Tayshaun Prince scrolled through his contact list until he came upon the entry he wanted: “The Unholy One Himself, 666-6666”. Hitting the green “dial” button, he listened to the phone ring, wondering how he would phrase his request.
Before he could ponder too long, the call was answered. “Keep this short, Khraakklor,” said Satan, referring to Tayshaun’s demon name. “I’m getting ready for Eschaton down here and I have no time for inconsequential chit-chat.”
“I have a favor to ask, your Satanic Majesty.”
“I hate it when you call me that. But I’m in a good mood today, so go ahead, ask away.”
“Do you think you could trick coach Joerger into giving me some minutes tonight? Khraakklor G’orlath has become weary of seeing DNP-CD’s next to his name in the box score, and I am now rested enough to contribute at least thirty minutes.”
Satan hesitated as if considering the request. “Yes, I suppose I could plant that idea in his head. But you know the rules, Khraakklor. Any request made of Satan must be repaid sixfold at a time of my choosing.”
So happy was Tayshaun at the idea of actually getting big minutes, he didn’t even care that he would probably have to fill out Satan’s paperwork for the next four millennia. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I just want to play.”
“Done,” Satan responded. “Now, I’ve got a whole pit of condemned souls down here that have been waiting ages for the torture they have been eternally sentenced to. I could get Kobe to do it, but I’m thinking, Khraakklor would love to drop these losers into the Crystal River of Infernal Glass Shards. What do you think?”
“Sounds great, boss. Catch you later.”