“Look, I don’t know what’s so hard about this,” the angel said. “You got mine and I got yours.”

The demon cast a laconic look at the two souls in question, one in black leather with a mohawk and the other in modest white head to toe. “So you’re saying no one who’s a little punk can possibly make a pact with celestial powers?” it said. “Now, that’s just putting folks in a little box.”

“He SAYS it was a mistake,” the angel retorted. “He meant to contract with the dark powers, and all the good works we require of him are, and I quote, ‘cramping his style.'”

“Standard buyer’s remorse,” the demon responded. “If I tried to trade every soul with you that claimed they wanted celestial instead of infernal powers, we’d never get anything done.”

“What about your soul?” the angel cried, exasperated.

“Oh, they use the power of their position to enforce their own moral code on others,” it said. “Clearly a case for infernal affairs.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” The angel pulled at its hair, wings beating in frustration. “Me stuck with an obvious heavy metal demon fanatic while you take my nice white-collar soul.”

“What I’m enjoying, my friend, is that our respective souls are surprisingly well-suited to their predicament and that we ought to perhaps regard the circumstance as a happy accident.” The demon beamed. “And also watching you squirm.”

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