The man in the silver suit

The man in the silver suit pushed the contract across the table and grinned a wicked grin at Nigel.

“Do we have a deal?” the man asked.

Nigel greedily snatched up the document. “I can really have what I want?” he asked. “For the price you mention.”

“Yes,” said the man in the silver suit. He straightened his cuffs before he continued. “One soul is all I ask. For which all the people with any evil in their heart will vote whichever way I direct them. When the nation votes, you will get your wish.”

“I have sowed a seed of change today,” said Nigel. He took out his pen. “Where do I sign?”

“At the bottom,” said the man in the silver suit. “As soon as you do, our contract will be bound.”

Something about the tone of the man’s voice caused Nigel to hesitate. What was the catch? “Hey,” he said. “Why are you so keen?”

“Read it if you wish,” said the man. He gestured to the document. “I have not lied to you even once.”

Nigel scanned down the deal. It detailed the control he would have over the opinions of voters. It detailed the price – one soul to be delivered personally.

“What does it mean ‘delivered personally’?” Nigel asked.

“Just that,” said the man. “You must sacrifice the soul by your own hand.”

“You mean kill them?” Nigel asked.

“Quite,” replied the man. He sounded irritated. “You know this. The first person who speaks to you after you sign. End their life. Their soul is mine. This is the price of your wish.”

Nigel grinned and checked his calendar. That awful Boris was due to meet him in seven minutes. No loss to the world at all.

Nigel clicked his pen and signed the document.

“Thank you.” The man in the silver suit folded the contract slipped it into his breast pocket. Then he faded away.

Nigel leaned back. He smiled. He was going to win.

The phone rang. Nigel picked it up.

“Hello daddy,” said his daughter.