The devil sat staring out of the window of his second hand bookstore and prayed that if he did get any customers that morning they wouldn’t be one of those Trump supporting MAGA hat wearing American tourists he’d been seeing jostling for position to get into St Peter’s recently. Sweet Christ, the irony of it he groaned as he lit his first joint of the day. Black Spy Books was less well known for its reputation among high and low brow bibliophiles alike, as it was an excellent place to score top quality weed. The prince of darkness himself was a tidy looking man who many claimed to be the spitting image of T.S. Eliot. Checking his WhatsApp there were no messages. Cy/Cyr/Cyr’s timestamp read currently online, but then Cy/Cyr/Cyr was always online. Given there was only one number on the devil’s phone it could only be Cy/Cyr/Cyr trying to get hold of him should he receive any notification. Satan toked, inhaled and held his breath. How did that song by the Stones go again No Expectations. Well, that was a long time ago.

He went back to his morning’s work pricing up the new acquisitions. Now here was corker! The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness – A Complete Guide for a Gentleman’s Conduct in all His Relations towards Society by Cecil B Hartley. First published in 1860 he recalled most Victorian gentlemen he’d known at the time speaking about it being about as useful as General Gordon’s notes for the siege of Khartoum. Last he remembered he’d loaned it to Gladstone and hadn’t seen it again until now, although considering the big G’s acute predilection for fallen women he could hardly say he was surprised. He glanced again at his phone. No messages.

“Excuse me, could you help me out with something?”

The devil looked up to see Franz Kafka, umbrella in hand and with an all too familiar look of hunger for a book the devil knew he’d never find.

“How are you Franz?” said the devil.

“Oh, you know, as well as can be expected,” replied Kafka, “This heat is terrible for my sinuses. I’m looking for a book.”

“I know” said the devil.

“Only I can’t remember what it was called.”

And this was where it always got tricky. The devil retained a genuine fondness for Kafka, but there were times when the little fella really didn’t do himself any favours. Here he was floundering around in limbo for almost a hundred years. Bookshop after bookshop around Rome had seen him ravenous for a title whose name escaped him and once a week he’d always pay his regular visit to Black Spy Books, umbrella in hand and ask in little more than a whisper if the devil could help him.

“Well can you remember what it was about?” Kafka’s eyes drifted over the devil’s head to where he saw the framed copy of his portrait taken years before in Prague. He stared at it hollowly.

“Is that me?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s you” said the devil glancing again at his phone, “C’mon now Franz try and focus for once. What was the story about?”

Just as Kafka was about to reply, two elderly people in MAGA hats entered the shop and pushing past him approached the devil at his till. One was male, dressed in biking leathers and a t-shirt which read “America needs Jesus” and the other female, wearing a Wonder Woman cosplay outfit complete with a blue rinse hairdo, lasso of truth and an armful of leaflets on which the devil could see printed in Century Schoolbook font ‘The Ten Commandments’.

“Just give me a minute will you Franz” said the devil as Kafka unoffended and impassive drifted over towards the children’s literature section.

“May I help you?” the devil asked the biker taking another deep toke on his joint.

“Jeez, what are you some kind a dope fiend?” demanded Wonder Woman.

“Missy, just let me handle this gal” drawled the biker “Sir my name’s Pastor Henry Spillane” Me and ma lady wife Missy was hoping you might allow us to leave some of our literature over on your counter here. Sir have you ever given any genuine consideration to the rapture?”

The devil shook his head. Pastor Spillane and his wife looked at each other as though to offer their mutual condolences.

“But have you thought about where you will stand on the day of judgement, and the second coming?”

“Oh that, good lord yes I know exactly where I’ll be,” said the devil and reaching for his phone felt something akin to euphoria at the thought of sending a message just to warn Cy/Cyr/Cyr these two beauties were heading to Paradise.  Goddamn this weed is strong he gasped; my fingers feel too numb to spell or is that Bob Dylan I see reading Baudelaire. It felt like the shop was suddenly getting a tad crowded.

“Hey man, there’s no price to your Fleur du Mal,” said Bob Dylan in a thick Liverpudlian accent, “How much you want for it la?” Blinking through his marijuana daze the devil recognized the youth as one of the study abroad students who frequented one of the several American colleges dotted around the historic centre of the city.

“Five euros to you Wellington” said the devil, always a little unnerved by allowing himself to daydream he was actually in the presence of Dylan himself, one of the only mortals with whom he had ever found himself starstruck. It was at that moment Missy Spillane aka Wonder Woman reached over and plucked the spliff out of the devil’s wet violet lips before dropping it to the floor and scrunching it out with her right wonder boot.

“Where we come from only Godless queers and communists smoke Marijuana,” continued Missy, “What the hell kind of a bookstore is this?”

“You’re quite right madam, it is indeed a bookstore that caters to Godless queers and communists. They often prove to be some of my best customers” purred the devil as he considered opening the trapdoor they were both standing over just as he had once done while auditioning for Cubby Broccoli as Blofeld inone of those quaint James Bond movies. Immediately he thought better of it. Hell for all eternity was enough of a shitshow already without this pair of clowns adding to the lack of talent. Franz Kafka had returned to the front of the shop empty handed.

“Pastor Spillane and wife Missy, may I introduce Franz Kafka” said the man with the T.S. Eliot smile.

“Is he a pothead like yourself?” Missy snarled.

Kafka gazed reminiscently at the woman and her husband, and for a moment the devil thought he’d actually remembered the name of the book. Perhaps they’ve triggered him, the devils mind ran on as his non spliff holding hand slowly reached for the propane torch he’d disguised as an innocent looking bottle of spray alcohol.

“C’mon Missy, nothing but a goddamn bleeding heart sanctuary for snowflakes and libtards” said the Pastor who was born to ride. MAGA hat one and MAGA hat two shoved past the creator of Joseph K. as though he were any other Kafka. From Viale Trastevere came a tantrum of car horns. Absolutely nothing to do with me smiled the devil picturing the rapture.

“Here you go boss, five euros” said Wellington handing over his money, “By the way, I don’t suppose you’ve got an eighth of that black liquorice weed handy?”

“What day is it Wellington?’ said the devil.

“Monday, . . . no wait Sunday, no . . . that’s right, Monday.”

The devil shook his head and the notion flashed through his mind, I’m a businessman, I’m trying to run a business here, but then, what if it actually was Dylan? What if I wasn’t the devil and just some working stiff who looked like T.S. Eliot, but was in fact T.S. Eliot? Why doesn’t Cy/Cyr/Cyr message me a clue?

“Come back again tomorrow maybe you’ll get lucky.”

With a cheerful wave the young scouser returned to the flowing masses of the eternal city. Kafka was still looking at the devil tired-eyed as though the name of the book still might come to him after almost a century of sleepless nights.

“I don’t know what to tell you Franz” Satan sighed, “Insomnia appears to be the fate of all lost souls. But then look on the bright side. At least you aren’t me. With the exception of your good self and our Liverpudlian chum out there risking the mean streets of Rome, it seems I am perpetually damned to a world of ever diminishing readers.”

Kafka nodded and with a tip of his umbrella in sombre salute turned to go. Just as he reached the door he turned to look back and in consolation, sang as though remembering,

It’s just another Manic Monday

Wish it was Sunday.

Cos that’s my funday.

My I don’t have to run day, it’s just another . . .

“Tuesday, Franz. It’s Tuesday” said the devil.

– Jonathan Jones