The Devil orders another double whiskey and Coke. The bartender nods absently and goes to work mixing. He doesn’t so much as question the fact that it is the Devil’s fourth in less than an hour, or that it isn’t yet 5pm.

And why would the bartender questions something like that? This is the Buccaneer. People come here to drink until the dingy pirate theme seems as good of an idea as going home with whoever is next to them.

That’s why the Devil loves this place more than any other dive bar in the world. There is absolutely no chance of him finding a pristine soul here. The regulars that drank during the day, never speaking save to order their next drink, are a veritable horror show of dark secrets. And the legion of horny, virile scenesters that replace them? Well, sin is as thick on them as cigarette tar on the walls.

A complete lack of pure souls means that the Devil feels no temptation to work. Odd thing to admit, the Devil suffering temptation, but, hey, he is a workaholic.

Sometimes he just needs to cut loose, he thinks, and a fresh drink in front of him.

Memphis Note
I’ve written about the Bucc before, but last time it was vampires. This time, it’s the Devil. Which, considering I was considering going to go with a dancing midget hallucination, is something you should be thankful for. As to the real crux of the story, did you ever find it odd that the Devil must exemplify the Puritan work ethic in order to get all that evil done? I know I do.

It was almost too easy.

They’d swoop into town at dusk. Renfield, their emaciated roadie, would unpack the gear. Then, after the sun had vanished beyond the horizon, he’d unpack them.

The places they played were always small, dark, and thick with smoke. Sometimes they were booked, sometimes they weren’t. But, they could always talk their way onto the bill.

Tonight they were playing the Buccaneer. One of the smallest, darkest, smokiest places in Memphis. And one of their favorite places to…play.

It didn’t matter that they sounded absolutely terrible, they transfixed the audience. As they’d play, they’d single out one person from the audience. Boy or girl, either would do. That person would feel like the band was playing just for them, and in a very dangerous way, they were.

Afterwords, the fan would seek out the band at the bar. The band would buy them round after round, slowly coaxing them back to their van, where it was the band’s turn to drink.

Jokes would be made about the rock and roll lifestyle.

And just like that, they’d disappear into the morning sun, Renfield driving them on to the next city, the next gig, the next meal.

Memphis Note
The Bucc is a tiny little place in a weird no-man’s land of Memphis neighborhoods. I think it is bordered on three sides by empty lots. But if I was a vampire, that’s the sort of place I’d go looking for a meal.