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Description
It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and Mr. J. A. Hawkish, dressed in one of his finest black suits, held his mid-day break in a coffee bar, sweating profusely. The unusual heat lasted for weeks, and the weathergirl had, with the broadest smile imaginable, already announced that next week would be exactly as nice and sunny.
To Mr. Hawkish it seemed like all of the country suddenly had decided it was holiday time (even though it wasn’t) and had en masse left for the beach or, in the case of those who couldn’t afford more, the city squares, gardens, fountains and parks. Really, there wasn’t a place these days that wasn’t full of teenagers drinking, smoking, hanging around and generally being a nuisance.
In short, Mr. Hawkish definitely did not like this kind of weather. Now, if he had had any friends, which wasn’t the case, they would have told you that there wasn’t much of anything that Mr. Hawkish liked. Instead, he only had acquaintances, clients and many, many employees, most of whom were too scared to mention him at all, until you’d get them drunk and they’d start about that “damn old hawk”. He also had money. More than he could ever spend, really. Not that that mattered, because he didn’t like to spend much money on what he called “trivialities”. Trivialities involved, according to him, all things other than black suits, black shoes and black coffee. He did have a way with words, did Mr. Hawkish.

This story, however, is not really about Mr. Hawkish. It’s about an old tramp who, at exactly one o’clock in the afternoon on a ridiculously hot day, entered a coffee bar in the centre of the nation’s capital and spotted Mr. Hawkish’ thin, pallid face and perfectly combed black hair immediately. Mr. Hawkish was sitting in the furthest corner, carefully reading the financial page of the country’s foremost newspaper. There was an untouched cup of black coffee getting cold in front of him, for as far as anything got cold in this kind of weather, next to a thin black suitcase. The tramp showed an ugly, toothless grin as he made his way towards Mr. Hawkish’ table.
“Jeremy, you old bastard!”, he exclaimed happily. “How’s life, mate?”
Mr. Hawkish did not look up from his newspaper, nor was there any other indication that he had even noticed the bearded tramp now standing in front of him. The visitor seemed not in the slightest bit discouraged.
“Just the same as last time, then. Or a little bit worse, more likely.”, he smiled.
Now did Mr. Hawkish look up, if only for a moment.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, I’m sure you know,” the tramp said sunnily. “isn’t the weather just brilliant today?”
The careful observer might have thought Mr. Hawkish’ face was drained of whatever colour it possessed, although it was very difficult to say whether this was imaginary or not. He neatly folded the newspaper and put it in his suitcase.
“We had an agreement”, he said, “and you are violating the rules.”
The other man shook his head, with a strange expression on his face. Was it sadness? Pity? Amusement? “I’m sorry mate, but you know how it goes. Prices all the way through the roof these days. The demand is just too much, you know, and people are willing to pay the most ridiculous prices for a handful of hours these days. So, you’ll have to cough up again.”
Mr. Hawkish shook his head, now concentrating intently upon his coffee as if it had greatly harmed him. “I have money, plenty of money. You take whatever you want, I don’t care.”
“Now, now, Jeremy. You’ve offered me money every time so far. You know that’s not the kind of thing we’re after.”
For the first time, Mr. Hawkish’ worn face betrayed emotion. “But you have taken everything! I have nothing more to give!”
With another one of his beatific smiles, the tramp shook his finger at Mr. Hawkish. “You’re wrong, Jeremy. We’ve first taken your good looks, then your appreciation of music and colour, your ability to love, and finally all of your joy. There’s still one thing left you can give us and you know exactly what.”
Mr. Hawkish stood up, chair falling over. “Oh no. No way. You won’t get that.”
With the casual tone of someone who knows he is going to win, the tramp said: “It’s only one more thing. After that, we will not demand anything more of you. I swear we will leave you alone until the very day you die.”
“What will happen if I refuse to pay?”
“Then you’ll drop dead here and now. You’ve lived for four hundred and seventy-three years already. That’s hardly a natural age.”, the man said calmly.
Looking nervously around, and then sitting down again, Mr. Hawkish asked: “How long do I have if I say yes?”
“Don’t worry, my dear fellow. I guarantee you you’ll live all the way to the end of the world.”
Comforted, Mr. Hawkish nodded. “Alright then. Where do I sign?”
With a tiny flick of his hand, the tramp made a form appear on the table between them. From the depths of his pockets he got an old-fashioned pen, the kind you still have to dip in ink. Mr. Hawkish quickly read the form. It was short and rather to the point:

