“You can tell?” I asked excitedly. “It’s only been two days, but can you notice a difference already?
I tend to drop weight quickly in my face when I begin a new running routine. The chipmunk look is not good on me, so I’m secretly thrilled that my cheek fat is the first go.
“No, Forrest, your leg is elevated and wrapped in enough ice to sink the Titanic,” Lucifer quipped.
He was correct. My left leg was up on the table and there were several ice bags strapped to it with ace bandages. Apparently, my brain had become as numb as my lower limb.
“Yeah, I got back out on the road the last two mornings,” I explained casually like the seasoned runner I am not. “I thought my leg was finally healed, and my weight has gotten out of control, so I laced up my sneakers and put on my running toga.”
The Prince of Darkness removed a minuscule piece of lint from the left arm of his impeccably tailored suit jacket and replied, “For the one time low payment of your eternal soul, I could make it so that you’re fit and trim without ever having to run another day for the rest of your life.”
“I know this trick,” I told my house guest as I grabbed a Snapple out of the cooler. “You either make me fit and trim for like a day and then I die a mysterious death, or you let me live out my life and then put me on a treadmill on Hell for all eternity.”
“Never,” I answered quickly because I hate having to spend any time at the doctor. “All he’s going to tell me is that I strained a muscle, and then he’ll order an expensive MRI to prove a point that I had already self diagnosed for free.”
“You know your body best, Dr. Austin,” The Devil answered with a snicker. “What is this nonsense you have on the television, by the way? Are you watching a documentary about some third world country?”
“It’s the Summer Olympics,” I replied as I pointed to the Olympic rings that adorned the NBC logo in the corner of the screen. “That’s beautiful downtown Rio that you are mistaking for a third world nation.”
“Looks like a ring of Hell that’s still under construction,” Lucifer countered. “Are those dead fish washed up on the beach? What in the world is going on down there?”
“It certainly looks like dead fish,” I agreed.
We stared at the TV in confusion as some famous actor did a voice over narration about the conditions in Rio, as disturbing images of pollution and poverty were juxtaposed with those of jubilant crowds and world class athletes.
“If they’re going to allow the Olympics to be held in such awful conditions, I might put in a bit for Hell to host the games,” The Prince of Darkness mused.
“It would have to be the Summer Olympics,” I remarked.
“That goes without saying,” Satan snapped and then went back to his newspaper.
Well excuse me for for trying to be helpful. I rested my Snapple on one of my ice packs and went back to watching a Swimming event that took place in water that looked a million times cleaner than what was flowing outside through Rio.
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