The Devil Went Down To Jersey

Ray smirked as the rest of the band backed off so he could launch into the final guitar solo of the song. The crowd’s energy became overwhelming as they urged him on and cheered louder than ever. The string of notes emanating from beneath his fingers appeared so naturally it was as if they were written solely for him. He knew it, too.

Just before the last few measures of the song, the highest string snapped beneath his fingers. Not unsettled by this, he simply moved his hand up a few frets and finished without missing a single note. After the drummer ended the tune with one final cymbal crash, the front row of people in the crowd rushed forward and filled the space around Ray. He smiled and laughed along with their cheers, making sure to protect his guitar from anyone who might have gotten too excited and tried to smash it, even if it was customary.

“Hey, back off! We still need this guy for our show tomorrow!” the singer shouted over the noise. His voice was mostly lost, but he did manage to pull Ray away from the front of the garage and back towards the rest of the band so they could congratulate him as well.

“I can’t believe this,” the bassist said enthusiastically, practically dumping his own guitar on the ground. “We’ve never been able to play that song before! It always sounded like…like-”

“Like we sucked?” the drummer offered. Ray laughed.

“That’s because we didn’t have him,” the singer answered, placing one arm around Ray’s shoulders. “Now we actually have a chance! We could really be famous!”

Ray had stopped listening. Strangely enough, the crowd’s wild applause and shouts had been diminished to the slow, drawn-out clapping of one person. The other band members caught on to his silence and glanced in the direction of the sound. The sea of people filling the garage door parted directly down the middle, leaving a clear path for the man at the source of it all. Ray could hear the whispers of the crowd, but once he made eye contact with the man, he never broke it once.

“Hey… Aren’t you the guy from Green Day?” the singer questioned with half a smile. The bassist ran up to the man and immediately dropped to his knees.

“Billie Joe… I-I mean, Mr. Armstrong…” he stuttered. Billie Joe simply raised an eyebrow and walked around him.

“Maybe he’s here to give us a contract!” the singer exclaimed, grabbing Ray’s shoulders and practically shaking him in amazement. Ray pushed him off and faced the famous guitarist, staring him directly in the eyes as before. The man couldn’t help but smirk.

“Actually, I’m in a different line of work now. But I am here for something…” He took a few steps closer, and Ray glared in response. “I have an offer for you.”

“Not interested,” he answered, turning and walking back to where his guitar rested. He picked it up and replaced the broken string, then absentmindedly began strumming chords. It helped him think.

“You haven’t even heard what I have to say. See, I’m in a bit of a bind here. Way behind schedule. And if I’m going to meet my quota, I’m going to need you to do it. You’re worth a lot.” One corner of his mouth twinged upward in a smirk. “Your soul is, anyway.”

“What’s he talkin’ about?” the drummer asked with a frown. Ray shrugged, though the man’s words were beginning to bother him.

“You probably already knew it, but I’m a guitarist myself,” Billie Joe continued. “If you’re brave enough to take a dare, I’ll make a bet with you. See, you’re pretty good at this fine instrument,” he said, motioning to Ray’s guitar, “but I’m better, and it’s time you give me what I want. I’ll bet a gold guitar against your soul.”

“Name’s Ray,” he muttered just loud enough for Billie Joe to hear. “It might be a sin, but I’ll take your bet.” He tuned the guitar in about ten seconds and plugged it into the amplifier. “You’re gonna regret this. I’m the best guitarist that’s ever lived.”

The rest of the band members backed away and became part of the onlooking crowd they had just played for. They could sense the tension building between the two musicians, and though they didn’t fully understand what was going on, they hoped nothing would happen to the only good guitarist they’d ever had. Billie Joe gave an evil smirk.

“Good choice. I’ll start this show.” A guitar case suddenly appeared at his feet, and he knelt down and opened it. Inside rested his famous guitar, Blue, still covered in stickers and missing some paint around the edges. He lifted it out of the padding and placed the strap over his head, plugging it into the amp opposite Ray’s. Once he was finished with this, a line of light traveled across the body and up the neck of the guitar, turning it into solid gold that gleamed in the sunlight reflecting in from outside the gray garage. Ray could hardly take his eyes off the instrument.

