Somehow over the course of a deep spiritual excursion (getting really messed up), I found myself, hung-over and soulless. Under any normal circumstance, I would have naturally assumed that I was simply "mental." However when I rubbed my fingers on the top portion of my spine, just at the base of my skull, It immediately became apparent (by virtue of the abrasion I there caressed) that the shallow little being that suckles on my brain juice and gets the mojo flowing was far from my physical locality.
Quickly I wiped the vomit from off my chin and fiddle around my room for any sign of some sort of Faustian Contract; as anyone familiar with the Soul/Commodities market, the removal of the enchanted sea-being always requires a perforation in this particular area of the corporal region. I threw my clothing and books (strangely in the same pile) about the room until (or so I hoped) I would find proof of said transaction.
//Side note: I would like to mention at this moment that I do not believe negative evidence can be used as proof against theory; I didn't really feel like spending an eternity looking for the contract that I and Satan shared. I mean, for all I knew, I was already damned.
After having spent the better part of fifteen minutes looking for that damn contract (puns ARE funny, assholes), the distinct smell of sulfur and burn Yak fur led me to the living room, which, in my half-drunken state, I had completely ignored. I swung my bedroom door open, my limbs shaking like a Toronto Police Office having to testify before the Human Rights Commission, and saw a brown-hair embroidered bill lying face-up over my Laptop and half full ashtray. I snatched it from its uncomfortable resting place and carefully speed-read the details:
"I, Joan Huberta MacPhee, hereby pledge my eternal soul to the Lord of the Pits, The Swallower of Souls, The Master of Sins, The Spirit of Rock and Roll, and The Generally Wicked Bad-Ass that graces the album art of Meatloaf, His lord of Hell, Satan! In exchange for two tickets to the Republican National Convention, and a Book of Evidence against Global Warming."
"Mother-Fucker!" I said to myself, realizing what kind of terrible error had been committed. It would seem as though my wicked, yet unspoken for, soul was robbed from me due to some sort of infernal clerical error. I understood what had to be done. I ran to my room and opened the suitcase full of religious paraphernalia that I had accumulated over the years through my various drug-enduced religious excursions and loaded my neck with as many catholic knick-knacks as I could. This being a Saturday, I knew I could get into the DMV before they shut down at 12. I ran with all my might with a bible in one hand and my ticket to hell in the other. I did not know where my soul was as this particular moment, but I knew if anyone might know, it would be those unholy bastards at SNB.
I pushed my way through the line, knowing full well that the only thing you can do to get any service in a government office is to be the biggest prick they've seen that day. When someone yelled "Wait your turn you no good Punk!" I screamed:
"Fuck you, jack-ass, my soul is at stake!"
Just as the security guards began filling the necessary paperwork to have my sorry ass thrown out of there, I slammed the forged consent form on the counter and yelled
"What is the meaning of this?!?"
The Clerk slowly moved her eyes down towards the smelly brown piece of Animal Skin, with bloody handwriting splashed across its surface. Without flinching, or even looking remotely surprised, she looked me in the eyes and said:
"Sir, I would ask you to calm down." Jotting down and note on the back of her business card. "The room you're looking for is at the end of this hallway." I blinked, surprised that this cheap jab at the bureaucratic systems was actually quite accurate. I walk away from the counter with the pact, the bible, and a business card, ignoring the hisses and the snappy comments from the inbred jackasses waiting in the lines behind me.
I followed the hallway, moving past the signs that said "Supply and Services", "Motor Vehicles", "Wedding and Birth Certificates", then finally, the "Office of Extra-Governmental Affairs."
With a huff, I opened the door and stepped though, plunging into a seemingly endless pit with the sounds of "For Those About to Rock" blasting in my ear....
