"Just a signature is all it'll take," said the blood-red horned man in the stylishly cut Italian three-piece suit. The feather he handed me burned with a blue flame that emitted heat but no sound.

I looked over the contract. "So this will make me the greatest Project Gotham Racing 2 player on the planet, eh?" I asked, peering at the miniscule print etched in ancient hand onto what appeared to be a scroll of human skin. "In return for ... WHAT? My SOUL!?" I pushed the contract back to him. "Not that I'm using it or anything, but no deal."

"WHAT!?" boomed the man across from me, pounding his red hands on my kitchen table. His nails were over an inch long and black as obsidian. "But you said --"

"I said I'd sell my stereo just to master this game," I pointed out. "I was upset, you know, when I shook my fists at the heavens and shouted it into my Xbox headset. But I remember I was very clear on that part. About the stereo."

The man hissed something through his teeth that I won't repeat here.

"Well you don't have to get emotional," I said, offering to give back his feather.

"Of COURSE I'm emotional. I'm SATAN!" he roared, his voice reverberating and dimming the lights. I think I actually saw smoke as he snatched away his contract. "Stupid garbled headset and its stupid robot voice," he muttered, standing up. "I told them to fix that. Bill and I are going to have to have another of our little chats."

The devil was about to leave my apartment when he stopped in his tracks. He peered above my entertainment center with squinty eyes, noticing for the first time my shiny new stereo. It was a sweet setup, complete with dual-midwoofer 8-inch floor speakers. Then he turned back to me. "This it?" he asked. I nodded.

He pursed his lips appreciatively and arched an eyebrow.

"So what can I get for my stereo?" I asked.

The Prince of Darkness settled into my couch, then crossed one leg over the other. His shoes, I noted, must've cost a fortune. He reached an arm casually over the back of the seat.

"One ... perfect ... lap," he offered.

Ordinarily, I'd refuse. But then again, Xbox Live records your scores -- you know, permanently. If I had the perfect lap... it would stay there, forever.

Reaching into the breast pocket of his three-piece suit, the Devil withdrew a dog-eared 3x5 card smudged with barbecue sauce. On one side was a contract. On the other was a Microsoft end-user license agreement.

I picked up the flaming feather pen.

"Hook me up."