Chapter Text
"Hey," Angel Dust says. "You remember geese, don't you?"
That's what started a fifteen minute debate over whether or not Alastor could win if he were forced into a bout of fisticuffs with a goose.
"Of course I'd win!" Alastor declares. "I'd just have my eldritch horror strangle it to death."
"You can't use your powers," Angel Dust says.
"Fine! Then I'd shoot it!"
"You're unarmed."
"I'd punt it off a bridge."
"There's no bridge."
"Then I'd snap its neck."
"Ya can't,” Angel says. “You've offended his wife and now he's on top of you, flapping his wings and pecking at your giant head."
"Wife? What wife?"
"Geese mate for life."
"This entire scenario is ridiculous. As if I would ever offend a lady!"
"Well ya did! What do you do now?"
"Punch my fist through his chest and pull out his beating heart and feast upon it."
"I said you couldn't use your powers."
"Who says I need my powers to do that?"
"You bastard. I can't believe you. I can't believe you'd leave that goose a widow."
"Her husband attacked me!"
"Yeah, because you insulted his wife's honor!"
"Hogwash! I told you that would never happen!"
"Well it did!"
"Who made you the author over this scenario? I demand a rewrite!"
Alastor stands up and smacks his palms flat against the table. At that exact moment, a pentagram lights up underneath his feet, colored sky blue and rose pink.
His smile freezes on his face. Angel Dust frowns. They lean in and tilt their heads at it at the same time, when a column of magenta fire explodes, fringed with electric blues, engulfing Alastor like a pine-needle torch.
Angel Dust lurches back. "What fu—"
The rest of his sentence is drowned out by sourceless wind, roaring and lashing, whipping about the bonfire.
It doesn't hurt. It doesn't burn, but it brightens. Alastor is forced to squeeze his eyes shut. He feels an invisible force yank him from around the middle, as if there's a string tied around his waist, hauling him up.
And up.
And up.
Until his feet slam against solid ground.
Alastor's head spins. He feels momentarily disoriented as if he has been thrown out of his own body. The flames start to recede, one by one, his mouth ripe with the taste of burnt sugar. He tries to open his eyes, only to be blinded by a glittering ribbon of white sunlight.
If there's sunlight then that means he's on earth.
Someone's summoned him.
It's been ages since a mortal has called upon him. After he was in the middle of something so important too!
Birds sing somewhere nearby. It makes Alastor's fawn ears twitch. He hasn't heard birds since he was alive. And there's something else—music.
Someone is playing Frank Sinatra.
Alastor brushes the last few crackling flames off of his suit. At least whoever called upon him has good taste. He tries to crack open his eyes again, his irises glowing hot pink as the last reservoir of flame, before fading back to their regular ruby red. His vision slowly readjusts, and finally, Alastor sees he's standing in a driveway in front of a little girl, likely only around six or seven years old. She's sitting down on the blacktop with a large spellbook propped open on her knee.
The kid looks at Alastor. Then at her spellbook. Then back at Alastor.
"You're not a dog," she says.
Alastor wrinkles his nose. "I should hope not."
The mortal world is a lot brighter than he remembered—then again, his last summoning was during a blood moon. He hasn't seen a blue sky since his death, and this one is as blue as cornflowers with tufts of airy white clouds. It makes his eyes sting, unaccustomed to the blinding sun, colorful spots doing acrobats in front of his nose.
A breeze stirs the lush grass surrounding the driveway, whirring with the sound of insects. The air feels hot and heavy, and Alastor realizes it must be summer. There's a tiny white house with a sagging porch sitting before the driveway with overgrown hydrangeas and tall sunflowers.
Clearly, no one keeps up with the garden, for it needs serious trimming down and attention. Everything in it is half-dead. An emerald forest is tucked behind the back of the house, so vast, Alastor cannot tell how far it goes.
No other house is in sight. They are in the middle of nowhere.
Still. Who summons a demon in broad daylight? Clearly, some kind of simpleton. He shields his eyes from the glare of the sun, trying to find the real person who summoned him.
Yet, no one is there. No one but this little girl.
Alastor arches an eyebrow. Surely, she couldn't have been the one behind this. He glances around for a decrepit swamp witch looking to strike a deal or a starving musician or a businessman or the president, but the driveway is empty.
His smile widens.
How curious!
He takes a step back and something squeaks under his heel. He glances down to see a stuffed alligator. Another squeak from said alligator tells him it's a dog's toy. There’s a pastel pink and blue pentagram at his feet, made out of chalk, and a couple of mason jars at each point of the star.
