Fool's Mate

"And the Devil whispered
'Knight to Queen's bishop four.'
That's when I knew we were all pawns."
-A laughing man in a truck-stop, over coffee and a game

Drizzle blew lightly against the door. In The Undergrounds, a smoky little coffee shop I'd been visiting for a few weeks, now, the air was thick with smoke, like every busy night around here. All the regulars were there, and they all pulled the same schtick when they got inside. You could see them flying down the stairwell through the glass door and they all made a beeline for the coffee urn at the end of the counter, hurriedly stripping off their gloves and dropping a dollar in the old can next to the mugs. It made me think about those St. Bernard's that were supposed to roam the mountains of whatever European country they were from, the ones who sniff people out and offer them the brandy from the little cask around their neck. I always felt sorta sorry for the drooly beasts, tho'. All that slobber's gotta freeze up somethin terrible. Imagining droolcicles hanging from the mouth of a gigantic, galumphing dog made me smile, and Satan raised an eyebrow at me, from across our little two-seater table.

"Do you always think about things like that?" He's got a quiet voice, when he wants to. The kind of voice that makes chopping your parents' fingers off one at a time, and then feeding them their own meaty little bits sound reasonable. Heads turned at the sound, people peering across the dingy room to stare at him.

I shrugged. "I make weird associations like that. S'why I fit in here."

"I knew it could not be an undying devotion to the coffee." He smiled. I'm not gay, or anything, but he's really pretty.

"It's hot, though. S'gotta count for something." I grinned at him, watching him light a cigarette with his thumb. I also saw what everyone else saw, like the ghost of a thought. A Lucky Strike Zippo appeared in his hand, and way back inside my head, I heard the lid of the lighter he was letting everyone choose to see click open and the wheel strike and then the satisfyingly no-bullshit sound of it flicking closed.

"I know what hot counts for." He said. Satan always spouts melodramatic shit like that, when you mention anything that's even vaguely associated with him. That's part of the reason I never bring matches in here. One whiff of sulphur and the guy goes berserk. It took me a week to talk the manager into letting him back in, after the last time that happened. Something about the lingering smell of brimstone and the coffee cups dancing around sorta freaked the guy out. It made me laugh, though.

"I bet you know what hot counts for, 'cos I got you in hot water right now Beeblezdub!" I said, and pointed at his king's castle, the bowl of which was perpetually filled with ashes and cigarette butts. "You gonna move that rook, or are you just gonna keep it over there so you don't have to get your lazy ass up to grab an ashtray?" We were playing chess. Everyone in this place plays chess. It's not exactly a prerequisite for acceptance, here, but if this dump had an entrance exam, the ol' 64 square checkerboard would be it. They even gave it a cool twist, here. Every two seater table was hand-painted into a giant chessboard, with giant pieces to match. The pieces were so big, I couldn't wrap my hand all the way around the king. And the slotted tops of all the rooks were ashtrays. Guy that owns this place is a fuckin' genius, even if he couldn't afford more than these cracked-ass formica jobs, the type of shit that looked like it was in its' prime in some burger joint in 1952. But fuck it, anyway. The tables fit in, ugly or not. They're comfortable here, like cranky old men. They rock back and forth on the diagonal, most times, and if you don't pay attention, they'll spill pieces on you. Bad deal, if your cigarette's in the top of a rook.

"Why would I move the piece that is going to mate you away from where I want it?" Old Scratch was regarding me with the expression one feels that he generally reserved for small piles of dogshit that happened to get in the way of his shoe. Or Roman Catholics. "And it's Beelzebub." I grinned at him and shrugged.

"Mark this, Ken. Good chess isn't about the pieces you take, or even about who gets mate. It's about developing a plan, gaining position. Do you know what good position is, Ken?" I hate it when he looks at me all intense, like that. I shook my head. He nodded, knowing I wouldn't get it without one of his patented speeches.

"Good position is about controlling the board with one piece, on one square." Waiting for the point, now. He's a windy son of a bitch. "Can you tell me how many opening choices there are, in the beginning of every game?" It occurred to me to point out to him that his conversation wandered the way my mind free associated. For the life of me, the sudden switch of topic didn't make any sense, but I still thought about it. Eight pawns, two possible moves apiece. Two rooks, two moves each. That made…

"Twenty" I said, confidence in my every expression.

"Wrong." He smirked.

I sighed. Guy never asks a straight question. "How many, then?"

"Twenty-one. You didn't count abdication."

I frowned at that, because, well, "Abdication isn't technically a move, though, because the king doesn't change squares. Doesn't even move, unless you tip him over."

