The Purveyor of All Things Odd, Rare and Valuable
written by: Richard Korst
Everybody called him “Doc,” but he couldn’t recall the name’s origin, exactly. He couldn’t shake the name; it fit like a comfortable glove, and anyway, he hated being called Eugene, his given name. When he pondered his nickname’s provenance, he had many options to consider: Maybe it was earned while traversing the plains of upper Mongolia, when he stitched up the wounds of a young Khalkha Mongol, attacked and mauled by a Gobi Bear, or maybe the name stuck after saving the life of an aboriginal Australian, sucking out the inland taipan’s venom after a particularly vicious strike, or possibly it was the time he resuscitated a climber on Mount Everest’s South Col, collapsed and left for dead, lacking oxygen. Or maybe, just maybe, it was his affinity for Bugs Bunny.
Doc was a world traveler but not for the sake of seeing things, checking off bucket list items, or collecting stickers for his National Parks Passport. He travelled for a purpose; to scrounge for things, unique things. After they were located and secured, he didn’t care to hang them on his wall, loan them to museums, or return them to their rightful owners. For Doc, it was the challenge, the hunt, and to be honest, the money. His life choices and passion, however, exacted a hefty toll, an unrecoverable cost. Except for a few friends and his sister, he was isolated, alone, and had never shared his world with others.
He was a purveyor of the odd, a conjuror. In the old days, he may have dabbled in alchemy, been accused of sorcery, or tarred and feathered for being a snake oil huckster. As his business launched, some referred to him as a charlatan, a con artist, a swindler preying on the superstitious, the uninformed, those with boundless hope but limited knowledge. While an accurate description of the younger, less mature, less polished Doc, he was now considered a legitimate businessman, the one to call, at least for those requiring his services. His website proudly declared, “If we can’t find it, it doesn’t exist or, it ain’t worth having.” A loving tribute to Binny’s Beverage Depot, a supplier of late-night intoxicants often fueling Doc’s strategic business approach.
On this blustery, late winter afternoon, ominous gray clouds ripe with snow draped the skyline. Doc stood behind the counter in his shabby south side Chicago office building, down an out-of-the-way back alley, bearing no outward signage suggesting a business address. He was carefully placing a Middle Kingdom Egyptian scarab in an unassuming recycled box. He would not provide a return address, nor check the box indicating the item had a value of greater than $100, and would click “no” when asked if the item was fragile to avoid any scrutiny. Doc heard the small bell ring above the entrance and looked up, noticed the door was closed, but hadn’t heard the expectant slamming door. He called out, “Sorry, we’re closed. We’ll open again at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning” but received no response. After a long pause, Doc added with authority, “I’m holding a Smith and Wesson 500, and I will use it.”
“No need for that,” hissed a voice from the shadows. His figure became more focused as he slipped from the shadows wearing a large cloak and hood, hiding all but his curved nose and unsettling bright eyes. “Are you the man they call Doc, the purveyor of all things odd, rare, and valuable?”
Doc chuckled, “You must have checked out my website.”
The man pressed forward; “Not really, but I have followed your work and have been impressed by your ingenuity and tenacity.”
“Hmm. Well, you know me; who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
Pulling his hood back, deliberately slow, with both hands, he uncovered his head from the top down, exposing two horns protruding from either side of his temples, then his blood-red eyes, his crooked and prominent nose, and his pointed beard.
“Give me a second, I’ve seen you before,” said Doc after emitting a muffled but perceptible gasp.
“It’s possible, I suppose. Our paths may have crossed in Syria, Somalia, or Afghanistan, perhaps.” The creature reached out his hand to Doc, his long curling nails extending roughly four inches; “Some call me Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, or Abaddon but please, if you like, call me Stan to temper any judgement or stereotype you may be harboring. I’m here strictly for business, and I only work with those sporting a five-star Yelp rating.” Satan laughed uncontrollably at his own joke, turning into a howl which he quickly snuffed out. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Not at all. I guess I won’t be needing my gun,” and he laid it on the counter in front of him. “Well, now that the formal introductions are out of the way, what can I do for you?”
Satan placed both hands on the counter and looked directly into Doc’s eyes; “I need a signature.”
“You mean like an autograph? Maybe Jefferson, Stalin, or Joan of Arc? I can get you one of those.”
Satan arched his left eyebrow and gave Doc a sideways glance; “No, no, no, although the Joan of Arc intrigues me. This must be the signature of a living person, preferably young and vibrant, with big dreams and a bright future.”
“But any person?”
Sounding somewhat annoyed, Satan responded, “Ok. Yes, sure.”
Still sizing up the situation, Doc eyed Satan as if they were playing Texas Hold ’em with a hefty pot at stake; “I suppose I could conjure up an old check of mine with a signature on it.”
