Quick short story I wrote based off the song 'Devil Went Down To Georgia'. Comments/Criticism?

It was August thirteenth, a Friday, a warm one at that, sweat was dripping down my brow every couple seconds and I was forced to wipe it with my sleeve. I found myself, as every other Friday, on the right of the two benches outside the local theatre on mainstreet. In such a small town all the large shops, restaurants and the one theatre were all located on that one street, it made for the perfect place to busk for some extra change. I sat there with my old Ibanez and a cheap battery powered amp I had bought with the cash I made doing the thing I was now. I looked down at my watch 9:15P.M. the movie should be getting out anytime now and I could start playing and making some money. The street was quite empty for a friday night, not a single person was walking down the sidewalk, no sound of an engine to warn me of a car passing by, the wind didn't even seem to blow, it was dead silent. It was also extremely dark for 9 o' clock, looking around I noticed that the streetlamp in front of me was the only one lit for at least a block, looking up there were no stars to pierce the black ink of the night sky, nor even a sliver of the moon. It all seemed rather strange, or maybe I was just psyching myself out, I began to play around with the six string on my lap going through different blues riffs and improvising to calm my nerves. I heard foot steps to my left and quickly snapped my head to look in the direction of the sound, it scared the shit out of me. There was a man making his way down the walk, his steps were slow and deliberate you could hear the distinct metallic click the buckles that fastened his boots made everytime he let a foot down. He wore an old fashioned suit, his sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows, the cuffs of the white dress shirt pulled over the jacket. They stuck out blindingly against the black of his suit; so dark it seemed the very light surrounding him was being sucked in. The jacket wasn't buttoned up and the tie he wore was loosened, the top button of the shirt undone. He walked with his head held low looking at the sidewalk he stepped on, A lit cigerette hung loosely from his mouth, the cherry burning red hot and bright against the night, the smoke flowing from the tip seemed to hover around him even as he walked until it seemed to evaporate into his pores giving him an ashen grey complexion. Even from a good fifteen feet I could see the stranger held a permanent crooked smile. A shadow covered most of his face ending just below his nose, concealing the strangers eyes. His hair was a glossy black, a medium length and perfectly disheveled into a messy sort of James Dean-esque flip. He continued to walk towards me hands in his pockets, looking as though he would just continue on past without a glance back. I looked back down at my guitar and continued to improvise.

"How long you been playing kid?"

I lifted my head to find the stranger standing two feet away facing me his eyes still covered in shadow, even though his head was now held high and his front was brightly lit from the theatre sign. I guess he was walking faster then I expected. It suddenly became extremely cold, I shivered, and by the feel of it should have been able to see my breath. He looked down his nose at me with that cocky crooked grin on his face, took a deep drag of his cigerette and pulled it from his lips. The smoke seeped from his mouth and back in through his nostrils.

"It's rude not to answer."

"Oh, sorry. Uhm I started playing when I was five, my father bought me my first guitar that year on christmas, 16 years ago."

"Hmmm."

He put the cigerette back in his mouth and reached into his pocket, flipping a coin into the guitar case at my feet, a single flash of bright gold.

"Kid you're playing that six string pretty hot, there's more where that came from, and boy I'll tell you what. I guess you wouldn't know it but I'm a player too. And if you'd care to take a dare, I'll make a bet with you. Now you play a good six string, boy, but give the Devil his due. I'll bet a guitar of gold against your soul. 'cause I think I'm better than you."

His ryhmes were soft as velvet, slow, and calm and yet there was a sense of hostility beneath. He was challenging me and if I'd refused he'd look down his nose at me more then he already was. I could tell he thought he was better then anyone he came in contact with, a cocky son of a bitch. He was clearly insane thinking he was the devil, and wagering my soul. "I was the best player in town and guitar duels were nothing new to me, I'd play the stranger and bring him down off his pedestal" I thought to myself.

"You have a deal 'Devil'. But I haven't another guitar for you to play."