He picks one up and turns it from side to side. "What do we have here?"
"Fireflies," the little girl says. "I wanted to use candles, but I'm not allowed to touch matches. It took a long time to catch all of them."
Alastor hums and puts it down, noticing something circled around her. He points at it. "What's this?"
"This is a ring of salt for my protection."
Child's play, he thinks, but gives it a poke anyway. He tastes it. "This is sugar," he says.
"Oh. Well, don't cross it, okay?"
Alastor rolls his eyes and straightens, folding his arms behind his back and taking in the child for the first time. Her skin is light brown and her hair is as black as a raven's wing, full of voluminous, springy curls. A petal pink portable radio sits beside her and croons out That Old Black Magic.
His smile turns up, as sharp and neat as the tips of a crescent moon. "And who might you be?"
"I'm not telling you that. I'm not supposed to tell strangers that."
"Ah!" Alastor says, "but you summoned me, did you not?"
The girl scowls. "No. I was trying to summon a dog."
Alastor sputters out a pop of static.
"A ... a dog?"
"Well, I was hoping for a puppy." She points to the open page on her spellbook. "See? This is a spell to summon a dog. It was going to be my familiar."
Alastor takes the book from her. Indeed, it shows a portrait of a hellhound. Clearly, this child must've done something wrong. "If you wanted to summon a dog then why do you have a radio?"
"Because it's playing music dogs like," she says, as if it should have been obvious.
Alastor has never heard anything more offensive in his entire afterlife. "How dare you insult swing music like that. Dogs don't like swing! They like hip-hop and Baha Men!"
The reason Alastor knows about Baha Men is because Vox once played their music video, Who Let the Dogs Out, on every single television set in Hell, triggering one of their worst wars in history. Needless to say, the song is banned on his radio station.
"Nuh-uh!" the girl says.
"Yeah-huh!" Alastor says, and then stops himself. He doesn't have time to argue with a child. He's never liked kids. Not even ones powerful enough to summon him from the depths of the Pride Ring.
She heaves out a sigh. "Well, this stinks. I guess I'm not good at magic after all."
"Nope! I guess not!" Alastor slams the book shut and throws it at her. She scrambles to catch it. "Well, I'll be taking off! Toodaloo, kid!"
"Wait."
Alastor turns his head, his eyes replaced with radio dials. Crimson voodoo symbols flood in, the air hissing with the unintelligible sizzle of static, his voice low and distorted as he asks: "Yeess?"
The kid screams and rears back, dropping the book.
Alastor cackles. He returns everything back to normal without lifting a finger, fist cocked at his hip, smile broad and curious, waiting to see if she will run.
She doesn't, though, she's clearly afraid. Still, she straightens her spine and lifts her sharp little chin. "I summoned you. That means you gotta do something for me."
Alastor's grin turns wicked. "Oh, do I? "
"Yeah. That's what my granny always said. She said if you trap a demon then they have to do a favor for you."
Alastor is hardly trapped, but he humors her. "I see. And who is your grandma?"
"Nora Jean. She's dead now."
"Hmm. Never heard of her!"
"Well, I've never heard of you either," she says, narrowing her eyes. "Who are you supposed to be anyway? Why is your voice funny?"
"Why, I thought you'd never ask!" He manifests his microphone, twirling it like a baton. "Alastor, The Radio Demon, at your service!"
"Radio Demon?"
"That's right!"
The girl wilts. "Oh, no. I'm stuck with a boomer."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Radios are old," she laments.
"I'll have you know that radios are the prime form of entertainment, young lady!" He points his cane towards her portable radio. "If you think so poorly of them then why do you have one?"
"Because my mom won’t get me an ipad."
"What's an ipad?"
The girl groans and throws her hands up into the air. "See! This is exactly what I mean! Who doesn't know about ipads?"
"Preposterous! I bet no one knows about ipads!"
"Everybody knows about ipads."
This child is testing Alastor's patience. He vanishes his microphone with a huff. "Fine! If I'm so old then you can find another demon to summon. You were looking for a mangy mutt anyway. If you don't need anything from me, then I shall take my leave!"
"No, wait! I'm sorry! I do want something."
Alastor lifts his eyebrows. He taps his foot against the blacktop and waits.
"I want a dog."
"No," Alastor says calmly.
She gapes at him. "Why not?"
He beams. "Because I don't want to!"
"But that's not part of the rules. You can't just say no!"
