Hi. This is Satan. I know I originally said we’d be able to accept your firstborn as soul barter, but my policy has changed effective immediately. I appreciate this affects your plans for repaying me for destroying everyone ahead of you in the queue at the DMV last week.

Your firstborns are as good as buckthorn to me. Yes, that’s the best wordplay I can muster right now. Excuse my lackluster wit; you’re my eleven thousandth call today. Let’s be honest: the first of your progeny is not your finest. They’re likely laden with flaws: entitlement, jealousy, anxiety, and controlling and approval-seeking tendencies. They’re sticky, whiny, and inconsistent. The conversation is simply abhorrent. And they are there ALL. THE. TIME. I don’t even feel like the monster I am when I’m around them. Do you get how hard it is not to feel like yourself?

I have enough—69^69 to be exact. I don’t blame you disgusting humans for sacrificing your firstborns so willingly. I blame that god of yours. He makes firstborns this whole flashy thing, I get sucked in because I always want what G wants, and he then turns around and hits the firstborn sons of the Egyptians with a plague. The moxie.

So here I am stuck changing diapers and putting my kids and their own kids through college. It’s never-ending. Grandpa Satan wants to go back to doing what he loves: torturing people. I haven’t done that since Stalin. Can you believe it? I miss it. This game has gone on for too long. Lucifer wants cold, hard cash.

There is a one-week offer on a gorgeous timeshare in Aruba that I’ve had my eye on for a while. You can say I’m entering my own deal with the devil, if you will. Unfortunately, flesh and bones just don’t cut it. You need dollars, yens, cryptocurrency. I’m sure you understand.

Trust me, I’ve tried selling them off. I think you can get around 130 thousand dollars a head. That won’t make a dent in the timeshare’s cost. You should hear what people have traded their firstborns for. One guy wanted me to ruin his mother-in-law’s potato salad at the annual family barbecue. And there was the lady who wanted the bunion on the outside of her index toe removed. My favorite has to be the man I got a Senate seat and spotted at IHOP so he could get the Raspberry Cannoli Crepe Combo. I signed an NDA with that last one.

Anyways, I can already tell you’re going to be a lifelong client. You really are one of the bad ones. I know our business relationship won’t end here because I won’t allow it. I’m no cutesie Rumpelstiltskin. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience to discuss an offer that is sure to impress me—definitely before Friday. My cousin is waiting on a yay or nay from me to go Dutch on the timeshare. Though don’t you dare come back offering your middle child. I can’t even with their rebellious Black Sheep complex. Pathetic.

Brett, I look forward to hearing back from you ASAP. Again this is the King of Hell. I really appreciate your indebtedness to my greatness. Now GET ME MY FUCKING MONEY. You can reach me at 666-666-6666. Take care.