“No way,” I shouted back from the dining room far from his curious eyes. “There’s no way I’m letting anyone see me like this.”
“You’re being a baby. If you come in, I promise to change your diaper and give you your bottle,” Lucifer mocked.
“I’d much rather be wearing a diaper,” I countered from the other room.
“The sooner you get this over with, the quicker you can get on with your mundane, fashion nightmare of a life,” The Prince of Darkness offered as an enticement to lure me into my own living room.
Finally, I just caved and gave my annoying guest what he wanted.
“I look ridiculous,” I announced as I stood in the doorway.
The impeccably tailored suit was the most expensive outfit I’d ever put on a body so entirely unworthy of something that cost more than I made in a month…with overtime.
“That looks absolutely perfect,” Satan cooed and applauded like he was in the audience at a runway show. “Francois is not only the best tailor in Hell, but he is also the finest tailor ever to once walk the Earth.”
“Let’s just say you’re a very heavy sleep,” The Devil mumbled in reply.
“Ha ha!” I countered with mock laughter. “Wait…what? You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Lucifer flashed his most Devilish grin. “Suit up!” he declared. “I feel like Barney from How I Met You Mother. Didn’t you used to love that show?”
“Yeah, until the last season,” I grumbled as I loosened the tie that was trying to choke the life and the freedom out of me. “I hated the way it ended.”
“You really have a problem with things ending in a manner who didn’t expect or appreciate, don’t you?” The Prince of Darkness shot back at me.
“Low blow,” I complained. “Look, you just know I’m not a suit and tie kind of guy.”
“But you’re supposed to dress for success,” Satan reminded me as he pointed at his own impeccably tailored suit. “Dress for the job you want.”
“The problem is, you dress like an ancient Greek philosopher,” The Devil admonished.
“Togas are relaxing and no hassle,” I argued like the high powered lawyer I had just stated I didn’t want to be.”
“Maybe the fact that your entire wardrobe looks like it was stolen from Socrates’ crypt is the reason why your Sweet Irish Girl refuses to cross the ocean,” Lucifer quipped in another low blow that doubled me over and probably wrinkled the suit.
“Wow!” was the best I could come up with once I stood up straight again to face my fashion tormentor.
“It had to be said. Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with?” The Prince of Darkness asked as he sipped an ice cold Snapple.
I wanted a Snapple of my own, but I was told there was absolutely no food or drink allowed while I was in my absurd costume.
“Have I worn this long enough?” I growled as I undid the top button of my shirt.
“Does feeling like half a man in this monkey suit qualify as feeling like a new man?” the wise ass in me queried. “Because if it does, then we are all set.”
“You are as stubborn as you are hopeless,” The Devil responded as he picked up the Sunday paper and turned his attention to it. “Get your toga and crawl back into the same boring life you had before you put on that handsome suit that’s bound to turn the head of any woman.”
I stared at him angrily for the longest time, but my Sunday guest was oblivious to my death glare because something in the Bangor Daily News was more interesting than I.
I knew he meant well, but if clothes truly made the man, then suits made me incredibly uncomfortable in more ways than one.
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