Enter MEPHISTOPHELES with DEVILS, who shower MARK with gaudy, suspiciously well-tailored suits and an assortment of glittering, hyperreal trinkets—stuff that looks expensive but also slightly... off, in that way where you know it’s been manufactured specifically to look expensive. They cavort around him in a manner both menacing and obsequious, and then exit.
MARK. Okay. Mephistopheles, uh, what exactly was that little pageant about?
MEPHIST. Oh, nothing, Mark. Nothing at all. Just a bit of spectacle, a bit of diversion. A humble demonstration of the sort of things magic—real magic, not your amateur-hour Ouija-board bullshit—can accomplish.
MARK. Right. Okay. So, hypothetically speaking, I could conjure up spirits and whatnot whenever I feel like it?
MEPHIST. Oh, Mark, Mark. Your imagination is so… quaint. Spirits? Sure, sure. You could also unmake the very fabric of reality, raise entire civilizations to their height and then smash them into dust on a whim, rewrite the laws of physics for your own amusement. Whatever, you get the idea.
MARK. Right. That all sounds very impressive and not at all unsettling. Well, if that’s the case, then I’d say that’s about enough power for, oh, I don’t know, a thousand souls. Here, Mephistopheles—take this. It’s a contract. A legally binding, notarized, ironclad, inescapable contract. You get my body, my soul, the whole package, but—you know, conditionally.
MEPHIST. (producing a quill from, seemingly, nowhere) Mark, buddy, do you even need me to say it? You know how this works.
MARK. Yeah, yeah, I know. Let me just, uh, go over the fine print real quick. (Clears throat.) ON THESE CONDITIONS FOLLOWING. FIRST, THAT MARK MAY BE A SPIRIT IN FORM AND SUBSTANCE. SECONDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHELES SHALL BE HIS SERVANT, AND AT HIS COMMAND. THIRDLY, THAT MEPHISTOPHELES SHALL DO FOR HIM, AND BRING HIM WHATSOEVER HE DESIRES. FOURTHLY, THAT HE SHALL BE IN HIS CHAMBER OR HOUSE INVISIBLE. LASTLY, THAT HE SHALL APPEAR TO THE SAID MARK, AT ALL TIMES, IN WHAT FORM OR SHAPE SOEVER HE PLEASE. I, Mark, do hereby—etcetera, etcetera—sign away both body and soul to Lucifer, Prince of the East, and his associate Mephistopheles, effective immediately, yadda yadda, to be collected upon expiration of twenty-four years, at which time I forfeit any and all rights to complain, sue, or otherwise contest my eternal damnation. Signed, Mark.
MEPHIST. So, just to be clear, you’re totally, one hundred percent sure about this?
MARK. Yeah, yeah. Just take it already.
MEPHIST. Fantastic. Now then, Mark—what is it you desire?
MARK. Okay, so first things first—let’s talk about hell. Where is it, exactly?
MEPHIST. (sighs) Under the heavens.
MARK. Well, yeah, but where, specifically?
MEPHIST. That’s… really not how it works. Hell isn’t a place. It’s every place. Wherever we are? That’s hell. And where hell is, we must always be. And once the whole universe collapses in on itself like a used-up cigarette, the only thing left that isn’t heaven will be, well… hell. So. Hope that clears things up.
MARK. Right. Got it. So, basically, what you’re saying is that hell isn’t real.
MEPHIST. I mean, you could think that, sure. Right up until the point when personal experience violently disabuses you of the notion.
MARK. Oh, come on. You really think I’m the kind of guy who’s going to spend one second worrying about eternal damnation?
MEPHIST. Well, you did just sell me your soul.
MARK. And body! Don’t forget body. Total package deal.
MEPHIST. (deadpan) Oh, believe me, Mark. I never forget the body.
MARK. Look, this is all very fun and philosophical and existentially horrifying, but I’d like to make my first request now, please. I want a wife. The most beautiful woman in America.
MEPHIST. (laughing) A wife? Mark, buddy, pal, we’re dealing in cosmic power here, and you want a wife?
MARK. That’s right. Fetch me one. I’m feeling, you know, lonely.
MEPHIST. Sure thing. One wife, coming right up. (Exits.)
Re-enter MEPHISTOPHELES with a DEVIL dressed like a WOMAN, complete with flickering, slightly ominous pyrotechnics.
MEPHIST. Well, Mark, what do you think?
MARK. (Recoiling) Okay. That is not what I meant.
MEPHIST. Oh, Mark, Mark. Marriage is a construct. A ritualistic little charade meant to put a veneer of respectability over what is, at its core, an entirely biological impulse. But hey, tell you what—how about instead of a wife, I bring you an endless parade of, let’s say, “companions”? You know, women who require far less paperwork?
MARK. Fine. Whatever. Give me the book. I want to see the spells.
MEPHIST. (Hands over book.)
MARK. And I want a book of astrology.
MEPHIST. (Flips to relevant page.)
MARK. And one with all the plants, herbs, and trees on Earth.
MEPHIST. (Flips again.)
MARK. Okay, see, now I’m starting to regret this. The heavens? They’re looking real appealing right about now. And it’s your fault. I blame you.
MEPHIST. Oh, Mark. Mark, Mark, Mark. Do you really think the heavens are all that great? Do you really think they’re more beautiful than you? (Gestures vaguely.) Or any of this?
MARK. …Wait, what?
MEPHIST. I mean, heaven was made for man, right? So obviously man is better than heaven.
MARK. Huh. Well. That’s a fun little bit of circular reasoning. But you know what? Forget it. I renounce magic. I repent.
Enter GOOD ANGEL and EVIL ANGEL.
EVIL ANGEL. Repentance is for other people. Not you.
GOOD ANGEL. Mark, it’s not too late. You can still repent.
MARK. Okay, I have to ask—why does this always turn into some kind of morality play?
EVIL ANGEL. Because, Mark. That’s exactly what it is.
[END SCENE]
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