God, I hope he thinks I’m cool. The last thing I want is to give Robert Johnson the impression that the Devil is a crazed stalker. Our “chance encounter” has to feel like a bona fide meet-cute. That’s why I brought my fiddle. “What a coinky-dink, we’re both musicians”—that’s my in. I’m trying to add the man’s soul to my collection, not scare him to death at the crossroads.

I’m so nervous, the sweat on my palms is boiling.

The more I remind myself he’s only human, the less I believe it. This is Robert freakin’ Johnson. One day, he’ll be known as the King of the Delta Blues. That’s why I need his soul now, to prove I liked his early stuff. Also, technically, I’m unemployed, so I’d love to snag it before the value skyrockets. I can’t afford the markup on metaphysical memorabilia.

Everybody needs a hobby. Some people collect records or autographs—my thing is souls. They look great framed on my brimstone walls. I’ve got everyone’s. Bach. Scott Joplin. Even John Phillip Sousa’s. Honestly, I didn’t want his, but I was asking Gilbert and Sullivan for theirs, and he happened to be around. I felt bad for the guy. Imagine tuba being your whole schtick.

You’ll never believe who inspired my collection: some German nerd named Faust. He used to be my favorite scholar, but when I met him, it was clear he was just in it for the fame. He cooked up this crackpot scheme where he’d give me his soul, but I had to offer him wild personal gain. Yeah, okay, dude—I’m just trying to score some merch and now you need me to plan your entire career? I was annoyed at first, but watching his life fall apart gave me an intoxicating jolt of schadenfreude. Gotta admit, some of my darkest ideas have come from the Germans.

Enticing struggling artists with virtuosity is my toxic trait. If you’re offering me a soul, I’ll tell you anything you want to hear. In reality, practicing a few hours every day will make you so much better at your craft than I ever could. And the fame stuff? Not up to me. You either got it or you don’t. I’m the Devil, not a miracle worker.

Not everyone is willing to hand over their spiritual essence. Take Beethoven. He couldn’t bear to part with his soul, so we made a compromise: I’d take his hearing instead. Bey is such a madman. How was he gonna compose without hearing? And what was I gonna do with an extra set of eardrums? Well, ol’ Ludwig showed me—he dropped his masterpiece, the “Ninth Symphony,” and I wrecked my hearing cranking that certified banger.

Here comes Robert now. Wow. I’m, like, freaking out. Funny, he’s a little shorter than I remembered. I tried talking to him after his set at Boogie Billy’s Juke Joint last month, but I chickened out. I wonder if he’ll recognize me. After all, I am aggressively hoofed. And my horns turn blood-red when I’m nervous.

Oh, wait, nope. Not him. False alarm. That was just a hobo with scoliosis.

Ugh, what’s taking him so long? I haven’t felt this frazzled since Van Gogh tried to give me his actual ear. Ew, no. I’m here for souls, not disgusting human flesh.

To pass the time, I’ve been putting pennies on the railroad tracks—usually a surefire way to help me relax—but I’ve still got a vice grip on my pitchfork. I tried distracting myself by working on icebreakers, but I’m losing that Devil-may-care vibe.

“Please, Mephistopheles was my father. Call me your biggest fan.”

“Cool guitar, does she sound as good as your soul looks?”

“We actually have a lot in common. I love to diddle—I mean fiddle.”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Oh, Hell, there he is. I’m certain this time, I can tell because he’s got the walkin’ blues. Mark my words, he’ll write a song about those one day. Okay, I’m just going to lean up against this railroad crossing sign all casual like. With any luck, he’ll notice my fiddle case and maybe we can jam out. Jam out? Jesus Christ, not if I keep talking like that. Quick breath check: Mmm, perfectly sulfurous.

Stay calm and remember your affirmation: “I am worthy and deserving of souls.”