Selling Your Soul

Selling Your Soul
Written and Edited by PgFalcon


The sun was setting in the sky to the west, and I was sitting on the sofa of my two friend’s apartment. A regular day like any other: it promised nothing out of the ordinary might occur… but occur it did.

“Hey!” shouts John as I sit down heavily on his couch. “Be more careful!”

“Sure, sure,” I say dismissively, looking only to placate him but unable to refrain from grinning sardonically.

“I mean it! If you break my couch you’re buying us another one.”

I roll my eyes. John is a short, slightly fat college buddy of mine who has no real innate talents aside from complaining. Below average intelligence coupled with a below average work drive: the only reason he’s in college right now at all is because of his dad’s pushing. He’s barely passing classes that I myself tested out of easily… but we can’t all be geniuses can we?

“Anybody want a coke?” asks Danny, holding out a silver can while he bends over into the fridge.

Danny is skinny, entirely un-athletic, and has been a good friend since high school. Until I met him, he probably never even touched a basketball or football in his life. A compulsive gamer and fantasizer, he is also a strangely religious kid and dislikes books other than the bible. I could spend the rest of my life trying to understand him and fail.

He makes up for his oddness with moderate intelligence and a dogged persistence. He studies insanely hard, and through shear effort manages to force straight A’s out of his report card.

I, myself, almost never study. I’ve never really had the need to. Sitting through lectures is usually more than enough for me to get the passing grades I need to stay in school, even (and perhaps especially) in the tougher courses, and in the end that’s all I’m aiming for. Of the three of us I am the genius underachiever. Things just come naturally to me, and for that reason I’ve never really seen why I would ever need to work hard in school. Grades don’t matter nearly as much to me as they do to Danny. Danny himself is just smart enough to realize all of this, and he resents me a little for it, but in the end I’ve helped him more times with his homework than either of us care to count, and he helps motivate me to actually do my homework, so we figure it all to be fair trade in the end.

Plus we all really enjoy hanging out.

Tonight is gaming night. Personally I suck at videogames, mostly due to not having grown up with them, but I love playing anyway. My goal is rarely ever to “win” or come in “first”, but rather I have separate goals in mind and enjoy it all despite a powerful losing streak. Danny and John beat me soundly every time, but in games of physical skill like pool, bowling, darts, and sports I kick their asses equally well, so I usually don’t mind. Right now we’re playing Mario Cart languidly as we wait for the pizza to show up.

And as per usual, it doesn’t take long for our casual conversation to steer towards more philosophical matters.

“And God did make the blue shell, and saw that he fucked up,” I say wryly as I’m knocked out of first place.

“Hey, it’s a legitimate part of the game,” says John.

“Ah, so we’re playing with street rules then?” I reply, having by pure luck picked up a second blue shell, and I use it on him.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” John laughs as he spins out.

“Hey, language,” mumbles Danny.

“Behold: the power of the spoken word. Tis amazing, is it not, that mere vibrations in the air could cause the soul eternal damnation?” I elbow Danny in the ribs to show him I’m joking.

“It isn’t the medium that matters but the meaning,” he mumbles, following suit and speaking poetically. I said before that he’s of only moderate intelligence, but on occasion brighter lights shine through I suppose. I smile.

“Perhaps…”

Then a thought occurs to me.

“But if that were the case: maybe there is more to meaning than just empty words?”

Danny shrugs, but John just looks nonplussed. I take advantage of his distraction to hit him with a banana peel.

“Fuck!”

“John!”

“Danny!” I shout to complete the set, laughing.

I wipe a tear from my eye. I am so easily amused sometimes, but I continue none the less.

“What if, and let us just suspend our disbelief for a moment… what if vibrations in the air, filled with meaning, actually could result in you being damned. Or at least could potentially damn you. What if the universe were just one big sounding board, a computer running a program even, and the resonation of my hidden code were to set off a flag and be received by a being of unimaginable complexity and unknown origin, and said being were to judge me by my vocalizations…”

“Go on,” says Danny. He passed the finish line first, and leans back. John finishes second, and me last. I let out a disappointed sigh.

“Then theoretically we could communicate with such a being.”

“Well of course,” says Danny. “I speak with God daily.”

“But what if we didn’t want to talk to ‘God’? There is another power that supposedly exists isn’t there? Can’t the devil hear us too?”

“Theoretically, yes,” says Danny, though he doesn’t seem to like where this is going.

“So theoretically, a less, might I say, scrupulous nor mysterious being of power might deign to answer us back if we just voice the right meaning.”

Danny’s eyes narrow, and John just sits there.

“I highly doubt that…” he begins.

“But can you say with certainty it wouldn’t happen?”

I cock an eyebrow and give Danny my famous grin. The grin that heralds the start of one of our famous and often ill-thought-out misadventures, though I myself never notice when that sneaky look actually appears on my face. It’s an ill omen to Danny, and even John takes notice.

“We are NOT attempting contact with the devil just to prove me wrong here,” argues Danny.

“Au contraire! I intend to enter this venture to try and prove you right! Should I fail: no big deal. If we are successful, however… we could theoretically talk with a fallen angel. Think of how enlightening that would be?!”

“So you’re justifying it with science are you?” John says with a laugh.

“Yes. If the devil exists, and we can assume that a code of meaning can get his attention, I see no reason why we couldn’t create a message which he would be unable to resist answering.”

“I really, really, don’t like this,” says Danny. “Not that it would work in a million years mind you, but rather because you obviously don’t understand what Christianity is all about. You can’t just go around summoning the devil-”

“Test number one: I request an audience with the devil.”

“Hey! Stop that!”

“Test number two: if the devil should grant me an audience, I will owe him one favor.”

“I said stop!”

“Test number three: if the devil should grant me an audience, I will sign a contract in blood forfeiting my first born son to him.”

“STOP!”

“Test number four: if the devil should grant us an audience, I will sell him my soul…”

Now keep in mind I only said that at the time because I felt absolutely sure nothing was going to happen. Well…. something did happen. Imagine my face when it turned out Danny was right.

The lights in the room started glowing dark red, the floor started shaking, distant screams filled the air, and a terrible laugh flooded our brains. You know: the usual satanic stuff.

And then he arrived.

He looked like an exceptionally geeky lawyer, stepping through a doorway that just materialized in the center of the room. I caught a glimpse of a lake of lava before the door closed behind the man, and the blood seeping from the walls (as well as all the other demonic party-tricks), disappeared like a flash as soon as the doorway was gone.

It’s safe to say that we all pissed ourselves just a little bit. Some of us more than others perhaps.

“You fucking idiot,” mutters Danny. I’ve never heard him curse before or since.

“Which one of you said he’d sell his soul?” asks the lawyer.

“That’d be me. I’d hate to go back on my word.”

“Oh good! And I’d hate to have to drag you back to hell with me. Sign here please.”

The geeky lawyer pops open his leather briefcase, and inside is what looks like a credit card receipt all laid out nice and neat next to a black fountain pen.

“What’s this?” I ask, picking up the pen. “I sign this and lose my soul?”

“Nope: you lost your soul the second you spoke the words. The Master will give you a private audience after you die. This is just confirmation of receipt of The Book.”

“Ah,” I say, scribbling my name at the bottom. The fountain pen’s ink is red, and I can’t help but think that it uses blood. “What’s the book then?”

“Just a handy guide to becoming a demon and/or angel of death and destruction. Your particular job, during your remaining time on earth, will be to sow chaos. We have a feeling you’ll be great at it. Just be sure to follow the rules listed in chapter twelve and you’ll be fine.”

Underneath the receipt is a tiny black book with a pentagram carved into the binding.