Peaeater

It's my Dad's birthday March 1st. What do you get for the man who doesn't like anything?

Well, I pried the iron lid off the Dread Portal With Express Elevator Service Straight To Hell, which we have in the basement (free install with low low payments of 29.95/mo.), and shuttled on down to make an appointment with the Grand High Really Evil Guy.

For some reason, when you wish to strike a serious supernatural deal, you must always go down. S'rules.

I found the Prince of Darkness smoking with his feet up on an overstuffed hassock, which on closer inspection turned out to be the Pope. "Your Holiness," I nodded. The hassock snorted.

The Devil waved his hand at a side table upon which lay a contract and a pen, then took a drag on his cigarette. Apparently he'd been expecting me. I read it over. It was diabolical.

But I signed it. Hey, I've entered into more Faustian bargains with my cell phone provider. You don't understand the impossibility of getting Dad something he's sure to like.

In the elevator on the way back up, I had time to wonder: "Does the Church of Satan get together every year for a satanic church picnic?"