For years I prayed to God to give my life meaning. I was a devout Christian who spent every second of spare time I had volunteering at the shelter. I even regularly attended church, no matter how cluttered and full my schedule was. I was the epitome of a good human. But were my prayers answered even in the very least? No.
So, expanding my faith, I took it one step further by contacting the devil. Out of all the great deities that roam this realm, I figured he’d be the most willing to graciously grant my wish. I wasn’t wrong.
After chanting the sacrament into the smoke of a candled pentagram, I closed my eyes, imagining what a meaningful life could be like. No longer would I be left in the rain, with so much love in my heart, but still an outcast; I would have the power to help people as well as myself – nothing would be out of reach. Money, booze, women, fame – I may have been a good Bible-thumping Christian boy, but even I can’t say I am without the urge to sin.
“Give my life meaning, and I pledge my soul to you,” I murmured.
Suddenly the flames dancing atop the five black candles hissed away, extinguished by an ethereal wind. And then there was nothing: there was no booming voice only I could hear, no gnarly, blistered face to run away in terror to. Just silence.
The next day, however, I awoke renewed. The heart on my sleeve had been finally placed back in its spot, and my mind was clear of the fog that obscured my goal-seeking eye for so long. This was it, I thought. Thank you, Satan, for granting my wish – I’ll be sure to uphold my end of the bargain.
Then there was that cracked, deafening voice: “Posh!” It exclaimed. “All of that is your own doing; I simply made you into what I make all my disciples.” After a roar of laughter, it continued: “You asked to walk a different road full of new experiences, and you didn’t care who you pissed off in the process. Isn’t that right?”
Well, yes, although those weren’t my exact words.
“The words you speak have no meaning to me mortal. Rather, your intentions and inner thoughts are what I pay attention to, and I found you very deserving of this new life I’ve given you.”
I’m forever your humble servant, my Lord, but what – may I ask – did you grant me?
“A job. Your new path involves you selling shitty insurance policies and undesirable items to the masses over the phone. It’s the perfect career; I’d do it myself if I wasn’t focused on drowning the world in filth, you know.”
“You made me a telemarketer?”
“Just be at Venatago Center, room 684, at nine tomorrow morning so you can start your training.”