He nodded. "True, but I said opening choices, not opening moves. You can always admit defeat, even before you start."

I wasn't in the mood to argue. "Alright, then. What's this got to do with position?"

"Attend," he said, with a twinkle in his eye, "The best defense you have got is an unopened game. Nothing but knights can pass the front rank, and even then they would be taken by the pawns before they could get into range." He moved his black bishop out and took one of my horses, as if to emphasize that removing such a versatile piece was the most important development in his game. He continued, setting the giant white piece on the table to my right, "Therefore, it would follow logically that the best position is occupied by your two ranks of pieces, in the beginning of the game." I thought about chopping off my parents fingers. He really is that convincing. I sighed.

"You said that position was about controlling the game from one square, with one piece."

"I did and it is. You set the tone for position with the first move." He was trying to throw me off, mixing the truth with liberal amounts of smoke and mirrors, but I didn't let it faze me. As if I wouldn't notice that he'd contradicted himself twice in as many sentences. You get used to it. Sometimes, that scares me. But tell me, what good would it do to call the Devil himself a liar? He just smiles and nods and goes on like nothing is wrong. It's fucking exasperating.
I snagged his bishop with my queen, mulling over what he said. I've noticed that he telegraphs his blows, if you know what I mean. He's got this habit of telling you he's going to fuck you over, by one means or another, telling you how to get out of it, and then conning you into thinking that it's OK to let him boink your sister and impregnate your dad while enrolling you in a military school. And you're happy with it. Drives me bonkers, because the only person I have to be mad at is myself, when all's said and done. Free will can be a motherfucker, sometimes.

He flicked a quarter-length of cigarette ash into his remaining rook, and smirked at me. He was giving me his "Hey, check this out, I'm crazy like a fox" look, and I waited for him to take my queen with a pawn I hadn't paid attention to.

Sometimes I think the only reason he talks to me when we play is for distraction's sake.

We played on in silence, which is the best atmosphere for chess, I think. No sound but felt-padded pieces of wood sliding across or tapping gently against the board and your coffee cup clinking down after a quickly stolen nip. I've said more than once that the coffee in this place tastes like they brew it with the rat shit still mixed in with the grounds, and the manager always gets pissy with me when I ask him to "lower the ratio of turds to beans, for the night, Chuckie! Rat poop doesn't grow on trees, you know. You've got ends to meet!". I once suggested that they named it The UnderGrounds because they buried it in a compost heap fresh every night at close, and dug it out the next morning for that day's brew after letting all the local dogs urinate on the midden. Manager didn't think that particular barb was funny, either. Satan nearly busted a gut. For once having been highest amongst the angels, the old boy's got a pretty lowbrow sense of humor. Then again, so do I. Maybe it's why we get along.

I'm a terrible chess player, by the way. He always lets me win the first game. Sometimes I think I should skip the second game and quit while I'm ahead, because I know he only does it to make me think that this time I've got a chance.

"It's your move, Lucie." He hates that.

Satan gave me a look that would curdle milk. Probably did. I'd noticed there seemed never to be much fresh cream for the coffee when the old goatfucker was around. God bless sugar, I suppose. He moved the rook he'd mentioned earlier and said, "Checkmate, Ken."

I said, "Goddammit, Satie," rhyming it with 'Sadie' and sighed, flicking my middle finger against the cross on top of my king-piece, making it fall over. He laughed as I started to set up, again. It probably doesn't need to be said, but I always played white.

I looked up, when all the pieces were laid out proper, staring at him over the tops of our gargantuan pieces. There was something different, here, as we readied for our third game. I shifted uncomfortably on the brittle vinyl seat, and sipped my coffee, just for something to do.

"Have you ever wondered why I always ask you to play, Ken, when there are so many others here more skilled than you?"

"And what the fuck does mortal skill have to do with the Devil?" Satan frowned. Got him. I grinned a little like maybe it was my fingers being cut off, shrugged, and said, "Yeah, I wonder why the big cheese of the underworld wants with me and my shitty chess game."

"I would bet that part of you already knows." Oh, fuck a duck, I thought. I never like this beat-around-the-bush-oh-boy-we-should-make-the-most-of-the-drama bullshit.

"You want my soul, right? S'what this is about, isn't it?" I hunted up a cigarette about as physically twisted as the spirit of the demented fucker eyeballing me from over the enormous black king.

"Of course. We could play for it, if you were willing. White against black, your positive set against my negative." I watched the chessboard swirl on the table-top, becoming for just a second a yin-yang made out of chess-pieces and crappy chrome-edged formica.

