Fine Print

Wesley’s hand reaches up. He grabs his own wrist, but can’t stop himself.

“I didn’t think you’d let me out of it so easily,” Wesley says as Devil tosses the bits of paper in the air. They burst into flames and drift to the dining room table in ashes.

“I get a bad rap,” Devil says. “I’ll see myself out.”

Wesley screams.

Devil starts to stand then stops. “Hold on. Do I remember…?” He snaps his fingers, and the contract, intact again, appears in his hand. Devil holds it close. “Oh, yes. Read what it says at the bottom.” Devil hands the contract to Wesley.

Wesley squints. “I don’t see anything but a smudge.”

“Here’s how I read it.” Devil plucks out his right eyeball and shoves the gooey glob toward Wesley, who recoils.

Devil laughs. “I didn’t have you pegged as the squeamish type.” He lays the eyeball on the bottom of the contract. “I’ll read the fine print for you.…Any effort to escape the contract shall trigger immediate execution of said contract…One of my many lawyers suggested that clause.” Devil pushes the eyeball back into its socket with a squish and a spark.

Wesley puts his hand to his face.

Devil nods at the tabletop, and a thick book appears. He rifles through it. “Here we are. The Wesley Davidson Mathis III page…Hmmm, your entry links to so many others. Mary Kelby, slumped in her car in the garage. Stanley Kieffer, hanging from a rope. Roger Crawford, gun barrel in his mouth. Ugh. That one would turn my stomach if I had one.”

Wesley’s vision comes back into focus. He trembles when he looks at the conveyor belt, piled high with contracts and stretching as far as he can see.

Wesley ducks as the images of the dead flap around him like bats.

“Yachts, diamonds, and mansions from fine print. I’d say I admire your balls, but that’s not why we’re here, is it.” A glowing quill appears in Devil’s hand. He uses it to pluck something squirming from between his teeth before scribbling…Handcuffed, summoned Yours Truly, now seeking to break deal…Anything to add?”

The conveyor belt inches forward. The next contract reaches Wesley.

Wesley tries to defend himself, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.

“Unlike you,” Devil says, “I honor my agreements. You’re not going to jail.”

Wesley’s body crumbles to the floor as his soul remains seated.

Wesley screams as he plucks out his eye again and lays it on the page to enlarge the fine print.

Bio: David Henson and his wife reside in Illinois. His work has been selected for the 2025 Wigleaf long list, nominated for Pushcart Prizes, Best Small Fictions, Best of the Net, and has appeared in various publications including Best Microfictions 2025, Ghost Parachute, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, and Gone Lawn. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His X handle is @annalou8.

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