I saw him today, as I have seen him before. The car is always different, but it's always a luxury car, like a Mercedes or a Jaguar, and it's always a dark silver.
You can see him yourself, if you live in a large enough city, like Los Angeles or London, even someplace like Madrid or Glasgow.
The Devil always sits in the back seat, directly behind his driver. The first few times I saw him, here in LA, he was an elderly white man, with no hair that I could see, not even eyebrows. He wore a dark suit, a black cowboy hat, and dark red sunglasses. The shades should have looked ridiculous, but they didn't. The way he carried himself in that car was nothing less than sinister.
Since then, I've seen him twice in LA again, once in London, and again in New York. I travel a lot for business, and if I'm ever in a Metropolitan area, I make sure to look. Except for the first few times, he has always been a different person, but for those sunglasses. They stay.
But it’s the driver who interests me. He wears a cheap suit, no hat, and is kind of a swarthy fellow. Maybe half-Indian, I've begun to think. He doesn't change like the Devil does. He changes like a regular person, ages. The last few times I've seen him, he almost seemed sick, weak. Cancerous. A harrowed look in his eye, one palm smearing the sweat from his face. I'm sure the Devil likes his car well heated, after all.
Today was the worst, though. He looked...awful. On death's door. I was right next to them, at a stoplight, and I couldn't help but stare at him, watch him, and think how sick he looked. And wonder how he had even gotten the gig in the first place.
Just as the light turned green, I couldn't resist, and glanced in the backseat.
The Devil was looking at me.
He was a younger man this time, still white, dark haired, and there was a smile on his face that could cut diamonds.
As his car started to pass mine, he saw me watching the driver, and there was something in his smile that knew what I was thinking. He brought his hand to his face, lowered the glasses, and gave me a wink. His eyes were neither the red of hellfire or the black of coal, but there was something hideously inhuman about their brown tint, and it made me shiver.
He raised the glasses, still smiling, and drove off. But I don't like the way he singled me out. I've seen him so many times now, it doesn't feel like coincidence, and the thought of seeing him again makes me sick all over.
Makes me sicker, because I got a letter in the mail.
A job offer.