Aiden walks into the meeting room, a white space without a wall or exit in sight, and allows the door to close behind him. The Woman In The Red Suit is at a desk suspended in mid-air. Her hands are neatly folded. Her glance holds a phlegmatic beckoning. Aiden, a pleasant bounce in his step, delivers a firm, decisive shake.

“It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“Something like that,” she says.

The forty-four-year-old-man sits comfortably and presents a single sheet of paper from a translucent file slip. He slides the proposal across the table. “I’d tell you to google me,” he says, noting the lack of technology (or even a pen and paper), “but it doesn’t look like you can.”

She smiles at his triteness, “Oh, Google isn’t necessary,” and looks over the proposal for three seconds. “So what questions do you have for me?” the woman asks dryly.

“How long will it take to get started?”

“Instantaneous.”

“I see. And how long will it take to resolve the complete issue?”

“In-stan-tay-nee-us,” she enunciates.  

“And just to be clear, you’ll make her shut up. As if the entire situation never existed.”

“Yes, as if you never went to that club last December. As if you never messaged her on Instagram. As if you never failed to pull out, and as if you never attempted to coerce her into signing an NDA, which ultimately also failed,” she lists.  

Aiden thunders, “As if she never tried to cheat me out of 300 million dollars and threatened to ruin my home, my reputation and my legacy?” It’s evident this thought has been circulating within him as of late, never failing to rouse fury that’s ironically masochistic, regardless of how many times he’s come to it. The man, though beet red, retakes control of his tone. “And what happens exactly? Does anyone die?” he asks, auditing his liability.

“Oh no. Not from this. They’ll live until death decides to take them.”  

“Will I remember any of it?”

“You will remember everything. Their memories, however, will be wiped.”

He lurches forward, “Alright. Where do I sign?”

She hovers her hand, signalling a halt. “I haven’t evaluated your offer yet.”

“Is there a better offer? You’ll own the soul of arguably the most powerful man on earth.”

“Define ‘powerful.’”

“Rich. Influential.”

“To whom?”

“The entire First World. And the Third World labor force.”

“I already own 99.9% of capitalism, and your work doesn’t fall into the .01% that remains to be acquired,” the woman states. “Besides, your soul’s value is heavily diluted. You’ve in fact pledged it to me and various other entities several times already–granted those were verbal agreements, the first being when you were twelve. You were a finalist in your city’s scholastic wrestling championship, and you had managed to poison your opponent with non-lethal doses of bleach a week leading up to the match. However, having always been a man of faith over science, you also vowed your soul to the devil so that he would lose.”

Aiden grins, fondly remembering his middle school medal and all the hedonistic bounty that came with it. “We go way back, don’t we?”

“And that’s why you’re of less value to me.”

“What can I add? I’ll throw in anything less than 300 million.”

She’s unaffected.

“Hell, I’ll do 300 million. So long as the situation is entirely wiped, it’s worth it for me.”

“You’re foolish to think money would be of any use to me,” she declares.

At this the man realizes his scarcity in capital. “What would you like?” he asks with more strain. “Good acts? I’ll start a center for the homeless.” His tempo imparts the vague onset of desperation. “Bad acts! I’ll have a homeless shelter–several main shelters–shut down by the government.”

“There’s enough evil on earth already. I crave eternal control of human life force.” She says matter-of-factly, “I simply want soul, but you don’t have much left to give.”

He chortles. “What, do you want my dog’s soul as well? My personal assistant’s?” he appeals, “My kid’s nannies? Look, I’ll have them sign whatever.” His voice rises with contrived jolliness, “they do anything I tell them to!”

The woman shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be official.”

“You’re killing me.”

“You wish it were that painless.”

Aiden reaches into his pockets but doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Here, he gives into panic. “My pills. Where the fuck are my percs?”

“You can’t bring pills in here.”

“I know that, Dipshit, but I brought them in. I had them in a discreet two by one little plastic baggy that you put your fucking drugs in.” Aiden searches frantically, patting every fold on his three piece suit. He sweats. “Jesus, am I fucking high right now?”

The Devil looks on, rather delighted.  

“You’re a mean bitch, you know that? You’re a real c*nt.” he snaps, attacking her with a dark-eyed, lurched glare that’s simultaneously vindictive and pathetic, like a scavenger hovering over a week-dead found meal.

“Easy there,” she smiles. “I was just having a little fun.” The Devil hands him a needle and passes his paper back to him. “I’ll take you up on your offer. You can sign it in blood.”

He pricks his finger and signs quickly, fearing she might retract the decision.  

The woman examines it, pleased. “You think you’ve won again?”

“I know you don’t think that, but I really don’t care what you think. No offense.”

“Your meager soul, diluted as it may be, is still worth more than anything material on that earth. Had I let you walk out, you could have gone back and chosen to reform at any point. Bereaved of wealth and glory, you would have been forced to face the people in your life and to recognize the person you’ve become. Perhaps you would start meditating, reading transcendental philosophies, searching for inner peace, seeking harmony and genuine human connection. You might have gone to rehab. Your children and wife might have become proud of you. You could have been the world’s best grandfather. Your death would have been mourned, your presence would have been missed. But you’ve chosen arrogance. You’ve chosen what you think is power, and what you believe to be wealth. Your children, they will grow to resent you by the time they graduate primary school. Your wife, she won’t find out about this mistress’s pregnancy, but she already knows you’re an adulterer; and once she moves past sorrow and self-deprecation, she will despise you. She will make it her life’s mission to retaliate on the pain you’ve caused her and her children. Those who don’t know you will admire your name for what you’re able to buy with money. Those who know you, though, will believe wholeheartedly that the world is be a better place without you. And when you vanish from that earth, I will own your soul. Lifetime after lifetime, you will be trapped in this cycle, chasing wealth and vanity. You will never feel true happiness, your soul will never feel fullness, and you will never be at rest.

Aiden stares soberly into the Devil’s eyes. There’s an involuntary jerk in his upper lip, and a faint croak slips out his voice box. He cracks a smile. “There’s no one I’d rather be with than you, Baby.”

“Thanks, Aiden. You’ll find your oxycontin pills in your pocket when you exit.”

Aiden leaves through the same door from which he came in.