“Your competition gets a lot of publicity for creating everything in six days, and then taking off the seventh day, presumably, to watch football,” I mentioned to my guest as I wiped chicken wing sauce from my face with a handful of napkins. “But no one ever gives you any credit for creating Hellfire Wings!”
An enormous smile crept across The Devil’s handsome face, as he carefully wiped his hands so as to not transfer damaging sauce onto his impeccably tailored suit.
“Thanks for saying that, Austin” he replied sincerely as he reached into the cooler for two bottles of Snapple. “I don’t think anyone else knows about my passion for cooking.”
Lucifer handed me one of the bottles and I held mine up for a toast.
“Football is Hell, but at least there’s wings!” I declared.
We tapped bottles, and then took a long, mighty drink of iced tea. I’d never been to Hell, and never intended to visit, but I had long suspected that The Prince of Darkness’ Hellfire Wings were as hot as the kingdom over which he ruled.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d made this batch spicy enough, but judging from the river of sweat running down your face, I’d say I was spot on,” Satan quipped with a Devilish grin.
“If I weren’t addicted to these thing, I’d throw a platter out onto the lawn to melt all the snow,” I replied before getting to work on devouring yet another wing.
“Nice try, but we both know you’re not only well aware that the Broncos are playing the Panthers, but that you also know exactly how many souls you earned by promising that those teams would make it to the Super Bowl,” I told him confidently as I waved my half eaten wing in his general direction.
Don’t worry. I didn’t get any Hellfire Wing sauce on his precious suit.
“You know me well,” Lucifer confessed. “The stakes were high this year. So many people were desperate to see Peyton Manning make it to one last Super Bowl before he retires. And there was an odd number of lost souls who said they’d give anything to hear him scream “Omaha!” repeatedly on football’s grandest stage. People are weird.”
I nodded in agreement and kept eating.
“On the other side, there was a large contingent who wanted to see Cam Newton finally get all the glory he deserves. You know I’m a sucker for a Cinderella story,” The Prince of Darkness admitted.
I wasn’t quite sure what made Cam Newton a modern day Cinderella, but this Modern Philosopher knows enough not to disagree with someone who can literally give me the horns, followed by a pitchfork.
“So who’s going to win?”
“That’s mighty big of you,” I applauded him with words, not with my hands, because those were too busy taking more wings off the platter. “I guess that means you’re not going to collect the souls of those poor fools who made a deal with you in return for a Super Bowl victory.”
“Hell no!” The Devil exclaimed. “I might be slightly reformed from hanging out with you so much, but it’s not like I suddenly grew a conscience or anything.”
Sometimes, not often, I forgot who I was talking to. Of course he was going to keep their souls. I’m going to blame my temporary naivete on the Hellfire Wings.
Enjoy the Super Bowl!