Johnny “Three Fingers” Malone met the Devil in a juke joint outside Clarksdale, Mississippi. He didn’t need a crossroad—hell, the Devil had been waiting for him at the bar. “You want the sound, don’t you?” the Devil grinned, tapping his bony fingers against the counter.
Johnny nodded, already half-drunk on rotgut whiskey and dreams of fame.
The deal was simple: the Devil handed him a battered Gibson, strings frayed and humming like a ghost’s last breath.
Johnny played one chord and felt his soul crack open like a cheap tin of sardines. He hit the road that night, but every song he played sounded like a funeral.
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