He remembers a warm June afternoon back home during the summer after the first year of college. Standing on the bridge near old man Parsons’ farm, looking down into the dark water with the ledge just a few inches from the toes of his boots, just a few inches from the front tires of his truck.
He remembers the frantic beat of his heart, the sweat in his palms and the white noise in his ears; the lingering taste of that last beer turning sour in his mouth as he stared into the depths.
“Cut kinda close there.”
He remembers the voice, remembers turning around and finding, impossibly, another car parked on the bridge right behind his. A long black Mercedes with one tinted window rolled down to reveal a smiling white-haired man.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to end, sonny,” the man said, then gave him a business card with a wolf, a ram and a hart printed on it in ink that seemed to move when he looked away. “You’re meant for greater things.”
He watches Angel's green flunky walk away and laughter bubbles on his lips with a splatter of blood.
Should have remembered that the Devil always lies.