“You don’t seem to be grasping my request. The signature must be affixed to a specific document, must be obtained willingly and under full disclosure.”
“Well then, can I see this document?” Doc shot back.
Satan rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes.” He snapped his fingers, thunder and lightning flashed from his hands, and a single sheet of paper appeared, yellowed parchment, the letters in gold leaf and the font dating back to a 14th century monastery.
Doc blinked in disbelief; “Well ain’t that something.”
“Quite magnificent,” Satan countered.
“Indeed.” After the visual effects wore off, Doc continued, “Do you mind if I read this thing?”
“By all means. You’ll be the one trying to convince someone to sign it, so I suppose the more you know, the easier the sell.”
Doc shook his head, slowly struggling with the content; “Can you give me the Cliff Notes version?”
Satan snatched the parchment from Doc’s hands and started mouthing the words, “Blah, blah, blah. You know, it’s mostly legal gibberish and many lawyers have contributed to the final document.” Satan pulled out a pair of reading glasses and perched them on the tip of his nose. “You know, I should get these eyes checked again, but very few ophthalmologists cross my path. Now surgeons; that’s another story.”
Satan held the document at arms-length and proceeded to read: “I, John Doe, the undersigned, on the date prescribed herein, agree to relinquish my soul to the Devil, at the time of my death, in consideration of obtaining the mutually agreed upon items or terms as listed below. Please note, living eternally is not an acceptable option unless the said party can secure the signature of five other parties to a like agreement.” Satan continued, “Then there are non-disclosure clauses, defamation exclusions, and the right to terminate if obtained in writing within thirty days of submitting the signed agreement. Standard stuff.”
Doc took it all in and nodded, “Very thorough, I must say. Let me ask you something.”
Satan reciprocated the nod; “Certainly. It’s a lot to take in.”
Doc exhaled; “Two questions: Why me, and what do I get out of this?”
Satan chuckled, “The answer to the first question is easy. You’re the best at finding those things your clients seek.”
Before he could answer the second part of the question, Doc interjected, “I don’t get it. I thought getting people to sell their soul was your expertise.”
“Touche, Doc, and very perceptive. It used to be much easier, but the kids’ values these days are much tougher to crack. They actually prefer being poor, and it’s almost impossible to get them to sign a paper document. They expect payment through Venmo and contracts through DocuSign. Who has time to learn all that?”
“You gotta be able to change with the times, Satan, if you want to survive.”
“So true. Oh well, my bad, I guess, but there will always be a need for a devil.”
Doc nodded but still seemed puzzled; “I still don’t get it.”
“What do you not get?”
“There seems to be an unlimited supply of bad people, sinners, so to speak that you could damn on principle alone.”
Satan stroked his beard as he considered Doc’s comment; “I suppose I could wait to collect the souls of all of the run-of-the-mill sinners when they die, but there’s something about collecting a fresh soul before their time that keeps me going. Does that make sense?”
“Well, having no experience at being a devil, I’ll just have to take your word on the subject.”
“Thank you, Doc. Now, let me get back to the second part of your question; what’s in it for you.” Satan lifted his outstretched arms for emphasis; “It’s limitless. All the money and treasures in the world. Boats, cars, palaces. How does that sound?”
Doc smirked; “White Sox winning the World Series?”
Satan closed his eyes and shook his head side to side; “With that ownership? Forget it.”
“How ‘bout the Bears in the Super Bowl again? Don’t have to win it, just be in it.”
“When Hell freezes over, my friend,” jabbed Satan.
“World Peace?”
“Doc, I’m surprised by your naive imagination. I have too many tendered contracts on either side to even suggest the prospect of peace.”
Doc grew solemn. “Can I see my dad again?”
A pensive look came over Satan’s face, almost empathetic; “Look, I can prolong life, not indefinitely, but prolong it. I can’t resurrect the dead. My former buddy could do that, but my wings are clipped.”
Doc cleared his throat. “So basically, you can give me money and things, right?”
Satan huffed, “Now you’re attacking me, I feel triggered. Do you know how many people would die for the opportunity I’m offering you?”
Doc smirked; “Apparently not enough.”
“I didn’t come here to be insulted,” countered Satan, and he began pulling the hood back over his head. As he started to leave, Satan completed a quick but ungraceful pirouette and turned back hesitantly towards Doc; a hideous sneer crossed his devilish face; “I can cure your cancer. How about that?” he barked.
Doc’s face became flushed, and he began stuttering; “How, how did you know about my cancer?”
Satan began to laugh; “I could smell it. Call it my superpower.” After a long pause, Satan spoke again: “Things just got a little more interesting, Doc, wouldn’t you agree?”
