“What is thy dread bidding, master?” the imp intoned.

“Wretched spawn of the hell-pits, it is my wish that… wait, is that a pirate hat?” the magician said, registering the headgear.

“Er, no,” the imp said as the article in question poofed away in a puff of smoke. “I mean, not really. Just… just some dark glamour. It looked like a pirate hat, though. Good eye.”

“Why were you wearing a pirate hat?”

“Well, it gets boring, living in a bottle,” the imp said. “So I took up a hobby.”

“Playing pirate?”

“Well, not at first,” the imp said. “At first I was just amusing myself by grabbing little crafty things for myself whenever you sent me out into the world, and then I got into model-building, and then from there it just sort of… snowballed.”

“You mean you built a ship inside your bottle?”

“I think it could catch on,” the imp said. “Though I think if you got me a slightly larger bottle, a glass one, then it might be a little more, you know, functional. As a decoration, I mean. Decorative, I guess, would be the word.”

“I didn’t summon you from the hell-pits for decorative purposes.”

“Right, no, you didn’t,” the imp said. “But I’m just thinking… when I’m in the bottle, which is most of the time, you’re not getting any use out of me anyway. But with a glass bottle and maybe some kind of a display stand, maybe a nice polished red walnut or a polished mahogany… well, you’d just be getting more value. And since you gave up your soul to bind me, you might as well get as much as you can out of the deal. Right? I mean, am I right?”

“…let’s just get back to my dread bidding,” the magician said.

“Right,” the imp said. “It was only a suggestion.”

“Ain’t no shame in losing honestly,” Johnny said. “Even if it’s the only honest thing you ever do.”

“Yeah, well, there’s the rub,” the devil said. “See, I wasn’t completely honest.”

“You don’t… you don’t actually have a gold fiddle, do you?”

“Not solid gold,” the devil said. He waved his hand, and a shiny if somewhat crinkly looking instrument appeared. “The foil is real gold leaf, but underneath, it’s… well… chocolate.”

Johnny stared at the devil for a moment, then burst out laughing.

“At least you have a sense of humor about it,” the devil said, handing over the gold-wrapped fiddle.

“I guess you don’t recognize me,” Johnny said.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve met before,” Johnny said. “When I was ’bout twelve, thirteen… I ran into you at a crossroads and you made me a deal. I gave you my soul then and there, and in exchange you made me…”

“…the best damned fiddle player the world had ever seen,” the devil said, realization washing over him.

“That’s right,” Johnny said, shaking his head with a big, goofy grin on his face. “The best damned fiddle player… heck, I tried to throw the match, since if you beat me it would prove that I wasn’t the best and I could get out of our deal, but… I guess it doesn’t work that way? Because no matter what I tried, I played to beat the devil anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s how it works,” the devil said.

“So, you never had a gold fiddle…” Johnny said.

“…and you didn’t have your soul,” the devil said.

“Chocolate?” Johnny said, breaking the fiddle’s neck and proffering a piece.

“Sure,” the devil said. “Though it’s not actually very good chocolate.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be.”

“Nope.”