Fun, Fun, Fun
Our father rarely goes out in search of souls himself these days. He prefers to leave such tasks to underlings, and concentrate more on administration. But he’ll go out on a job himself if a prospect particularly interests him, like the girl in California who swore she would sell her soul for a car.
A little bit of paperwork and a signature in blood later, our father gave her the car she wanted. And what a car it was. A Thunderbird, a convertible Flair Bird, cherry red with white leather interior. A 427, no less, the most powerful of them all, capable of zero to sixty in six seconds flat with a top speed of 135 miles per hour. Oh, it was a beautiful machine.
And she was beautiful when she drove it, too, with her red hair streaming behind her. The boys couldn’t resist racing her, but they never caught her, no. Her T-bird was her life, her joy, her one true love.
But she drove that car too fast, too hard. She was going northbound on Highway 1, doing a hundred and ten, when she misjudged a hard left turn. The beautiful car and the beautiful girl fell over the cliffside and into the steely gray waters of the Pacific.
So she didn’t get to enjoy that Thunderbird for very long, but a contract is a contract. Her soul belongs to our father now, and the caverns of Hell ring with her screams as we apply our pitchforks and white-hot brands to her tender pale flesh.
And we’ll have fun, fun, fun, now that Daddy took the T-bird away.