Doc stood silently as Satan continued, “Why don’t I give you a couple of weeks to think about it. I’ll come back and we can discuss the terms.” In an instant, the entrance bell rang, the door remained closed, and Satan left Doc sitting alone contemplating what had transpired.
Doc slept little over the next two weeks, thought little of his business, thought more about his mortality and what he could do with either his abbreviated or extended life. His doctor had informed him that the cancer was spreading, could not be contained, and should begin getting his affairs in order. They gave him nine months, but with no guarantee.
In his office’s attached backroom, Doc had covered every inch of the back wall with photos of his travels: Riding by camel through the Sahara, floating down the Amazon in a hollowed-out canoe made from a majestic Kapok tree, a selfie with the Dalai Lama in the wispy, clouded mountains of Tibet. Doc remembered his smile and the peace it exuded.
In the center of the wall, was space dedicated to family photos. His family: mother, father, and sister gathered around a Christmas tree, a picture of him hugging and crying with his mom while getting in his first car headed off to college, photos of his sister’s twin daughters playing soccer and basketball. Doc’s mind was flooded by all these images and, for the first time in years, he cried, unabashedly cried.
Two weeks to the minute, the bell above the entranceway rang again. Doc had pulled out a club chair from the back room and waited cross-legged for Satan’s arrival. Satan eased out of the shadows once more and approached Doc; “Do I sense a bit of remorse, Doc? Have you come to your senses?”
Doc responded slowly, “I have.”
Satan chuckled, “Good. Where do we begin? I’m so excited to be working with you.”
“Hold on, Satan, what makes you think coming to my senses means working with you?”
“No?” Satan queried.
“I’ve played your proposal over and over again in my mind for the last two weeks.”
“And? Do you have any questions? Anything I need to clarify?” retorted Satan.
“No, it’s clear enough, but I’ve decided I want to take the next nine months and live them out under my terms,” answered Doc in a clear voice.
“Well, seven months, eight days, and 16 hours to be precise,” Satan muttered while shrugging his shoulders; “I’m sorry, it’s a gift.”
Doc looked directly at Satan; “You know, in a weird way I’m going to miss this banter. Under different circumstances, like not condemning a soul to an eternity of damnation, we could have made good business partners.”
Satan smiled but looked at a large watch appearing on his wrist; “I’m touched. But Doc, what can you possibly do in your allotted time to make it worthwhile, make the gift of prolonging your life seem so meaningless?”
Doc pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, blinked, and produced a tear; “I think I’ll reintroduce myself to my two nieces, have dinner with my sister’s family, and reminisce about our parents. I think I’ll go mountain biking in Moab and visit the Grand Canyon to watch the sunset glint on the river below. Maybe I’ll call on some old friends, give them some photos, visit my parents’ gravesite, and cry for a few minutes. And frankly, I’m going to give back to the community I’ve neglected all these years. My money will go a long way to help those in need.”
Satan became impatient but gave Doc his time; “Sounds dreadful if you ask me. I guess I won’t be seeing you on the other side of the river Styx any time soon.”
“I know it’s hard for you to understand. You’ve spent your lifetime in the business of misery, a joyless trek observing the worst of mankind. I want to remember the best, experience the beauty created for us.”
“Ok, ok. So, one last time; it’s a no?”
Doc laughed, “Yes, Satan, it was a good try, but no.”
Satan turned to leave and caught himself just before disappearing. He tilted his head and, without peering back at Doc, he asked one last question: “About that Joan of Arc autograph. Is it still in play? Cash, of course, no Venmo.”
Doc looked towards Satan just as he was about to dissolve into thin air; “I’ll have my lawyers provide the terms of our agreement, along with the invoice, but I’ll need your forwarding address.” As the bell rang, Doc heard Satan’s distinct laugh and his last words: “I’ll get you a number where I can be reached.”
Several months later, precisely seven months, eight days, and fourteen hours later, after Doc had told this story to a group of family and friends gathered around his bed at the ‘eleventh hour,’ a friend asked, “How did it all end, Doc?”
Doc raised his head from the pillow, coughed and weakly chuckled, amused by the question but more by the memory; “After my lawyers and Satan exchanged texts and worked out the arrangements, I called back a week later and told them we were good to go.”
“Did you ever hear back from him?”
“He never visited me again, but I did receive a lovely Thank-you card a few days back, no return address and no stamp.”
“And was there a message?” asked one of his enthralled and curious friends.
Doc smiled broadly; “Yes, in fact there was. It said;
“Thanks again – it’s perfect. Best of luck and say hello to my old friend when you get the chance. – Satan”
- The Purveyor of All Things Odd, Rare and Valuable - April 6, 2025
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