: I ask the Devil about the lipstick on his teeth and he licks it off, before I can applaud him on the color. “That was a warm-up,” I say. “Shall we begin?”
: “Been a journalist long?”
: “I ask the questions. You answer them. That’s how an interview works. So tell me. You miss the old days when you had wings?”
: He smiles and studies the floor. “Turn off the recorder. Then I’ll tell you. Please?”
: “So polite. Dad must be proud.”
: The Devil then tells a tale I can only take to the grave — the one he’s agreed to come to personally, so I don’t get lost later.
{flash fiction ~ Tommy Tung}
{art ~ Hannah Adamaszek}
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Fiction Mostly 
Would love to know what that tale entailed.