The Devil's Due: Chapter V
--E.K. Bradshaw
The Lord of Darkness turned from Paul, his countenance one of unsettling amusement as he turned his attention back to Bradshaw. The wavering firelight of the torches caught and danced in the otherworldly green gaze.
"Perhaps you're right, Paul," mused the Undertaker thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is time we told him the truth."
The truth. The awful, sinking sensation of dread was returning fast, and Bradshaw swallowed hard. It occurred to him that he'd not the slightest idea as to what substantial revelation might await him--but knowing what he knew of the Lord of Darkness, there was no way in hell it could be anything good.
"Now, Bradshaw," the commanding voice spoke, effectively grabbing his full attention. "I want you to think about this. Thirteen years ago tonight, you and I made a deal."
Christ, thirteen years? You got to be kidding me.
Bradshaw racked his brain, trying to dredge up some, any sort of recollection at all--coming up decidedly short. Thirteen years. Thinking back on it now, it seemed ancient history. If his memory served him correctly, it was around that juncture that he and Faarooq had begun their tenure as servants in the Ministry of Darkness. Those years in particular were somewhat of a dark place of the soul for Bradshaw, the recollections of which he had long striven to eliminate from memory. There was something there though, he knew, something significant. He could feel it deep in his gut. But what?
He stared dubiously at the Undertaker, remaining stone-silent.
"Not ringing any bells, I see," remarked the Lord of Darkness. "Very well. Allow me to refresh your memory, if you will. You see, thirteen years ago, Bradshaw, you came to me as nothing. A nobody." He grinned. "That's right. Before me, the great John Bradshaw Layfield wasn't jack shit. But you came to me, Bradshaw, with the hope of being something more. Something greater. Somebody that people would actually give two shits about. But I digress."
Bradshaw glared vehemently, muttering under his breath.
"You came to me," continued the Undertaker, "telling me of your greed-driven ambitions. You wanted money, fame, power--things you knew damn well you couldn't attain on your own. But I--I was in a position of making it happen. And I would. All I asked for in return was your unquestioning obedience, and the small price of your mortal soul, to be surrendered willingly to me before the passage of thirteen years' time." A look of smug satisfaction passed across the Undertaker's features. "So, tell me. How does it feel, knowing all your great accomplishments, everything you've done that actually means something, has been granted to you through your deal with the devil?"
"How dare you." Bradshaw's tone seethed with contempt. "How dare you insinuate for one second that anything I have accomplished has been through anyone but myself."
"Think about it, Bradshaw. You have done exceedingly well for yourself, haven't you?"
"You shut your mouth."
"It was I," said the Undertaker matter-of-factly, "who gazed into your soul, and by my hand, your destiny was shaped. You are who you are because of me." Bradshaw recoiled from the words as if from a physical blow. The implications of this, he realized, were staggering.
"No. You're lying. I don't believe a damn word you're saying." Bradshaw was adamant. "You've shown me no proof whatsoever that you're not just certifiably bat-shit insane and pulling things out your ass."
Here, Paul Bearer--who had been uncharacteristically silent all the while--spoke up once more.
"The contract, Undertaker," he said, matter-of-factly. "Shall we show him the contract?"
"What contract?"
"At the time of your accord," Paul elaborated, "I took it upon myself to draft a contract which I, myself, bore witness to you signing." He smiled, offhandedly. "All the legal loopholes you can find in these modern times. One can never be so careless as to not have their agreements in writing."
"Right," sneered Bradshaw. "And this contract of yours. I'll believe it when I see it."
"Oh, I had sincerely hoped you would say that!" Paul exclaimed delightedly. With that, one hand disappeared into the inner pocket of his dark suit jacket, from which he withdrew an old, weathered parchment scroll. "The devil is in the details, I'm afraid." He laughed giddily. "Oh, my, what a terrible pun." With that, he unfurled the scroll, letting it fall open into view.
Bradshaw automatically blanched at the sight.
In an instant, his entire world was spinning, crashing down before his eyes. Panic coursed through his veins.
"Oh, God," he murmured.
"A bit late for that, I'm afraid."
"This can't be happening. This can't be--damn it, there must be some mistake."
"I don't make mistakes," the Lord of Darkness insisted.
"Well, you damn well did this time!" he burst out, the force behind his voice surprising even him. The Undertaker's green eyes narrowed, and Bradshaw felt his stomach twist. "Please," he said, considerably softening his tone. "You got to believe me when I tell you that I've changed, Taker. The man I was then--I'm not him anymore." The Undertaker regarded him with blatant disinterest, arms folded over his chest. "Please." Desperation seeped into his voice as he spoke. "Let's be reasonable about this. There must be some sort of compromise we can come to."
"Impressive." The Undertaker raised both eyebrows and smirked. "Bradshaw, are you at all familiar with the Kübler-Ross model?" Bradshaw shook his head wordlessly. "The five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, eventually, acceptance. It is the process by which people handle catastrophic events of great loss and tragedy, particularly one's own process of death." He smirked. "You just shot right through the first three stages in the blink of an eye. You're well on your way to acceptance, son."
Acceptance. The final act of surrender.
Bradshaw felt his heart jump into his throat.
"Please," he tried once more. "You don't have to do this. You have the power to stop this, just let it go--"
"I'm afraid that just isn't possible," replied the Undertaker, dark determination in his tone. "Terms are terms. You should know this by now." He turned regally and moved away, back toward the center of the room. "The harsh reality of this is, your fate has already been sealed. I couldn't undo it even if I wanted to. Which, to be honest, I don't."
Bradshaw felt physically ill. He watched with growing unease as the Lord of Darkness turned to the items on the table. His hand ran reverently over the long, velvet case that rested beside the large, leather-bound Book of Ritual Sacrifices.
"My lord," said Paul, "the time draws near. Have you selected a method of ritual sacrifice?"
"I have," replied the Undertaker. "One near and dear to my depraved heart." He grinned with dark satisfaction.
"What would you have me do, my lord?"
"Go to the mortuary," the Undertaker instructed. "Retrieve a casket. See that it is taken to the cemetery at the top of the hill. When our ritual site is ready, return to me."
"It will be done, my lord." Paul bowed deeply, then disappeared in the direction of the door. Then, the Undertaker turned back to Bradshaw, the malicious gleam in his eye betraying his evil intentions.
"And as for you," he said, "I do hope you continue to hang around. Our fun is just beginning."