"Oh, but I can. I only do favors for people I strike deals with, girl. We haven't made any sort of deal."
"Okay, then let's make one."
"Ha! No!"
"Why not?" she huffs, agitated.
"Because I don't strike deals with children."
And with that, shadows rise up from Alastor's feet, twisting and curling, gobbling up his body to take him back to Hell. He starts to sink down when the girl shoots to a stand, reaching for him, her voice fast and desperate.
"Wait! I'll give you my soul."
Alastor freezes. Slowly, he rises back up, dismissing the shadows with a puff. "You're willing to sell your soul for a dog?"
"I ..." She pauses. "Hang on. Let me think about it."
This girl must be incredibly lonely or incredibly stupid if she was willing to sell her soul for a pet, even if that pet was going to be her familiar. Souls are a hot commodity in Hell, especially a witch's soul.
Alastor's smile turns gleeful.
"Well then!"
He snaps his fingers. Three individual red silk curtains appear behind him and a podium pops up before the girl, who squeaks as she suddenly rises up behind it on a tall chair. Lights flash above the curtains, gold and brilliant, glittering like a carnival.
Alastor gestures to the display with a wide sweeping gesture and speaks into his microphone, voice bright and loud with excitement.
"Yes, please consider it carefully now! Why, you haven't even considered what could be behind curtains number one, two and three! There could be a house cat or a unicorn, hell, maybe even a grizzly bear! Something out of your wildest dreams or your worst nightmares, ready to be your best pal, all for the cost of a single soul! What will you choose, what will you choose? Tik-tok, kid! The game is set, your new friend is waiting, and—"
"Okay. I've decided." The little girl looks up at him. "I want you to celebrate my birthday with me every year."
A loud record scratch.
"I—what?"
"And every year," she adds, "you have to give me a present. But it has to be a nice present. Something I actually want. Not something bad."
Not much can surprise the Radio Demon, but he is truly surprised. The show set disappears with a puff of smoke, a series of morse code beeps and blips trickling out. "Hang on—"
“And we have to celebrate it by doing whatever I want. And you have to stick around for cake and ice cream."
"Ha! I don't eat cake!"
She frowns. "Who doesn't eat cake?"
"Cannibals," Alastor says, and the girl's face screws up in confusion, clearly having no idea what the word means. He bats her confusion away with a flick of his wrist. "Of course you would want me at your party! Who doesn't! But," he adds, "I am not celebrating every year. The festivities will conclude when you are thirteen."
"Thirty," she argues.
"Sixteen," Alastor counters.
"Twenty!"
"Eighteen!"
"Sold! To that guy in the red suit!" She picks up a bone from the summoning circle and pounds it against the blacktop like a gavel.
Alastor blinks rapidly.
"Sorry. My grandpa took me to an auction once."
Alastor bursts out laughing. Oh! This might be more entertaining than he thought!
"All right, I shall celebrate your birthday until you are eighteen. But I am not having cake or ice cream."
"How about just food?" she bargains.
"Hmmm." His smile broadens, full of mischief. "Any food I want?"
"Sure." She narrows her eyes. "But I'm eating whatever I want, too."
"Fine! I'll bring you a present and we can have ... food ... I suppose."
"Yay!"
"Then it is done! In exchange for your soul, I will celebrate your birthday and bring you a present within your desires until your eighteenth year." Alastor holds out his hand. An ominous green light flashes, and a wind bursts forth, kicking up their hair. "Do we have a deal? "
"Not yet. I want it in writing."
The light and wind instantly smother out. Clever kid, Alastor thinks. He feigns nonchalance and summons a scroll and a pen. Some words in bright red cursive appear. "Sign here, on the dotted line."
The girl hesitates, twirling her pen. "I think I should have my lawyer here."
"You can't possibly have a lawyer."
"No, but I can call my mom and see if she'll let me borrow her divorce attorney."
"No time for that. This is a one time deal, kid. Strike while the pan is hot!"
"Fine," she huffs. "Read it outloud to me."
Alastor clears his throat and reads in his best show host voice:
"I, the Signee, hereby offer my soul solely to Alastor, The Radio Demon, in exchange for his attendance and participation to the Signee’s birthday once a year. Participation includes celebrating however the Signee sees fit and providing one gift within the Signee's desires and each party indulging in a dish of their choosing, all of which will cease when the Signee is eighteen. Alastor has all rights to the Signees soul, all within all laws and reason, terms and conditions permitting, yadah-yadah-yahdah, you get the gist!"
"You didn't include the date of my birthday," she says. "That's important."
