Why I, Lucifer, Rejected a Deal for Donald Trump’s Soul

I’ve made contracts with every sort of lowlife. I’ve been to the crossroads. I’ve been down to Georgia. I’ve signed agreements with legions of lawyers, living, as I do, in the details, and ended up with the souls of everyone except Daniel Webster, that prig-tastic blowhole.

But Donald Trump? Not worth it.

Maybe you thought I already owned Trump’s soul. How else could someone so gob-smackingly incompetent fail upward all the way to a second presidential term? But social media, misogyny, and the ever-loving shit show known as the also gob-smackingly incompetent “Democratic Party”—that’s on you, humans. As folks in our Fifth Circle say about Trump, “Wow, does his shit stink.” And that place reeks so bad, the demons wear gas masks.

By the way, there’s an easy tell if I’ve got the pink slip to someone’s soul: If suddenly they get something that makes no sense. Like Indiana winning the national football championship, Kash Patel getting a law-enforcement job, or Travis Kelce getting hitched to Taylor Swift. Trust me, the G-man and I were throwing back some beers, and He said He made that dame out of anybody’s league, even for Kelce, an incredibly hunky, charismatic world-class athlete with a schlong like an Owala bottle.

Anyway, after his inauguration last year, Trump started pestering me for a “deal”: his soul for a Nobel Prize. And I considered signing on, because all I’d have to do is have my people repurpose the text of a notarized contract I already had lying around, substituting “Nobel” for “Oscar” and “Donald Trump” for “Ben Affleck.” Which was good because I was down half my staff, what with the other half pulling double shifts and preparing an entirely new Circle for Stephen Miller.

But then I started thinking about a contract where I’d give up something to get Trump’s soul. What was my value proposition here? With Trump slathering everything with gaudy gold paint, turning ICE into a super-charged federal employment program for neo-Nazi gun nuts, and by comparison making Ted Cruz look nearly sane and reasonable, what am I gaining now on paper that I’m not getting regardless when that bile-hearted bastard keels over? Nobody plays the long game like me, and let’s face it, everything about Trump’s pallor, posture, and speech patterns screams “past the fourth quarter’s two-minute warning.”

I might still have pulled the trigger. Trump is super-popular down here, and not only with the three “Jeffs”: Davis, who wants to shake his hand; Epstein, who wants to reunite with his main man; and Dahmer—that guy’s just plain whack. The demons in Circle Three are licking their poisoned-saliva lips, devising Trump’s punishments. Not to let the cat out of the bag, but it will likely involve a gag, a treadmill, and the Squad’s Bluesky feeds.

But then Trump ups his ask. Greenland? What the ACTUAL fuck? Not like I couldn’t do it—I’ve got an autograph book sporting every conquistador’s John Hancock—but, dude, make up whatever’s left of your Fox News–addled brain. And really, if the G-man wanted that, He’d have festooned the joint with lagoons, put fool’s gold everywhere, and called it “Orangeland.”

Somehow, Donald thinks he’s sweetening the pot by offering to throw me a presidential pardon. What use is a get-out-of-jail-free card to me, Ruler of Hell? You’ll have a hard time finding anyone in the whole friggin’ universe less against both crime and punishment. Still, just to dick Trump around, I dared him to pardon the biggest criminal he’s got, which he actually goes ahead and does, tossing one to former Honduran president–cum–drug dealer Juan Orlando González, unwittingly helping me make good on that guy’s contract with me (four-dimensional chess, baby!). Why should I bargain for something that cheeseburger-stuffed cretin is stupid enough to give away? “Art of the deal,” my spiked tail; if that’s Trump’s idea of using leverage, I wouldn’t bet on him to negotiate for quiet time at a mime convention.

The last straw was Trump insisting the contract be enforceable under US law, meaning any disputes would end up in the Supreme Court. Forget it. If anybody is Trump’s useful idiot, it’s John “Presidential Immunity” Roberts and his merry band of kowtowers. I’d no sooner trust those clowns for a fair shake than shove my sensitive, tender balls into an industrial-scale, single-auger trash compactor.

Enough’s enough, I’m not going in for Trump’s mishegas. I told him he can “Truth” all he wants, but he’s not getting the Nobel or Greenland. I’ll see his ass soon enough. Besides, I’ve got an insurance plan. How do you think that putz Vance got to be vice president?