Supply and Demand

The smell in the garage was abominable, even with the side door open. I couldn’t open the front, obviously -- I didn’t want Mrs. Erskine walking by with her fucking shih tzu and making snide comments about how sloppy my pentagram was or bitching at me because the HRA didn’t allow open flame anywhere outside the kitchen, fireplace, or barbecue. Hardly the kind of scene I’d want Satan to pop in on.

But Jesus, was it hot. And getting hotter. I was thinking I might just open a window when I realized just how smoky the garage had gotten. The sweat running down my back turned ice cold when I heard the low chanting, and the distant keening of damned souls.

And there he was.

There he fucking was. One second nothing but a haze of smoke, the next, a handsome man in a dark grey suit. He looked to be about 50 or so, with salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, and good skin. 

“Hello Matthew.”

“H-hi,” I stammered. “I … are you …?”

“The Devil,” he nodded, “yep.” He looked around the garage with polite interest, as if he was mildly intrigued by the used power tools, oil stains, paint cans, and arcane designs in chicken’s blood. “What can I do for you, son?”

I felt my chest tighten. This was it. This was it. I recited to myself all the loopholes and twists I had to avoid, all the mazes of deceit that I knew he’d try to throw me into. Maybe I was going to be damned, I had told myself over and over, but I wasn’t going to be cheated in the process.

“L-Lord Lucifer,” I said, voice shaking, “I wish to sell … uh … sell my s-soul.” 

He looked down, almost sheepishly.

“To you,” I added.

“Yeah,” he said, scuffing at the pentagram with one immaculately-shined Moreschi oxford. “I know.”

I frowned, more at his almost apologetic tone than anything else. I wasn’t prepared for whatever tactic this was, and it made me nervous.

“So …” I started, then stopped. I cleared my throat and began again. “So I’d like to … uh … discuss the price … I mean, what I get out of the deal,” I said.

Lucifer sucked air through his teeth. 

“Here’s the thing, though,” he said, and again, he seemed apologetic, even embarrassed. “I’m not really buying, at the moment.”

I blinked, and the tension flowed out of me as confusion flowed in.

“Not buying?” I echoed. “Not … like … what, you don’t want souls, or …?”

“Oh, I want souls,” he said, nodding. “Obviously. I mean, they’re pretty much my stock in trade.” He laughed, a pleasant, self-deprecating chuckle. Then his smile faded and he shrugged. “But some souls are … well, the thing about this is that I’m pretty confident I’m going to get your soul anyway.”

“What!?” I was incredulous. This was not how things were supposed to go. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded. “I’m not a bad person!”

Lucifer held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. 

“Hey, hey, I’m not judging you,” he said, and added, with a smile, “That’s not my job.”

Seeing that this did not placate me in the slightest, he went on.

“Look, Matt -- can I call you Matt?” I nodded, sullen. “Matt, you have to understand that the Big Man, he’s got a pretty narrow set of criteria for the non-damned.” He shook his head, his tone regretful. “I don’t make the rules,” he said. “I don’t even enforce them. But I know them, Matt. I know the rules, and, buddy, even offering to sell me your soul is kind of a mortal sin these days.”

Lucifer looked out the open side door into my yard. “It used to be a little more flexible,” he lamented. “Once upon a time, you could make deals with me and maybe even get yourself a life of carnal and hedonistic delight.” He looked at me with a small shake of his head. “Times are getting tight,” he said, “and I really have to pick my battles.” He pointed a fingergun at me and mimed firing. “My actuaries put you pretty confidently in the ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t,’ column, so I’m going to have to pass and take my chances.”

I gritted my teeth. “Well … what if I suddenly started going to church and stuff? Huh?” I challenged him. “What if I redeem myself and … you know … get saved, or whatever.” 

“‘Get saved or whatever,’” he echoed me, with a mocking but not unkind tone. “Do you hear yourself?” He shook his head. “Kid, let’s be realistic. You didn’t want to work for happiness, and you were ready to dump your soul for the chance of a couple years of it. Even now, with proof that I exist, and that all this matters, you’re still hoping I’ll bite and you’ll get a lazy man’s piece of paradise.” He snorted. “You’re not going to do the legwork and the heavy lifting to live a life of virtue, Matt,” he predicted, “and even if you intended to, you don’t even know which religion is the right one.”

Seeing I was disconsolate, Lucifer put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

“Look, Matt,” he said. “It’s not all bad. I mean, sure, hell is a place of torment and pain for eternity, but all your friends will be there!”