"Ah, of course! How silly of me! When is your birthday?"
"October 16th. I'm a Libra," she adds, as if that's supposed to mean something. "And my name is Imogen."
Alastor adds the information to the contract with a wave of his hand. "Better?"
"Yes!"
"Good! Now seal the deal!"
Imogen does. She writes her name in big blocky letters and flinches back when the scroll magically rolls up on its own.
"Excellent! I shall be here again on October 16th."
Alastor turns to go, tripping over something in the summoning circle. He looks down to see a dead deer. The carcass is fresh, probably having died only a few hours ago, with some blood smearing the baby blue and cotton candy pink pentacle, flies buzzing around its head.
He prods it with his microphone cane. "Where did this come from?"
"I dragged it here from the side of the road."
Alastor is delighted. "You brought me roadkill?"
"No. I was bringing my dog roadkill. Dogs like roadkill."
"Right. Well, I am taking this." Alastor hefts the deer over his shoulder as easily as a bag of feathers. No use wasting good venison, in his opinion. "I'll see you in October."
"Kay," Imogen says.
🎶 📻 🎶
"What do you mean you made a deal with a kid?"
Husk shoots up from his seat across from Alastor and slams his paws against the dinner table, so hard, the chinaware rattles. Niffty freezes, spoonful of gumbo halfway to her mouth, sitting between the two of them, large eye darting back and forth.
"I mean exactly as it sounds," Alastor says, leaning back in his chair. "She wanted to make a deal, and I made one!"
Husk growls low in his throat. His claws dig into the wood. "Is that even legal?"
Alastor beams. "Probably not!"
"Alastor, what the hell? That's so fucked up! What are you going to do with a kid?"
"Absolutely nothing!"
Husk is so angry that he almost considers punching The Radio Demon in the face. "You asshole. She can't consent to any kind of deal. She's a minor."
"Too late! It's already happened!"
"Then make it un-happen!"
"Can't! She signed the form! Will you pass the potato salad?"
Husk smacks the plate, so hard, it rockets at Alastor's dumb face and narrowly misses him. The potato salad explodes against the wall with a loud plop.
Niffty lets out a distressed squeak. "No, no, no! Not the walls!" She zooms to the kitchen and returns seconds later with some cleaning supplies, immediately getting to work.
"Rude," Alastor sighs, examining his claws. "I spent a lot of time on that salad."
"Al, if you hurt that kid in anyway, I swear—"
"You'll what?" Alastor leans forward and plants his elbows on the table, smiling his menacing smile. "Go on, Husker. Don't leave anything out."
"I'm going to slice you into ribbons and feed your remains to the crows, that's what!"
Alastor clicks his tongue. "Oh, how dull. Not very creative, Husker. You could cut off my head and hang it from a ribbon outside on a tree. Maybe a bit of disembowelment or gather some crocodiles—"
"Shut up, you fuckin' masochist. I'm being serious. You can't do this to a kid, she doesn't know any better."
"Like I said," Alastor says, waving his hand. "It is too late! A deal is a deal."
Some of the fire drains from Husk's body, and he's suddenly depressed. Depressed for this young girl who threw her soul away for ...
For what exactly? He frowns. "What are the grounds of the deal?"
"I have to celebrate her birthday every year until she's eighteen."
Husk gapes at him. "She gave you her soul in exchange for a party?"
"No, no, it's much more detailed than that! She sold soul for twelve parties! I also have to bring her a present within her desires and we have to eat food."
Husk stares in disbelief. "And you agreed to that?"
"Of course!" Alastor throws his hands up into the air with a flourish. "I LOVE parties!" Colorful confetti explodes over his head, followed by a sound effect of a startling party blower.
Husk groans. This poor kid. This poor, poor kid.
"You had better at least make it good," Husk says, glaring at him. "She doesn't deserve any tricks from you. A kid who makes a request like that clearly has had some really shitty birthdays. She deserves good ones."
The Radio Demon gasps in mock offense. "Husker! I'm appalled you would suggest I'd put anything but my best foot forward! I told you—" The filter on his voice cracks out and his smile curls impossibly wide. "—I love parties."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Husk says, wilting.
The chair between them screeches as Niffty pulls it out and sits back down, using a stack of books with a pillow on top to reach the table. She sets down the plate of salvaged potato salad, misshapen and lumpy, and shovels it into her mouth with a spoon.
She brightens. "Ohhh, this is pretty good!"
Husk makes a face. "Niffty, come on. Don't eat stuff off the floor."
