Morris ignored the revelers around him and drowned his sorrows in drink. He didn't remember what bar he'd stopped at, nor did he care if it was St. Patrick's Day. His novel had been rejected by 22 agents. He was a failure.
Someone tapped his shoulder. An old drunk. Morris gave him a five dollar bill and mumbled leave me alone. The man returned the money.
I have a proposition, he slurred. I don't go that way, Morris said. The man shook his head. Come, let's sit at a booth and I'll explain. They had barely settled in when the man pushed a sheaf of pappers toward him.
It's a contract, he said. Give it a read. The print is too small, Morris responded. The man sighed and burped. In a nutshell, you give me your soul, you get your book published.
Morris laughed cynically. Satan as a drunk. I don't think so.
I am not Satan. I'm his emissary and I'm 14 souls short of my quota. Sign the contract, please.
Morris thought a moment. Will I get foreign sales and movie rights from the book.
Yes, of course.
Will Ryan Gosling play me?
Well, we already own his soul. How do you think he got this far? Yes.
Morris signed. The man threw up on his shoe.
My bad. I'll throw in a new pair. By the way. You need to get rid of some of those adverbs. Satan has standards too.
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