Her body and mind were suddenly wide awake, buzzing. She was ready for a fight.

The man tipped his hat to her, bowing deeply: "At your service. So: do we have a deal?"

horizontal rulers courtesy of @cryptosharon

Old Scratch - a fiction smidgen for Freewrite # 199 - her homemade jams

Old Scratch