My voice was shaky as I shivered from the sudden freezing temperature that seemed to accompany the stranger. He smiled, and walked toward the bench on the opposite side of the doors, reached down and pulled a black leather case from underneath. I could have sworn that wasn't there before. He made his way back to his place in front of me and laid the case at his feet, the gold fasteners unlocked as he set it down, opening it he pulled out a new black Les Paul. The finish looked so deep it seemed like an endless pit, there were ghosts, souls, sweeping across the sea of black. A trick my eyes must have been playing on me.

"Now, let me start this show."

With that he drug his long skeletal fingers across the strings, so sharp they might as well have been claws. The sound that escaped his guitar was a growl so deep and loud it should have come from a wild animal, and yet he was playing without an amplifier. He bent the strings and a chorus of a thousand damned souls echoed through the night. He began to play, it was a sound so terrifying it sent shivers through the marrow in my bones, the notes had a sort of eerie beauty to them that cannot be explained by mere words. As he played, the cigerette in his mouth bobbed to the rythym of his arm, spilling ashes that floated down on to the back of his picking hand, still glowing red hot, burning the skin, but as soon as the wounds appeared they healed. Another trick.. He continued to play with such elegance and ease it should have been impossible for any man, he swayed melodically to the tones that howled from the six string slung from his shoulder. The smoke he breathed seemed to linger and twist itself around the neck of the guitar until the fingers of his fretting hand moved so quickly they were barely even a blur would stir it and cause it to dissipate. When he was done he simply smiled cockily, took a deep drag of the cigerette and blew a smoke ring into my face. Nodding his head toward my guitar coaxing me to play. I couldn't fathom coming close to the talent this stranger possesed but I knew I had to play. As foolish as it sounds I was now truly scared for my soul.

"Damn, you're pretty good stranger, but let me show you how it's done."

I played the most complicated material I could muster, I played so hard my fingers began to feel like they were splitting , being rendered shreds from the strings. The back of my hands cramping so painfully it felt as though someone was dragging a hot knife through them, the cold wasn't helping either, it felt as though my fingers were about to freeze solid where they were and shatter from the stress of continuing to try and play. When I couldn't bare the pain anymore I stopped, out of breath and kneading my hands together to try and ease the pain. I looked up at the stranger to find him looking down his nose at me his eyes still encased in shadow, smiling more widely and crooked then he had his entire visit. His cigerette burnt down almost to the filter, he spit it out and extinguished it beneath his heel. I had lost. In a movement inhumanly swift he bowed and brought his face down to eye level with mine, the shadow on his face eased and I caught a glimpse of his eyes, a bright icy blue, with silver cataracts in the left. He smiled broadly, his teeth were impossibly white, small and as sharp as daggers.

"Well young Johnny I can see that I've been beat, I'll bow my head and lay this gold, and begin to make my leave."

He took the Les Paul off his shoulder and took a step towards me, I flinched slightly at his proximity and to this he let out a deep chuckle, or maybe a growl? He laid the guitar in my old ragged case, it seemed his own had disappeared, and as he turned around to walk back a few steps he kicked the case closed with the heel of his boot and paused, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a package of smokes shook one into his hand and put the pack back in his pocket, he put the cigerette between his lips and turned to face me.

"Remember this kid I'll come back when I'm willing to try again, but as for now Johnny boy, you're the best that's ever been.
You've won the wager I made with you, a guitar of gold against you soul, it turns I'm lesser then you."

I reached down to open my case, a new confidence struck in me. He slammed his foot down on the top, when I looked up at him he was lighting his smoke with no match or lighter in his hand, it seemed the flame had reared itself from his fingers. He hissed and shook his head, he then started to walk down the street again, still slow and deliberate, as he left I could feel the warmth starting to seep back into my bones. I looked up at the night sky thankful for the heat, the pain in my hands had subsided. I looked down at my watch again and as soon as I did it changed from 9:15P.M. to 9:16P.M.
The doors of the theatre opened and the crowd of people started to flow into the street. I looked down at the guitar case thinking it was impossible our meeting had seemed to go on for hours. Reaching down I opened my case to find the Devils guitar, but the once haunted sea of black had changed to a solid brilliant gold.