“The thing I want you to think about,” he was dressed in a suit of bloody valentine, “because I’m so perplexed by it myself,” charcoal bowler cap tilted dangerously to the left, “why on earth, knowin’ what your mama told ya’,” drawing a pack of cigarettes from his blazer, “would you want to sell your soul,” lighting the tip with a snap of his smoldering fingers, an inhale, “to the Devil?”

Exhale. A moment of silence (beat to our thespian friends).

“Well,” and not the timid kind, but the assertive, “I just really need five dollars.”

“And that’s what you’d reckon you soul’s worth?”

He reaches forward, soliciting a drag from the devil’s cigarette. “Something like that,” it passes hands, and the seller take a puff, “I guess $4.74, but ya know”, another drag met with a cough, “that’s before taxes.”

Beat.

They both laugh.

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