The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) by R. Scott VanKirk Page B

someone knocked on the door. Whoever it was, wasn't content with just knocking. They continuously knocked out a rhythm that seemed familiar to Max. He went to the door with irritation, opened it, and then stepped back to avoid being knocked on himself.
    A strange sight greeted him, something you just didn't see every day. In front of the door, now knocking against the air, stood an emaciated old man, dressed in ratty jeans and jeans-jacket over a tie-dyed, torn, and stained Hendrix shirt. He was dancing around and playing a weird mixture of air-guitar and air-drums. He looked to be Arabic or some such Middle Eastern heritage. His mocha with cream face supported a prominent nose and bushy eyebrows that crouched over his closed eyes like, feral fuzzy caterpillars. He had wild scraggly Muppet hair that might have once been black but now was mostly gray. He had headphones on so loud that Max could easily hear the strains of “Magic Carpet Ride” from where he stood. That was the beat Max had recognized, accompanied by Goldy McJohn’s breakthrough organ playing, It had only hit third on the pop charts, but Max felt it defined the Hait-Ashbury era and was better than the more popular “Born to be Wild.” At least the guy had good taste in music.
    Max stood bemused. Half fascinated, half appalled, he wasn't quite sure what to do. He had no intention of yelling over the man's headphones, and he certainly didn't want to touch the guy, who looked like a flea paradise. He didn't need the grief, so he closed the door. The knocking began again as soon as the door was within striking distance of the man's hands. In no mood to put up with this, Max paused and sighed. He threw the door back open and yelled, “Hey!” He repeated himself several times, but he didn't get a response till the song faded away.
    As the song ended, the old raggedy man opened his eyes and looked at Max. He said, “Sorry, man. Couldn't stop in the middle of the sacred song, ya know?”
    Max knew the feeling and it mellowed his reaction to the stranger, but when another song started up, and the visitor's eyes closed again as he readied his air-instruments, Max said, “Oh, no you don't!” He stepped forward and snatched the phones off the man's head. Afraid of catching something, Max quickly dropped them to dangle from the cord leading into the man's jeans pocket.
    It took a second to register with the old man. When it did, he said, “Hey man, that's not cool. Taking a man's tunes. Not cool.”
     Max snapped, “What do you want?”
    The human rag in front of him raised his eyebrows. “Chill Maxy-man, no need to get all hostile. I thought you'd be more cool you know, like your songs and stuff.”
    Max's warning bells all rang. He narrowed his eyes. “How did you find me, and what do you want?”
    “Hey, it's cool dude. The Dealer told me to look you up. He said, 'Josh old buddy, Max Faust needs some cheer from a peer,' dig? So, thought I'd drop by and bring you some magic.” The man shrugged out of his old, patched denim backpack. He dropped it, undid some ties, and rummaged around in it while muttering to himself. Finally he said, “Oh yeah. Here you go.” He triumphantly pulled out a garbage bag full of pills, hand-rolled cigarettes, dried mushrooms, and other, less identifiable, things. Given the size of the bag, Max was surprised it even fit in the backpack, let alone that the guy had to rummage for it.
    The rickety man stood up and held the bag up to Max. “Here you go. If something in here don't show you the goddess, sharpen your chakras, and smooth out your panties, then yer dead, dig?”
    Max involuntarily took a startled step back. He eyed the bag's contents and put up his hands. “Do I look insane to you? Get that away from me.”
    The old guy looked surprised and then he seemed to deflate with disappointment. He said, “Oh dude, you are really bumming my high.” He pulled the bag back, opened it up, and started searching through it. He