Lately, I’ve been dreaming. Sometimes, I don’t dream for months at a time, and I prefer that.

Recently, a dream sticks in my mind like bubble gum. Usually, they vanish, but this dream sticks around like superglue. What is a boy to do?

It happened two nights ago.

Satan visited me in my dreams, along with about 12 other demons. They were all shaped and colored differently, but I knew what they were. It reminded me of a scene out of Lord of the Rings where Gandalf and the Dwarves show up at Bilbo’s Hobbit Hole.

Satan kept asking his head demon to get the contract ready to sign, but the head demon kept making edits and notations to the contract. I just lay in bed watching them. It was a show. Some of them were on fire. Satan was in a red suit with horns. After approximately 3 hours of bickering with his head demon/secretary, Satan finally had the contract ready to sign.

It said, that I would sign my soul over to Satan for 1 billion years to become a New York Times Best Selling Author. Apparently, Manhattan is where Satan holds up for most of the year, doing business with the publishing industry, but it’s cold right now, so he prefers to vacation in Florida.

I told Satan that I couldn’t do that because I write with my soul. Without one, I didn’t trust that I could get the job done.

“Nonsense,” Satan said. “I’ll give you an artificial transplant. In fact, I’ll let you borrow Bukowski’s soul during your interim on earth. If you get tired of his soul, the demons and I will do another transplant in your sleep.”

“You can have the soul of John Steinbeck—he was a communist, or you can have the soul of Hemingway—he was a philanderer.”

I could see Satan, with his black fingernails, and surgical mask, leading his nurses in open soul surgery.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. My soul came out with his 3-pronged trident, kinda like a fish, flapping on the end of a spear. He put it on ice. I didn’t know there were freezers in hell, but Satan had to preserve the souls somehow.

When the surgery was done and they had practically grabbed my arm and forced me to sign the contract, I lay back in bed, paralyzed.

Then, they jumped up and down and danced around, chanting: “Play with Yourself…Play with Yourself…Play with Yourself.”

“No, I don’t want to. No, I don’t want to,” I shouted. I was being terrorized.

I woke up, feeling constipated. I went to the toilet and crapped. My face felt cold. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale with black eyes.

I prayed that I wouldn’t die in my sleep, and I went back to bed. When I woke up, I felt normal. I search for surgical scars, but couldn’t find any. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Now, I just have to see if I can be a New York Times Best Selling Author, or not, I thought.

I’ll put forth the effort. If Bukowski can’t get it done, I might need a transplant. Maybe, Hemingway will do the job. Hopefully, it’s free, but knowing Satan, there will probably be a cost. He has my soul. What else could he want?

A Disclaimer for my most gullible blog followers: This was only a dream, I hope, but if I get published as a New York Times Best Selling Author, we will know I sold my soul to Satan in my sleep.

2 thoughts on “I Sold My Soul to Satan in My Sleep?

  1. I hear that the Devil never plays fair. Perhaps you’ll be asked to use a pseudonym by a publisher and it then turns out that another guy – with that name – is credited with your work. You become a best selling author, but everyone thinks it was someone else. 😉

    Liked by 1 person

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