It’s a lovely day.
Imagine that you’re approached by a gentleman who, so far as you can tell, looks normal. He’s well-dressed and well-groomed. He’s articulate, cultured, conversational, and eager to laugh, though underneath he strikes you as a serious fellow.
He introduces himself to you as the devil — well, a devil, anyway, but you don’t need to know the power structure of hell to complete your business today.
And he makes you an offer: Will you agree to sell your soul to him, collectible upon your death, for $75?
No, no, he won’t prove that he’s the devil. He’s being honest with you, but he’s not going to do parlor tricks.
You’re right to be skeptical, he agrees. He might just be an eccentric man in a suit. He might be part of some scheme surrounding you — a psychology experiment, or a reality show, or who knows what. In which case, of course, the deal is entirely to your favor. But while he understands your skepticism, he politely insists that he is, in fact, the devil.
He’d rather not explain why he wants your soul, but you, of course, won’t be using it.
No, he won’t kill you the moment the deal is done. He promises on whatever might make you comfortable not to kill you, nor harm you, nor otherwise hasten your allotted time alive.
No paperwork involved, signed in blood, ink, or lemon juice. He trusts you. But of course, once you take the money, the deal is final.
OK: If not $75, how much would it take? His pockets are deep, it seems, and he’s willing to negotiate. Your soul is a fine one.
It’s a lovely day. Time to decide. And … ?