(Because of a variety of circumstances, Lisa and I are taking a Figs break. But! For those who just started reading the blog, I'm going to reach deep into the wayback machine and toss up some old Figs for your enjoyment.)
The Devil went down to Georgia, looking for a soul to steal.
He met Bubba, Jr., shuffling beneath the pines on State Route 143 just outside of Waleska.
The Devil’s rats, well, rat, after the austerity measures, took one look at Bubba, Jr. and poofed away, leaving the stench of sulfur behind. No one noticed, given Bubba, Jr.’s persistent reek.
The Devil’s own sweat pooled in that little hollow place between his infernal shoulder blades. The red leather suit was a bad call in August.
Sadly, Bubba, Jr.’s soul was no longer on the market, having been sold to the twin evils of Commerce and Fried Chicken.
The Devil sighed and walked on.
Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.