I, Jeremiah Alan Hawkish, hereby declare that, after the world ends, my immortal soul is, and will forever after be, the sole property of Mr. L. Beelzebub. Signed, …

Mr. Hawkish took the pen, and the realized something was missing. “Where’s the ink?”, he asked the demon sitting opposite him.
The tramp shrugged. “I’m sure you realize that you can’t trust normal ink with this kind of thing. No, this time you write with your blood. You’ll find the pen is so sharp you won’t feel a bit.”
Mr. Hawkish rolled up his sleeve, and, hesitantly, touched his wrist with the pen. It sucked up his blood immediately, and with a slight grimace Jeremiah Hawkish signed the form. The ink was, surprisingly, black.
“Jolly good”, the demon said enthusiastically. He took the form and pen back and stood up. “Well, mate, see you around somewhere. Don’t forget to have fun for as long as you live!”, and he left the bar, chuckling.
The man who left the bar shortly after, neatly dressed in a black suit and black shoes, did not look the same as when he entered. He was arguably still the same person, but his posture was now that of an old man who had lived a life far, far too long.

Somewhere not too far away, a bearded tramp was whistling along as he strolled to his next address. He checked his list and put a tiny cross behind the name “J. A. Hawkish”. Not a bad haul at all, the demon realized. In the morning, he’d already claimed five souls for his master. If he continued this way all the way to tomorrow, he’d surely be promoted.

What amused him most was that none of the people he’d met today had asked him when exactly the world was going to end. Of course, if they had known, they would never have signed.

Description
It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and Mr. J. A. Hawkish, dressed in one of his finest black suits, held his mid-day break in a coffee bar, sweating profusely. The unusual heat lasted for weeks, and the weathergirl had, with the broadest smile imaginable, already announced that next week would be exactly as nice and sunny.
To Mr. Hawkish it seemed like all of the country suddenly had decided it was holiday time (even though it wasn’t) and had en masse left for the beach or, in the case of those who couldn’t afford more, the city squares, gardens, fountains and parks. Really, there wasn’t a place these days that wasn’t full of teenagers drinking, smoking, hanging around and generally being a nuisance.
In short, Mr. Hawkish definitely did not like this kind of weather. Now, if he had had any friends, which wasn’t the case, they would have told you that there wasn’t much of anything that Mr. Hawkish liked. Instead, he only had acquaintances, clients and many, many employees, most of whom were too scared to mention him at all, until you’d get them drunk and they’d start about that “damn old hawk”. He also had money. More than he could ever spend, really. Not that that mattered, because he didn’t like to spend much money on what he called “trivialities”. Trivialities involved, according to him, all things other than black suits, black shoes and black coffee. He did have a way with words, did Mr. Hawkish.

