En Passant

The Contract

 

Sam was none too bright. He had, in fact, bored Satan, who normally was entertained and occasionally minimally challenged by wriggling attempts of condemned to abrogate the deal. Sam, however, provided nothing novel. Unlimited wealth, ultimate respect. Yawn.

Six months had passed since Sam had eagerly engaged Satan. Time enough to become somewhat inured to the glamour and raced-pace of living the substance-less playboy life. About halfway through the trip, he recognized he was not smart enough to forestall the inevitable. He could wish for long life but that would only buy him a few decades, which wasn’t a grain of salt in a cauldron of soup compared to forever. Fortunately for him, undeserved wealth draws rubber-neckers just like car wrecks, and among the scam artists and hangers-on and unknown relatives were some actual people with acumen and experience, wanting access to Sam’s wealth to help him increase his own and enrich them in the process. Although he spurned most of their advice, he did listen keenly to suggestions on how to withdraw from binding agreements. It couldn’t be done, if the contract were clever enough, unless he retained a cleverer lawyer.

Boilerplate controlled. Sam had three wishes in exchange for his soul. The same rules applied. If Satan could not grant a wish then the contract was void and Sam was off the hook. If Sam tried to renege, then Sam was immediately transported to the flaming netherworld.

He had exhausted two wishes and found neither satisfying. Since he had not earned his money and did not deserve respect, in short order he appreciated neither. It was time for his third wish.

Satan visited him in his capacious study off the living room of his coastal home. A fire roared and beautiful women were strewn throughout the mansion’s many rooms like dirty laundry. Sam smoked a pipe at his escritoire and did not rise when Satan appeared.

“It’s time, Sam,” Satan informed him without a trice of excitement or suspense.

“Yes,” Sam replied. “I suppose it is.” He kicked his feet on the desk and crossed them.

“So what’s it gonna be, Sam?” Satan inquired.

Sam exhaled a smoke plume and answered, “I’d like God to be my lawyer.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Satan said and disappeared.

Sam’s an old bachelor now, unknown and in debt up to his large hairy ears. And still awaitin’ Satan.

 

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