Congratulations on Fucking the Devil!

When you wake up this morning your head will be splitting, your mattress spinning. The world will seem a blur, a horrible place you’d rather avoid if you could but it’ll be right there, pouring into your skull through every freshly opened crack and crater. Sunlight will ooze under your skin and burn you cold, an oil slick cross your consciousness.

Your lids will flutter open unbidden, letting in the horrid vision of your bedroom. Sheets will be wrapped around you, strangely moist with some indistinct bodily fluid. You’ll pause for a moment, breathing in tentatively before you realize, with relief, that it’s sweat they’re soaked in. Your relief will last until you look to your left and see who’s laying with you.

It’ll be the devil. Not like an overly suave, handsome dude who talked you into bed, but the literal fucking devil. He’ll have horns, dark red skin, a goatee and a shitty hair cut. The whole deal. You’ll feel his tail flicking you under the covers as he smiles at you, hungrily.

“Last night was wonderful,” he’ll say. He’ll clearly have been watching you for a while as you slept restlessly. You’d like to think that he was watching to see if you’d throw up on yourself, watching you to keep you safe, but you’ll immediately realize, upon looking into his eyes, that he’d most likely wait for you to choke to death on your own vomit and then fuck your corpse if that had happened.

“Oh God,” you’ll say under your breath, tasting a little bit of throw up with the words. He’ll let loose a laugh, a terrible sharp thing over his smile.

“Not quite,” he’ll say, wincing out a new smile, somehow crueler, as he brings himself up to mount you.

“Whoa,” you’ll say, putting your hand on his chest. “Whoa.”

The devil will frown and lick his lips. “Where was this fight last night?” he’ll say, grabbing your tit over the sheets. You’ll pull away from him, exposing his penis. It will be a narrow, needle like thing, its color implying disease which may or may not be there.

“You need to leave,” you’ll say, looking him straight in the eye.

He’ll sigh as he gets up, collecting his cloak and boot cut jeans from your floor. “Everyone on your Facebook friends list is going to know about this, FYI,” he’ll say as he slips out of the door, his tail nearly catching in the jamb on his way out.

Once he’s gone you’ll wrap yourself in sheets and pray that you have the day off. You’ll stare at your cell phone, waiting for Marv to call and tell you you’re late. You’ll stare for a seeming eternity before a new, greater dread takes hold of you and you realize that the devil might have your phone number. You’ll weigh the trouble of rejecting him against the bother of navigating Verizon’s customer service to change your phone number.

It will not be an enviable choice.

Congratulations on Fucking the Devil!