Congratulations on Summoning the Actual Devil!

The scent of brimstone will cut through the odor of rosemary and tomatoes grilling.  You'll already have your hands washed and half dry on your way to the door before your hear the knocks, ominous, singular, fist hammering at it like a pillar of stone assailing your home.  When you crack it open he'll be standing there, black suit neatly pressed, goatee fit to a fine point, hair slicked back.  The horns won't be there, but the air around his scalp will shimmer just so, twisting the light, hinting that something is concealed.

"Chet!" he'll cheer at you, even though he knows your name is Chaz.

"Asshole!" you'll say back, and the devil will laugh.

"Good to see you again," he'll murmur, shaking your hand and patting you on the back, leaving a sooty handprint on your shoulder and a burning sensation on your skin.

After that, things will settle down more or less as expected.  He'll sit down and open up the moderately priced wine he brought, a decent Burgundy.  You'll fill him in on the last few months, he'll mostly just ask questions he already knows the answer to, and eventually, after you finish cooking your sauce, the two of you will eat.  All in all, a pretty ordinary end to a pretty ordinary week where you met up with your old roommate, Tim Allen, who, following a series of unsuccessful films, assumed the mantle of the actual fucking devil through a contract snafu.

Congratulations on Summoning the Actual Devil!