I always thought the Devil was supposed to come to you in moments of desperation, when everything was going wrong and your only desire seemed utterly out of reach, or at least when some new idea has taken hold--some lust for a hedonistic life that only the Father of Lies can provide. All it costs is your soul.

I've been happy lately. Or maybe content is the word--everything is going well and it seems like there is nothing that could possibly make it go wrong. There's always doubt, of course. The strange conviction that nothing lasts, which in many ways it doesn't. But even that--the doubt that has been my constant companion for more than twenty years--is just a whisper now.

And last night I came home drunk and happy and put some music on and lay down on my bed to relax and enjoy myself, and the Angel of the Bottomless Pit appeared before me. He smiled at me. I told him I was happy where I was, and I didn't need his help with anything.

He smiled again. And then I knew, he wasn't here to tempt me with anything more than what I had--he was here to tempt me with exactly what I had. I could keep it forever. The doubt would go away. I could be happy and never have to worry that something would go wrong. It never would.

And then there was a contract, and me holding a pen, and I bit my lip to stifle a cry as I signed.

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