The handmade Italian shoes that he rested on the porch railing definitely cost more than my monthly mortgage payment on The House on the Hill.
“We don’t come out here because, while the Sundays With Satan Short Stories Series is the most popular feature on the blog, we’re still operating on a shoestring budget,” I explained in an exasperated tone as I fished a Snapple out of the cooler that sat between us. “There’s really only money for the living room set. Changing location to the front porch is an expense we really can’t afford.”
“I’ve told you hundreds of times that money is no object, and I’d be happy to foot the bill,” Lucifer reminded me as he flashed his most charming smile. “Besides, doesn’t Snapple pay you a handsome fee for the product placement?”
I rolled my eyes and took a long sip of Snapple. My Lemon Iced Tea went down smooth because it clearly was made from the best stuff on Earth.
“And I’ve told you repeatedly that I am never going to make a deal with The Devil,” I snapped back as I shielded my eyes from the blinding afternoon sun. “I don’t care if you say you’ll just give me the money and want nothing in return. The Nuns didn’t raise me to be a sucker!”
“I’m offended by that comment!” The Prince of Darkness growled as he peered at me angrily over his designer sunglasses. “I’d tell you to go to Hell, but I’d rather not run into you there while I’m so upset at you.”
He stood up to leave and quickly brushed some imaginary lint off of his impeccably tailored suit. Then he finished his Snapple and slammed the bottle onto the railing.
“For the record, Snapple does not pay me a penny for product placement,” I sighed. “I’d love for them to sponsor this blog and give me my own Snapple vending machine, but thus far, I haven’t been able to get anyone to return my calls.”
“I’d help you with that, as your friend,” Satan volunteered, “but I wouldn’t want you to run afoul of The Nuns by accepting my good will.”
“Fine!” I yelled at him.
“Fine!” The Devil replied calmly because he was always so cool in a heated situation. “I will see you next Sunday, back inside on the same, boring set we use every week.”
Lucifer snapped his fingers and his pitchfork jumped from where it rested against the porch wall and into his right hand. He looked like he had thoughts of impaling me on his deadly weapon, but he knew better than to attack perhaps the only person on this planet who treated him like anything other than The Prince of Darkness.
Instead, he walked off toward the porch steps. I waited until he began his descent before I finally spoke again.
“What the Hell are you talking about?” Satan queried as he turned to face me. “I look damn good in this suit.”
“You look like an overdressed freak sitting out here in a three piece suit that covers virtually ever part of your body that this gorgeous Spring sun can make tan,” I rebutted.
I made a play of pointing out all the exposed skin my shorts and tee shirt made available to the sun’s rays.
“You’ve always been envious of my wardrobe. That’s one of the Seven Deadly Sins you know,” The Devil pointed out as he waved his pitchfork in my general direction.
“Carrying a farm tool while wearing Armani is a sin against fashion,” I informed him with a smirk. “Keep busting my chops, and I’ll report you to the Fashion Police.”
We had an intense stare down that lasted about three seconds. Then we both broke out laughing and he walked back to his chair.
“We definitely need to hang out here more often,” Lucifer suggested as he reached for an ice cold Snapple.
“I concur,” was all I could get out in terms of a reply because I was far more interested in finishing my delicious Snapple.
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