"But it's clean. I would know! I cleaned it!"
"That you did!" Alastor holds out his own plate. "Be a dear and top me off, would you?"
"Of course!"
Husk presses his head to the table and groans.
🎶 📻 🎶
Two Months Later
Alastor has heard rumors about the mortal realm's version of Hell. They called it the airport.
He's never been to an airport while he was alive, but he imagines it cannot be very different from Hell's version of TSA.
It mimics the grandiose of Lucifer with marble floors so polished, they look wet, and golden vines wrapped around massive pillars, decorated with apples carved from rubies and roosting butterflies. Their wings open and close by some kind of enchantment, and if Alastor looks close enough, he can see the vines flush into coiling serpents engraved with scarlet gemstone eyes.
His gaze sweeps over soaring ceilings, intricately painted with scenes from Genesis; specifically, of the serpent in the Garden of Eden and sin entering creation. Alastor's favorite depiction is of Adam getting kicked out—there's literally a boot kicking him in his backside.
A thick crowd weaves in a long line at the check-in desk, sanctioned off by velvet ropes. Four magnificent wings spread across the back of it, lit from within by a brilliant opalescent fire.
Most of the demons going to the mortal world are imps or succubi without access to an Asmodean crystal. Sinner demons do not usually get entry to the living world. Those that do are summoned by a mortal—or, in Alastor's case, a young witch—and then they perform their end of the bargain during the same visit. It's rare a Sinner would need to keep returning for one deal, but Alastor finds himself in an unusual situation.
He wishes Imogen would summon him again to avoid this nonsense. Alas, Alastor is in Hell, and certain things must be suffered.
He steps in line. No one pays him any attention at first. An offensive hip-hop song plays quietly from the speakers and makes his ears flick. Something about apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.
Annoyance throbs and aches, right behind the little scarlet x on Alastor's forehead. If he is going to be waiting then he will not be subjected to this malarkey.
Static electricity drones in the air. It sizzles over Alastor's skin. The speakers hiss and pop, so loud, everyone jumps.
Alastor starts shuffling through stations until Jumpin' Jive blares through the room. Ah, perfect! An absolute gem of a classic! He can feel his irritation melting away already. He turns it up and hums along, snapping his fingers and tapping his foot to the beat.
Nearly everyone has noticed him by now. The imps working the check-in desk have stopped what they were doing. Most of the crowd is staring, while others are still craning their necks, their expressions of confusion quickly morphing into wide-eyed horror.
"Oh!" Alastor says. "Would you have preferred Louis Armstrong instead?"
Everything explodes into chaos. The room fills with the staccato of frantic, pounding feet. Hundreds of demons try to sprint out of the room at once, yelling and shoving each other out of the way.
The stampede funnels around Alastor, as if he is a stone in a river. He watches them run crazily past him, trampling over anyone who has fallen onto the ground, flying through the automatic doors and bursting into a rectangle of maroon sunlight.
Alastor's monocle has fallen off. He readjusts it and surveys the damage. The room is eerily empty. The only sounds are Jumpin' Jive and the bleeps and clicks of the security machines located further in the back. There is no one manning the desk now. Papers are scattered on the floor and several shoes have been left behind by demons who literally ran out of them.
There are times when Alastor feels quite nettled that his mere presence sends a crowd scattering. It makes impromptu joining a live band very difficult. Not to mention casual conversation. Why, he doesn't remember the last time a stranger tipped off their hat to him and wished him a good day. Enjoying a night out at the theater is impossible, seeing as the audience and the cast take off as soon as he steps inside, and every single restaurant he walks into outside of Cannibal Colony is empty.
Other times it's extremely useful. Today is such a time—today, he doesn't have to wait.
Alastor breezes past the check-in and goes straight to security. There is one imp who has not fled from the premises and is speaking to a rather massive hellhound. He's about a head taller than Alastor, all solid muscle and golden-brown fur, with distinguishable wolf ears and a sweeping tail.
The hellhound takes the imp's duffle bag. "What do you got in here?"
"Just some plagues."
"What kind?"
"I got famine and Baby by Justin Bieber."
The hellhound places the bag on the counter and briefly looks through it. A chorus of baby, baby, oooohh~! spills out.
He zips it up and hands it back. "Have a safe journey."
"Thanks!"
The imp scampers by.
"Next!" the hellhound barks. He turns to face Alastor and freezes, instantly stricken.
A bright smile. "Hello, sir! How's your day going so far?"