As the other man tweaked the shining knobs and strings of the guitar, Ray noticed small bits of fire flying out from beneath his fingers. He blinked once and saw a short pair of red horns gracing the sides of the man’s head, along with a tail as thin as an amp cable and tipped with an arrowhead lying in a loose curl next to his feet. Ray’s suspicions were confirmed once he saw this, and he wondered if anyone noticed that he was truly about to face the Devil himself.

Billie Joe hit an open chord once the guitar was tuned, causing a deep, evil hiss to radiate from the speaker. The crowd recoiled from the sound, but this only encouraged him further. Several black and red creatures appeared around him and picked up the abandoned instruments nearby, mildly abusing them in the process.

“Hey!” the bassist cried as his guitar was taken from him. He tried to get it back, but the demon hissed in his face, and he obediently backed away to cower behind their drummer.

The band began playing a fast, steady beat. Billie Joe quickly joined in with a simple riff that almost made Ray roll his eyes, but he quickly jumped into a series of doubled notes moving faster than the younger man thought possible. The bassist played an arpeggiated pattern in the background while Billie Joe continued to increase the pace of his solo. His fingers were moving so fast that sparks began to fly off of them.

Ray felt his heart sink when he realized just how skilled the man was. Glancing at the terrified faces of his bandmates, however, he became more determined than ever to prove his own skills. Besides, it was the nicest guitar he’d ever seen.

Billie Joe’s solo became more and more intense as time passed. Ray began ghost-playing his guitar, fingering notes without really strumming them. He went over hundreds of different chord forms and runs in his mind, as if cramming for a test that decided whether he would pass or fail. Billie Joe’s mouth curled into a sneer, and he let out an evil laugh that only Ray could hear over the ferocious music being played.

Once he finished with a flourish that would have been wildly applauded were it a concert, Ray drew a guitar pick from one pocket and met his eyes. The crowd was eerily silent, watching, waiting.

“You know, you’re pretty good,” he said somewhat grimly. Billie Joe raised an eyebrow as if this was supposed to be questioned. “But just sit in that chair right there,” Ray said, pointing to the nearby object, “while I show you how it’s done.” An undaunted Billie Joe remained where he stood, thinking he was prepared for anything.

Ray launched into the fastest, most complicated guitar solo he had ever played in his life. He recognized some of the runs from other songs, but quickly transformed them into creations all his own. For several moments, only those notes filled the air, but he soon heard the sound of his own band’s drummer playing a beat to help him keep time. He glanced back and realized his friends had taken their instruments back from the evil creatures. He couldn’t help but smirk at Billie Joe as he moved up into a higher octave.

Billie Joe felt a strange, unfamiliar weakness crawling up from the edge of his tail. It was almost as if the notes from Ray’s guitar were taking away his strength, something he couldn’t believe. Stunned, he stumbled backwards and fell- right onto the chair Ray had instructed him to wait in.

To his surprise, long before he had finished his own solo, Ray played a single chord and held it out, the usual signal for the band to finish a song. Once all fell silent, the Devil almost stood up to finish what he had started, but Ray was not yet done. He began a new series of rapid notes running up the neck of the guitar and gradually worked his way backwards, going across every string and fret in the process. With each passing second, Billie Joe felt more of his power being sapped away. His face began to fall into a state of cold disbelief as Ray only seemed to make the song more difficult.

After what seemed like ages of stunning riffs and metal-worthy runs, Ray finished the solo and pressed his fingers across the strings to silence them. Billie Joe bowed his head in defeat and stood, just barely managing to stumble over to the other guitarist so he could place the golden guitar at his feet. Though nearly all of his energy was gone, his anger still smoldered on his face, a mere remnant of the confidence he’d once had. He hated suffering such humiliation.

“Hey, Devil.”

He stopped at the sound of the voice and turned around halfway, hardly curious as to what the mortal man had to say. Some statement of gloating, he was certain.

“Come back if you ever wanna try again, but I told you once, you son of a bitch; I’m the best that ever lived.”

With that, Billie Joe stalked out of the garage, trying to retain as much of his dignity as he had left. A split second of silence surrounded Ray until the crowd – fellow band members and all – rushed forward to congratulate (or in some cases, to worship) him. He picked up the gleaming guitar and plugged it back into the amp, playing a final solo on an instrument taken from the Devil himself.