Lord Courtley
Outside the Maison Derriere, they found Hareton Courtly waiting for a taxi.
"You there!" Anthony DeGeorge called as he approached him. Courtley turned, saw him, and then smiled a cruel, knowing smile.
"Ah, you. I stole your woman. Well, if it's to be pistols or swords, I have neither."
"No, no. Listen, my friends and I would like to take you out for drinks."
"Oh really? Taxi! We'll go to The Aristocrat. It's the only place!"
At The Aristocrat, the men didn't touch their drinks. They sat, staring at the strange creature that was the Lord Courtley, watching him sip his martini.
"So, let me see if I have understood. Several months ago, you gentlemen formed a little circle dedicated to pursuing illicit and forbidden pleasures whilst maintaining a façade of morality and public uprightness, and, after fulfilling every last perverse fantasy and desire, you find yourselves bored and utterly unsatisfied. Am I correct?"
"Yes."
"And you think I have the cure?"
"Well…uh…"
"Gentlemen, you've come to the right man. But first, tell me: how far are you willing to go?"
"As far as possible," DeGeorge said after some consideration.
"Yes."
"Oh, yeah, sure."
"Within reason!" Skinner added.
Courtley leaned in, his brow furrowed.
"Would you be willing…to sell your souls to the Devil?"
The very request was perplexing.
"What, exactly, would that entail?" Skinner asked, his logical mind not comprehending.
"Exactly what it sounds like it does! Sell your souls to the Devil! In exchange, you will have everything you desire! Money, love, power, happiness! Everything you desire!"
The four men looked to one another, conferring without words.
"Yes."
"Good! I'll need one thousand, two hundred fifty dollars…from each of you."
They began to scoff and mumble, believing their one hope to have been revealed as a mere charlatan.
"No, no, no, not for me. To purchase what we need for the ritual! Meet me at the Little Shoppe of Evil this Thursday at ten p.m., and there we'll purchase our supplies."