"I—uh." The hellhound's ears flatten to the top of his head. "It's going."
"Fantastic! I have no bags I am taking with me, as you can see, but I do have a microphone. It's an extension of myself. Cannot be separated. Do you need to see it?"
"No," the hellhound chokes. "Just—walk through the detector, please."
"Very well!"
The detector is meant to scan demons for any hidden angelic weapons. It has two massive horns weaving from the top of it, resembling an ox.
Alastor steps through and it malfunctions at once. The lights flash from green to red to green again, the metal arch groaning and sputtering out copper-colored sparks. It seizes like a living creature and then bursts into flames.
"Oh dear," Alastor says.
The hellhound stares with his mouth open, orange light flickering across his horrified face.
Alastor snaps his fingers. A bucket of water appears and waterfalls over the detector, instantly smothering out the flames. Heavy, black smoke explodes, curling across the ceiling and setting off the sprinklers.
Alastor summons an umbrella and pops it open, hearing the water bounce off like silver coins. The security guard, still rooted in shock, is soaked in an instant.
"So! Should we try again?"
The hellhound glances at the detector, helpless. He sighs, his powerful shoulders slumping. "Don't worry about it. Just go on."
"Wonderful!"
Alastor moseys on and vanishes the umbrella once he's made it out of range of the fire sprinklers. The imp with the duffle bag from earlier branches off to a section titled Plagues and Disasters. Alastor strolls to a gate marked as Travel For Deal Makers.
There's an imp working the desk with a black wrought iron fence behind him. A handful of demons who must’ve had their travel already approved are able to skip the line by pressing their palm or a paper contract over a Contract Reader. It works a lot like how Alastor's seen demons scanning their transit pass to ride the 666 train. A bell dings and the fence opens, allowing them to step through and into a portal.
There is only one succubus in line for the desk. Alastor stops behind her and waits for his turn.
"Hand," the imp says, bored.
The succubus thrusts her hand out. The imp scans her palm with some sort of handheld device. Another bell-like sound trills out and the gate opens.
"Enjoy your stay."
She steps through and a new portal appears, where she disappears.
"Next!"
Alastor steps right up. "Good day, sir!"
The imp blinks—does a double take. Horror pinches his face. "I—uh—"
"One portal for the living world, please!"
"I—um—needyourhand—"
"What?"
"Hand," the imp wheezes. "I need to see your hand."
"Ah! This is a written contract! See?" Alastor slaps it onto the table. "You will see that the agreement is for once a year until my client is eighteen, so I need you to go ahead and approve my travel for each year so I can skip the line next time, hmm?"
"Eighteen ... Wow! Okay, let me just look this over ..."
"Splendid! You'll find all the information is there. Take your time."
Sweat beads the imp's forehead as he unravels the scroll and puts on a pair of tiny spectacles. The tip of his crimson tail flicks back and forth, uneasy.
Alastor's attention drifts away to one of the picture shows playing nearby on the wall. There's a little jingle—something about immediate murder professionals that has him chuckling.
"Catchy song, isn't it?"
The imp whips his head up. "What?"
"Oh, they let you keep the knife! How fun! Love when they throw in a little lagniappe, don't you?"
The imp stares, wide-eyed, obviously not comprehending. "Huh?"
He waves his hand. "Nevermind. Have you finished looking it over?"
"Sorry, not yet ... "
Alastor hums and drums his fingers against the table. He wonders how those murder professionals have special access to the living world.
This fellow sure is taking a while. He's probably re-read the scroll five times by now. Alastor is starting to get impatient.
"I don't mean to rush you, sir, but as you can see from the contract, I have a birthday party to attend. I'm going to need you to shake a leg!"
"Uh, yes ..." The imp swallows. "Sir, I'm sorry, but this contract is ..."
"Yeesss?" There's the sickening sound of bone grinding against bone, of Alastor's neck snapping into an unnatural angle. His voice glitches. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing! It's great! Perfect! Wonderful!" The imp presses a rubber stamp into a magenta ink pad. Alastor can only assume the ‘ink’ is a melted down Asmodean crystal. He stamps APPROVED FOR YEARLY TRAVEL in the upper righthand corner and uses another stamp to add ON OCTOBER 16TH. He pens the expiration date in the same ink, authorizing it by scribbling his initials and shoving it back at him. “Enjoy your stay.”
"Good man! Thank you kindly!"
And with that, Alastor rolls the contract up and dismisses it for safekeeping. The iron gate creaks open and a portal appears for the living world. He steps through and he's off.