"We could, at that, 'cept I've got as much chance of beating you as a snowball's got in your living room, bucko." He smiled this radiant smile and I would swear that he was all set to purr like the universe's biggest black cat.

"I could place myself at your playing level. I could give you a fighting chance." He waggled his eyebrows temptingly.

Note that he said he could put himself on my level. Not that he would, necessarily. Even if he said he would do it, he never said when he would do it, or whether or not he would do it in a different game, after he beat the pants off of me in this one, or even if he "would do it, I really would, and gee, sorry I didn't, but I'm allergic to playing fair, so, y'know, I WOULD have done that for you, but, so-sorry, I didn't say I was going to" and even if he said he was going to, well, "I was going to, but decided not to at the last minute. My, my, did I forget to tell you? Why, I dare say that's your bad luck, is it not?" Satan gives me a headache.

And then he might not pull any of that happy-crappy horseshit and really play fair. The thought of beating the devil was appealing. And there's really not much to do around here on a Wednesday night, anyway. I figured I was going to Hell, in any case. Why not give it a shot? I shrugged and nodded.

The Devil grins like souls screaming, when he's in his element.

"Is it a deal, then? This game for your soul? I win, it's mine, you win, it's yours, all stalemates go to Him." He flicked his eyes upwards with… It might have been reverence. It might have been sadness. It might have been a lot of playacting. He looked at me and added, "I'll even make and keep a promise not to read your mind during the game, for a change."

"Sure, it's a deal, but any way it turns out, you're buying the next round of coffee." I grinned at him.

"I would rather drink blended pig intestines." To you, that might sound like sarcasm. I heard it as an honest craving.

"It's your move, Ken. Remember, I told you there are Twenty-one to choose from."

I stared at the board, and all of a sudden, the black squares weren't part of the table-top, anymore. They were black holes, sucking at the spirit behind my eyes. And his pieces changed. The pawns were shrunken, screaming things, chained to their pedestals with chips of ice that I swear to God had fire flickering inside them.
The clock ticked and I stared at the board. I was realizing that this really wasn't a joke. It's gonna sound disgusting, but sweat was pouring down my ass-crack the way rainwater runs through a drainpipe.

He whispered, "Twenty-one, Ken. Which one will you choose?"

I thought for a long time. Fifteen minutes, twenty, twenty five. He sat patiently, his queen making nasty little gestures at me and reaching over occasionally to squeeze the crotch of his king. The bishop on her side would use his staff to probe at her rear, every once in a while in a way that was too disturbing to look at for any length of time. And king's bishop whoring himself to that horse, on his hands and knees, didn't do much for my concentration. Or my appetite, for that matter. I fixed my eyes on my own pieces. It was my opening.

My pieces didn't look the same, either. I know they couldn't afford ivory, in this place. I looked and looked and looked. And there was hope. The Devil isn't the truth, and he doesn't tell it to you, either. But he gives you just enough to hang yourself with.

I couldn't abdicate. That cut me down to twenty. And I couldn't bring myself to move a pawn forward. I know a couple of the classic openings; the Napoleon and the Sicilian, but couldn't bring myself to move. When the answer came, me staring at my white king, I almost laughed, but kept my mouth shut. What I did, with no pun intended, was put two and two together.

"Twenty-two opening choices," I said, "You lied." His eyes got this hard look, and he frowned at me. For a second the illusion of life he was lending his pieces flickered, like heat waves, and then gamely reasserted itself.

"What is the twenty-second?"

And I stuck my open hand across the table, waiting for him to shake it.

"Offer a draw." I said, shaking another cigarette out of my mostly crushed pack with my free hand. Maybe I'd finally learned to quit while I was ahead. His hand felt like nothing I'd ever felt before, the touch of his skin walking a fine line between exaltation and revulsion.

"You are learning, Ken. Shall we play another? No bets, just a game?" The look in his eyes said that he figured I was gonna decline and he almost looked sad, like maybe he didn't really like having had to try doing his job. Lucifer's a tough nut to crack. I didn't know if it was an act or not. He knew I would opt to leave, though and I'm willing to bet he didn't want me to go. Loneliness sings quiet songs around him, when he's not hounding you for your everlasting spirit.

"Not tonight, Lucie. Maybe tomorrow."

~End~

Author's Note
I got the idea for this story from always happening to get pinned behind a chess board when people were talking about religion. I got to thinking about how the devil would play and this story just sort of came out, one night. The quote at the beginning comes from playing chess all night in a Flying J truck stop, on Halloween. I was dressed as the Devil and kept whispering moves in a friend of mine's ear. It happened after the story was originally written, but when he said it, I immediately thought of plastering at the beginning of this little tiddly-bit.

~D.A.