The Devil Lives on 8th Street: Part One of Three

Mitch was modestly excited for the upcoming Barracuda basketball season. And even though he had never spent a dime on any of their merchandise, he did steal a cap with a fish logo on it—Mitch later lost the cap himself. And even if Mitch didn’t go to many games, he did like watching the team every once in a while at some sports bars as most places give better discounts on buffalo wings when the team wins. So it wasn’t the most unusual thing in the world when Mitch went to Gary’s Bar ‘n Grill to watch the season opener with his good friend, Joe Barcelona.

Joe Barcelona was as smooth as silk and just as cheap. He’d buy drinks and food to liven a place up or to liven a place up even more. He was a philosophizing, romanticizing, friend-prizing Doc Holiday of the 21st Century. So it wasn’t the most unusual thing in the world when Mitch and Joe Barcelona were greeted with flailing open arms and slurred warm charms.

“You still want to be an officer, Joe?” asked one patron.
“You’re going to be a police man?!” followed-up Mitch, who was about to slide his weed into the pocket of a distracted game-watcher. “A copper? The Po-Lease? Johnny Law? The po-po? The 5-0? Bacon? The heat? The black and white? A boy in blue? The fuzz? A G-man? A narc? The man? A...uh…gun…guy”

Joe Barcelona laughed a hearty laugh and felt Mitch deserved a free drink. Joe Barcelona went on to explain that he was the unofficial treasurer of the Barracuda fan club, the Gary’s Bar ‘n Grill chapter. Upon this social discovery, Mitch joined the club right away and was doubly thrilled to get another drink from another club member. Mitch was doubly excited again, when the Barracudas won their first game.

By the next game, Mitch had a Barracuda t-shirt and had even paid for it. By the end of the half, Mitch was right alongside all the others criticizing Coach Schumacher’s decision to bench Keaton. Within two more games, no one could tell Mitch hadn’t been following the team his whole life.

When the team was 6-0, but not yet playing for 7-0, Mitch made a quick run to the Devil’s house to pick up some weed. It wasn’t a far drive and the Devil wasn’t the only place to score, but he usually had the best. Mitch bounded up the dilapidated front porch and knocked on the wooden door. Instantly hearing permission, Mitch walked in and plopped down on the 1980s style couch while the Devil finished playing a song on Guitar Hero. After the final note click, the Devil’s score popped up. “94% on Expert.”

“Is expert hard?” Mitch asked.
“It’s hard for those who aren’t experts. Whatcha up to Mitch?”
“Chillin' out. Maxin', relaxin'. All cool.”
“You following the Barracudas?”
“Hell yeah. Undefeated. And with the exception of two games, we’ve won by at least ten every time. And even with the other two games, it’s only had to come down to a last second shot once. We haven’t played any division games, but if we win the next one, we’ll be up two and half games-”
“Whoa, Mitch. You need to chill out. The games end with the final whistle.”

Mitch didn’t know what the Devil meant by that but he didn’t know what the Devil meant by a lot of things. The Devil went into his room and emerged a second later to toss Mitch a sack of what he wanted. The Devil then explained he didn’t have any change for Mitch, but Mitch could just pay him double next time.

“You don’t need the money?” Mitch asked.
“I always need the security money provides, but I also make a habit out borrowing from pessimists.”
“Why?”
“They never expect to get their money back.”

Mitch left with a forced smile and acknowledging head nod. Two days later, Mitch was roaring for Barracuda victory in vain. Mitch’s team lost 87-65.