If you read through this Contract, then in twenty-four hours time you will be dead. Note the hour, note the minute, note the very second that you finish reading this Contract – because that will be the exact time of your death.
So why will you die after reading this Contract? It’s simple, really; this is a Contract for the purchase of your soul, because, yes, you do have a soul, and, yes, it can be bought. Are you willing to sell your soul to me? If so, read on, doubter, read on.
If you read through this Contract, then this is deemed to be acceptance of The Contract. You don’t have to read this entire Contract in order to accept it, either, as long as you read substantially most of it, then that too is deemed acceptance. But, of course, if you don’t read through this entire Contract, then that makes you a chicken-shit … doesn’t it? Yes, a bottler, gutless, a yellow-belly, call it what ever you want. And you’re not gutless, are you? … No, well, carry on reading then. Carry on reading.
Your wondering what happens when the twenty-four hours are up, aren’t you? Okay, my associate, The Reaper, will pay you a visit; it’s his job decide how you’ll die, and to collect your soul? You won’t be able to see him, of course, but come the time of your death, he’ll be there … waiting.
And how will you die? This is for The Reaper to decide; it will depend on your location, your health, and other factors, I suppose. You could die by a haemorrhage, cardiac arrest, or traffic accident. Who knows? Oh, and don’t worry, he’ll try and make it as painless as possible. After all, you have an eternity in which to endure the pleasures of pain once your soul has been purchased, so the least he can do is make your journey to Hell a short and sharp one. What a benevolent chap, huh?
By now you’re probably wondering who I am, yes? My official job title is: The Acquirer Of Souls. And this I do by any means possible, by hook or by crook. I rely on ignorant fools like you, fools who will dismiss this Contract as a hoax, a sham. It’s idiots like you that you keep me in business, so carry on reading, chump – disbeliever.
In order to make this a binding Contract, it’s my job to inform you of what it is you’re buying into; it wouldn’t be binding if I didn’t lay everything on the table and tried to hide things. You are essentially, by reading this Contract, buying yourself a one-way ticket to Hell, eternal damnation; a short and painless journey that will lead you to your destiny; the destiny of the doubter, the disbeliever.
This is a simple Contract; there are no hidden clauses, no sub-clauses, no get-out clauses, no fine print, and no catches. What you read is what you get.
The Hell that you end up in will be your own personal Hell. Imagine, just imagine, your worst fear; the thing you dread most of all, with all your heart. For instance, are you afraid of spiders? If so, then your Hell will be an eternity trapped in a room full of huge spiders. Imagine them crawling all over you, their long, hairy legs all over your body, their huge fangs devouring you for eternity; their mirror-like multiple eyes capturing your reflection as you watch your self slip towards insanity. Endless insanity. Do you still want to carry on reading? Imagine your worst fear … imagine?
And why do I give you twenty-four hours notice of your death? Why not just kill you after reading The Contract? First, The Reaper needs time to arrange your death, because he’s a very busy fella. Second, because I have to give you a chance to say your goodbyes. This Contract won’t be binding unless I give sufficient notice. Whether you choose to take your chance to say your goodbyes is up to you? Either way, I don’t give a shit; I just want your soul.
Are you still reading this Contract? Boy, you’re brave, real brave … or stupid? I guess in twenty-four hours time your gonna find out which it is, aren’t you: stupid … or brave? Obviously the idea of spending eternity in Hell isn’t something that bothers you, huh? But can you feel that uncertainty beginning to well inside your stomach. Can you feel that internal alarm going off in your head, telling you to stop … before it’s too late? That voice is nagging you, isn’t it? That internal voice, faint, but very real, resonating inside your cerebral tissue, telling you stop, stop … please stop reading?
Cast a glance at the clock? Go on, don’t be afraid, every second counts now. Can you hear it ticking? Watch the slow, steady movement of the second’s hand, or the pulse of your digital clock. Edging you closer to your destiny, to your own personal Hell.
Soon your soul will be mine. And I will have purchased it for what? Nothing: that’s what. Absolutely nothing – Just the bit of my time that it took to knock-up this Contract. Hah!
Anyway, if you’re still reading at this point, my gullible friend, then it’s too late for you. Earlier on, I stated that you only had to read substantially most of The Contract. You have unfortunately gone past the point of no return, I’m afraid. So you can’t bottle out now. Your soul is mine whether you read on or not.
Soon my associate will be paying you a visit; he will already be planning your demise. So when you feel that cold, chilling breath on your neck. When you hear His eternal voice whisper sweetly in your ear, ‘it’s time.’ When you feel your soul being spasmodically ripped from your body, please do despair, for your own personal Hell awaits you.
Look at clock: note the hour; note the minute; note the second … because twenty-four hours from now you will dead, and you will take your place in Hell … for eternity …
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