"First off," I say, "I don't remember you being British the last time we talked, bud." This dude - whoever he is - has just popped up all random-like in the middle of my house, and he wants me to do him a favor? He's got another thing coming. "It's part of the agreement, innit?" he posits, his London dialect dripping with condescension. "Contract terms stated I'd hold on to your soul until I found a use for it. Well, I've found a use." "Come on , man." I say. "Not fair. I'm right in the middle of something." "The contract doesn't care if you're in the middle of something, Evan." The Devil leans against a wall, picking dirt from underneath his fingernails. "You can't give me, like, a month or something to clear it up?" "Unfortunately, no," he says. "Don't you want to know what the favour is?" "Not particularly." I honestly