“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” – Oscar Wilde

The door to The Yankee’s Throne appeared to anyone at a crossroads in their life. Most crossroads came in the form of a major decision. Any choice can be major in the right light. Choosing to buy the new A.A. Milne book about a bear or deciding to go see the new George Lucas film with the glowing swords. The door has been opened by presidents, kings, pilgrims, hobos, superheroes, inventors, dictators, poets, martyrs, cowboys, emperors, and even real-estate novelists, but there is one that no one ever wanted to see walk through, especially Barnaby.

There are evil forces in this world, more than just bad karma and IRS agents. Evil that even reaches places like The Yankee’s Throne, but in the bar, Barnaby set the rules. Nonetheless, every now and then it’ll get in somehow. The Devil’s in the details, even the details of the universe. Barnaby had nothing to defend the bar: no weapons, no guns, no nothing. Because if “The Yankee’s Throne” didn’t want anyone to come in, then they wouldn’t. Barnaby accepted a long time ago that he’ll never get to meet Steve Jobs, because The Yankee’s Throne prefers Microsoft, but Barnaby could’ve sworn he felt the bar cringe as this being entered.

The newcomer sauntered in with cane in hand. He wore a black and red suit from the eighties that he wore in the crowd when Ronald Reagan was shot, sunglasses from the sixties he wore to watch Americans fighting for civil rights be blown away by fire hoses, and horns, that he didn’t wear, but had protruding out of his head. Horns that grew as his wings burned away in our atmosphere during his fall from heaven.

The Devil smiled. “What a cute place you have here.”

“Villain,” Lancelot yelled. He pointed from his booth almost knocking over Mark Twain’s drink. The noble knight stood, ran toward the Devil, drew his sword and swung. Lancelot was the greatest swordsman of all time, a knight of highest valor, and, at this time, pretty wasted. His sword, Tanlladwyr, “Bright-killer”, the “Christ Blade”, missed, and he fell to the ground.

The Devil smiled. “Like I said, cute.”

“Put that thing away, Lance, before you poke somebody’s eye out,” Mark sipped his drink.

“Sam, he’s the cause of all evil,” Lancelot insisted, and this would’ve been a strong insistence too if he wasn’t leaning on his sword to stand.

“You’re drunk, you can’t kill evil unless your sober,” Mark said, taking another sip of his drink. “You can’t kill evil anyway, if there was no evil, there would be no good. No Mordred, no King Arthur.”

Lancelot nodded in sullen agreement and returned to his seat.

“Ah, Samuel,” the Devil smiled. “Always the voice of reason.”

Mark furrowed his brow, “Go to hell.”

“I will, when I’m done with my business here,” The Devil sat on a counter stool and ordered a scotch and soda. Barnaby pulled an old glass from the top shelf. He didn’t use the nice dish wear on customers he didn’t like.

“What brings you by?” Barnaby asked faking interest as he prepared the drink.

“We have a score to settle, Barnaby, old boy,” The Devil smiled, a nice and unsettling smile, and now, with a flicker of the lights, he was certain the bar was cringing. “How do you think a bar like this comes into existence?”

“Well I bought the land in ’08,” Barnaby said handing the Devil his drink. “Got the wood from dying trees in the rainforests of fallen Atlantis, ordered the beer from Portland, and got the rest from this Dwarf in Europe.”

“No,” The Devil said. “How does this place exist? In other words, how do Mark Twain, Lancelot, Elvis Presley, and Achilles have a beer together?”

The Yankee’s Throne existed in one sense because Barnaby existed, but he knew no Pookai was powerful enough to generate an entire bar for their purpose. Then he remembered when the bar fist opened, even before Julius Caesar walked in. Barnaby understood now, the memory began to clear in a foggy area of his mind.

Barnaby frowned. “Either by the grace of God--”

“Or a deal with the Devil,” He finished.