Groupon Says
The Devil Is in the Detailing
Mark had the garage door open for ventilation as he waxed the cherry-red hull of his 1967 LaGrange Motor Co. Falconcrest convertible sports cruiser, with optional rear-front chrome mirroring, FM heater, and whitewall tires so crisp you could hold them up beside a newborn polar bear and make him look like a grizzly rolled in coffee grounds. The devil whistled as he walked by, swinging his signature gold pocket compass that always pointed south.
"Say," cooed the Devil with the sly, smoky voice of a jazz professor. "That there is one hot rod."
"The hottest," said Mark, unflinching. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the Devil, with his horns jutting through a wide-brimmed fedora, his scaly, goat-like hindquarters, and the cool flaming dice on the back of his jacket.
"I've got a ride of my own, and she's pretty fast. Maybe faster than yours. You wouldn't be a gambling man, now would you?"
"Not really," said Mark. "I'm happy with what I have."
Mark tapped the automatic garage door opener, and the protesting devil disappeared behind the lowering vinyl sections. There would be no deal with the Devil that day—although later, the Devil would argue half-heartedly with a delivery guy over paying for a pizza that arrived after the 30-minute guarantee. He ended up paying full price, but seized the excuse to refuse to tip.
