IV. Five Fortunes

“Oh, I am Fortune’s Fool.” - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.

Most Pookai become spirits of nature. Protectors of trees or guardians of hope or love or another feeling. They end up burning in forest fires or being outdated by industrial revolutions or helping one poor sad drunk for the rest of their life.

Barnaby was different; he was a spirit of fortune. He was more than just a bartender or a fortune-teller. He was a gambler. When a guest came into The Yankee’s Throne they were gambling with their future with every word said and action made. The guest was always welcome, the house always won, but maybe The Yankee’s Throne wasn’t his house after all.

Barnaby’s nose twitched. He needed this bar to exist and knew his sponsor had hidden himself in his memory, but to imagine that he was ever weak or desperate enough to make a deal with the Devil.

“What do you want?” Barnaby asked.

“I believe our deal was that I make this place possible, and you give me five unworthy fortunes of my picking,” The Devil smiled, slowly sipped his scotch and soda. “Good stuff.”

“Five?” Barnaby asked.

“It was very impressive that you talked me down to five,” The Devil said. “I almost never go lower than six, especially on deals like this.”

Barnaby grimaced. “Impressive?”

“Very,” The Devil laughed. A laugh that made Barnaby think he was going to a dentist office to have his soul removed.

Barnaby sighed. “Who do you pick?”

The Devil motioned toward the booth where the four, time-displaced, patrons were sitting. “I’ll take the current inhabitants of The Yankee’s Throne if you don’t mind.”

“The inhabitants of this bar then,” Barnaby held out his hand and the Devil shook, binding the deal.

“The ones with proper names,” The Devil added then let go of Barnaby’s hand. The seal was made and Barnaby had no choice, but to obey.

“Who first?” Barnaby asked.

“Let’s start with good old Lancelot,” The Devil pointed to the ill-made knight at the corner booth. The four patrons had already forgotten the Devil and began discussing sports like football and jousting.

With one look at the first knight of the round table Barnaby knew exactly when and where Lancelot was from. He has just saved Queen Guinevere from the stake for the second time, and, while celebrating with his kinsmen on their return to Camelot, he was requested to report to the Queen’s private chambers. Odd request, but Lancelot went to the Queen’s door and, upon crossing the threshold, entered The Yankee’s Throne for a third time.

The first time was right before he met King Arthur and decided to join the round table. The second right after the birth of his son Gawain. On his first visit he met Samuel Clemens, right before his steamboat years, and on his second he met Elvis, who had just recorded his first song, My Happiness.

“Alright,” Barnaby sighed. “Lancelot will become the greatest knight of the table round, greater than Kay, Percival, and all others that pledge loyalty to Arthur, King of Britain.”

“A bad fortune, bunny,” The Devil snapped, and finished his second drink. Barnaby kept his composure, nodded, then poured him another.

“Don’t interrupt my fortunes, Beelzebub.”

“Wrong Devil,” He corrected. “Continue.”

“Love will be Lancelot’s downfall, love for a woman who isn’t his and love for a King who can never forgive him. In response, he shall spend the rest of his days on a quest of redemption to find the Holy Grail.”

“And?”

“The Grail was lost to time and space, nothing but a dream of the chalice exists and Lancelot, despite his mythic deeds, is a mortal in the end, and cannot find a dream outside of his own.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, Prince of Grigori.”

“Wrong again,” The Devil through another back. Barnaby poured another glass. “Let’s do Presley next.”

Barnaby glanced over at the King of Rock’n’Roll drinking his Pepsi. Elvis had a smile on his face, but he was drafted to fight in a war, his mother was sick, and he was just told his career’s ending. He survives the war, his career continues, but his mother doesn’t. Barnaby never had a Mom, but even he couldn’t understand how Elvis could smile, even drink, in the state he’s in, but then again Barnaby isn’t a King.

“Mr. Presley will gain fame only to lose it. He will become a King in a modern age. He changes music for a lifetime with nothing but his voice and pelvis, but his wife will leave him, he will die from drugs, depression, and unfulfilling bed-time exploits.” Barnaby explained. “Nonetheless he will die like a king, on his throne, made by Thomas Crapper.”

“The King of Rock and Roll dies on his toilet!” The Devil laughed. “That’s a good one bunny.”

“Do not call me a bunny, Satan,” Barnaby snapped. “This King will inspire many with his music, he is a worthy man; flawed yes, but worthy. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Don’t call me Satan, bunny,” The Devil’s smile strained. “You sound like you want to back out Barnaby. I’m a reasonable Prince of Darkness, I’ll let the next two go for the low, low price of your soul.”

