“The trouble with you is you don’t love me.”—Kevin Quain.
I’ve discovered recently that the Devil is really just Death in disguise; Death and I go out for coffee every afternoon, and he tells me how much he hates his job, never gets a vacation, and the pay just doesn’t make up for it—and he only gets to do a little devil work on the side, people do enough of it on their own he tells me my days are numbered if I stay with you, losing a pint or two of blood every week from sewing your clothes and giving in to your fetishes So I pack my bags, me and Death hit the highway for Vegas— he’s always had a dream of retiring as an Elvis impersonator, and I’d be quite content playing poker all day and looking for my Nevada cowboy— who only ties up horses and knows how to treat a lady