This story, however, is not really about Mr. Hawkish. It’s about an old tramp who, at exactly one o’clock in the afternoon on a ridiculously hot day, entered a coffee bar in the centre of the nation’s capital and spotted Mr. Hawkish’ thin, pallid face and perfectly combed black hair immediately. Mr. Hawkish was sitting in the furthest corner, carefully reading the financial page of the country’s foremost newspaper. There was an untouched cup of black coffee getting cold in front of him, for as far as anything got cold in this kind of weather, next to a thin black suitcase. The tramp showed an ugly, toothless grin as he made his way towards Mr. Hawkish’ table.
“Jeremy, you old bastard!”, he exclaimed happily. “How’s life, mate?”
Mr. Hawkish did not look up from his newspaper, nor was there any other indication that he had even noticed the bearded tramp now standing in front of him. The visitor seemed not in the slightest bit discouraged.
“Just the same as last time, then. Or a little bit worse, more likely.”, he smiled.
Now did Mr. Hawkish look up, if only for a moment.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, I’m sure you know,” the tramp said sunnily. “isn’t the weather just brilliant today?”
The careful observer might have thought Mr. Hawkish’ face was drained of whatever colour it possessed, although it was very difficult to say whether this was imaginary or not. He neatly folded the newspaper and put it in his suitcase.
“We had an agreement”, he said, “and you are violating the rules.”
The other man shook his head, with a strange expression on his face. Was it sadness? Pity? Amusement? “I’m sorry mate, but you know how it goes. Prices all the way through the roof these days. The demand is just too much, you know, and people are willing to pay the most ridiculous prices for a handful of hours these days. So, you’ll have to cough up again.”
Mr. Hawkish shook his head, now concentrating intently upon his coffee as if it had greatly harmed him. “I have money, plenty of money. You take whatever you want, I don’t care.”
“Now, now, Jeremy. You’ve offered me money every time so far. You know that’s not the kind of thing we’re after.”
For the first time, Mr. Hawkish’ worn face betrayed emotion. “But you have taken everything! I have nothing more to give!”
With another one of his beatific smiles, the tramp shook his finger at Mr. Hawkish. “You’re wrong, Jeremy. We’ve first taken your good looks, then your appreciation of music and colour, your ability to love, and finally all of your joy. There’s still one thing left you can give us and you know exactly what.”
Mr. Hawkish stood up, chair falling over. “Oh no. No way. You won’t get that.”
With the casual tone of someone who knows he is going to win, the tramp said: “It’s only one more thing. After that, we will not demand anything more of you. I swear we will leave you alone until the very day you die.”
“What will happen if I refuse to pay?”
“Then you’ll drop dead here and now. You’ve lived for four hundred and seventy-three years already. That’s hardly a natural age.”, the man said calmly.
Looking nervously around, and then sitting down again, Mr. Hawkish asked: “How long do I have if I say yes?”
“Don’t worry, my dear fellow. I guarantee you you’ll live all the way to the end of the world.”
Comforted, Mr. Hawkish nodded. “Alright then. Where do I sign?”
With a tiny flick of his hand, the tramp made a form appear on the table between them. From the depths of his pockets he got an old-fashioned pen, the kind you still have to dip in ink. Mr. Hawkish quickly read the form. It was short and rather to the point:

I, Jeremiah Alan Hawkish, hereby declare that, after the world ends, my immortal soul is, and will forever after be, the sole property of Mr. L. Beelzebub. Signed, …

Mr. Hawkish took the pen, and the realized something was missing. “Where’s the ink?”, he asked the demon sitting opposite him.
The tramp shrugged. “I’m sure you realize that you can’t trust normal ink with this kind of thing. No, this time you write with your blood. You’ll find the pen is so sharp you won’t feel a bit.”
Mr. Hawkish rolled up his sleeve, and, hesitantly, touched his wrist with the pen. It sucked up his blood immediately, and with a slight grimace Jeremiah Hawkish signed the form. The ink was, surprisingly, black.
“Jolly good”, the demon said enthusiastically. He took the form and pen back and stood up. “Well, mate, see you around somewhere. Don’t forget to have fun for as long as you live!”, and he left the bar, chuckling.
The man who left the bar shortly after, neatly dressed in a black suit and black shoes, did not look the same as when he entered. He was arguably still the same person, but his posture was now that of an old man who had lived a life far, far too long.

Somewhere not too far away, a bearded tramp was whistling along as he strolled to his next address. He checked his list and put a tiny cross behind the name “J. A. Hawkish”. Not a bad haul at all, the demon realized. In the morning, he’d already claimed five souls for his master. If he continued this way all the way to tomorrow, he’d surely be promoted.

What amused him most was that none of the people he’d met today had asked him when exactly the world was going to end. Of course, if they had known, they would never have signed.