Barnaby could save his remaining customers, but, Barnaby knew, his kind aren’t like humans. His kind can go wasting his soul at crossroad deals and amusement parks. Pookai are spirits. His soul is all he is. That’s why most Pookai are smart enough not to make deals with a Devil, content to hug trees and support drunk bankers.

Barnaby frowned. “No.”

The Devil smiled. “Then let’s continue, and I’ll have another scotch and soda.”

“Alright,” Barnaby poured. “Who’s next?”

“I believe Mr. Achilles will do nicely.”

Barnaby looked at Achilles, thought about what the demigod’s going through, and frowned.

“Achilles will fight in a war for a woman’s love. He didn’t love her, but many powerful men did. During the war Achilles will fight on the side of a temporarily united Greece against the Trojans and will slay the mighty Hector and many more. “

“This doesn’t sound like a bad fortune,” The Devil chided.

“You never had patience did you?” Barnaby sighed. “After the Horse’s breach of Troy’s gates the mighty warrior is slain by a single arrow to the heel by Paris of Troy, the war’s instigator. He is remembered more for his heel than his heroics.”

The Devil slammed the counter with his fist. “Now, that’s funny!”

“I honestly don’t see the humor in it.”

“Have you met Paris?” The Devil asked. “Scrawny little pretty boy kills Achilles, Greeks greatest mortal.”

“Mortal?” Barnaby said.

“Son of the immortal Thetis and that mortal Peleus, not even a demigod since his Mother was just a nymph,” The Devil explained. His speech began to slur a little. Barnaby poured him another.

“You know a lot about Greek mythology.”

“I know a lot about a lot of things, bunny.”

Barnaby’s left eyebrow twitched. “I think you need to stop calling me bunny.”

“Your job isn’t to think, Barnaby. It’s to pour drinks and give bad fortunes,” The Devil laughed. “Now the next one, Mr. Samuel Langhorne Clemens.”

Barnaby smiles. “Who?”

The Devil pointed at the man, sitting next to Elvis. “Mark Twain.”

“Oh,” Barnaby smiled. “Of course.”

After Caesar, Samuel Clemens was Barnaby’s first patron. Mark would come to The Yankee’s Throne almost every time he couldn’t figure what to write in one of his stories, and today was no different. He was working on a piece that would be known as The Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, but was currently known as That Woman I met in a Bar Run by a Tall Green Rabbit.

Barnaby sighed. “Samuel Clemens was born the sixth child of John and Jane Clemens. He came in the year of Haley’s comet. He was a sick child that kept indoors. At twelve his father will die of pneumonia. Samuel found he enjoyed writing. He later became a steamboat assistant and was never seen again.”

The Devil spat his drank out mid sip. “What?”

“As for Mark Twain, he will go on to write classics such as The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and A Conneticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.”

The Devil’s face turned crimson.

“He’ll die a successful writer, known to all who write fifth grade book reports. He left, like Samuel came, in the year of Haley’s Comet.”

The Devil stood, a little tipsy, and pointed at Barnaby. “You broke our deal!”

Barnaby smiled. “How so?”

“Samuel Clemens and Mark Twain are the same person!”

Barnaby looked at the four patrons in the corner. Squinted. Raised his hand as if to say something, then lowered his hand and turned back to the Devil.

“Ya’know,” He looked at the booth again. “I think you might be right.”

“You owe me five bad fortunes,” The Devil said, imagining Barnaby on a series of pikes.

“For the ones with proper names,” Barnaby added.

Barnaby returned to washing his dishes, ignoring the Devil. Where the Devil sat a heat began to emanate the room, the façade he wore changed into that of a burning fallen angel that to look upon you would kill instantly. The four patrons in the corner didn’t notice due to being plastered on magic golden Pepsi and ice-water. Barnaby grabbed a toothpick and began to clean his two-front teeth. The Devil sighed and calmly returned to his previous form.

The Devil smiled. “Oh, Barnaby?”

“Yes?” He flicked the toothpick into the waste basket behind the counter.

“You owe me five proper names.”

Barnaby counted the fingers. One for Lancelot, one for Elvis Presley, one for Achilles, and one for Samuel Clemens. Four fingers for four bad fortunes. He owed him a fifth, since he gave Mark Twain a happy ending.

Barnaby frowned. “But that’s all the inhabitants.”

“Is it?” The Devil asked, and looked at Barnaby like he was a winning lottery ticket.