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Behind me the remains of the bar were a roaring, angry blaze. A sudden gust of wind almost freed my nostrils of the smell of burning wood and plastic. The fresh air allowed me to gather parts of my wits, but the better part of them were as scattered as the embers flying forth from the broken door and windows into the uncaring darkness of the night. I was missing one of my high heels, my dress was torn from bottom to hip and I felt a liquid, blood most likely, trickle down my leg but I knew not whence.

They say not to pass through doors that the devil opens up for you.
For me he opened the door of a 1955 Chevy the color of vanilla ice cream and I got in.
I’ve noticed the car back when we’ve entered the bar. I remembered it because the gangbanger inside was oogling me all the way as we went across the parking lot. I also remember feeling disappointed that the devil did not seem to mind, followed by feeling silly for even contemplating such a thing.

The inside of the car was a bright caramel that went well with the ice cream theme. Tiny red dots covered the inside of the windshield and a small pool of blood had formed in a fresh dent in the dashboard, with an ugly tuft of hair sticking out of it as well as a few black shards swimming lazily on top. The remains of the ganger’s sunglasses I assumed.
- “What did you do to him?”
My voice sounded oddly far away in many ways. I wasn’t really interested in what had happened to that guy. It was just an odd attempt at reestablishing a sense of normalcy, something that’s been sorely lacking the entire night, by making conversation.
The devil started the car and answered my question merely by looking at the glove compartment in front of me with the dirtiest most sinister smirk I ever saw.

I dared not open it as we drove out into the night, an ever cheerful tune on the devil’s lips...

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