[ wp ] Years ago , you made a deal with the Devil to be granted a single wish . All your memories of the deal were then wiped . Years later , your wish is fulfilled and you are about to find out what price your younger self was willing to pay to make it come true .

Tom had it all. 
 
 Money, power, sex appeal. The editorials had loved his rise to fame from lowly garage inventor to CEO of a company that had more money that most European countries. 
 
 Women adored him and men all over the world wondered aloud, not unkindly, how unfair it was that he would have such a stranglehold on the market and look like an underwear model at the same time. 
 
 He sunbathed on his yacht by the pool whena shadow fell across him. He opened his eyes wondering why the chef had come up on deck so early, lunch was n't for another- 
 
'Mr Baxter?' A thin man in a crumpled white suit offered his hand. 
 
'Who the fu-' Tom almost screamed, scrambling to stand and splilling his beer. It frothed against the polished hardword deck as the bottle rolled with the motion of the waves. 
 With the exception of the waiting staff on his yacht and his personal assistant there was no one else on board, he had thought there was no one else on board. 
 
'Now, now Mr Baxter, no need for... hysterics'. The stranger's motioned to the lounger and pulled up one to sit on. Cosy, like they were fucking chums. 
 
'Who the fuck are you and how did you get on my yacht in the middle of the fucking Pacific!' Tom advanced on the stranger who looked both frail and hopefully, unarmed. 
 
'Sit!' the stranger commanded and Tom was suddenly sitting.'Shake my hand Mr Baxter'. 
 
'N, no... I do n't want to.' Even in this heat Tom felt a chill as the stranger once more extended his hand and took his. 
 
 Memories flooded Tom's brain, old synapses that had been sealed off and hidden now sprung to life Memories he had n't touched in the last ten years burned again light filaments left dormant. He remembered the despair, the frustration, prototype after prototype, the wish, the deal... 
 
'Sir? Is everything ok? I did n't realise you had another guest.' The chef stood at the doorway to the cabin, uncertain and resplendent in his brilliantly white chefs uniform. 
 
'Tell him everything is fine.' 
 
'Everything is fine.' Tom's monotone voice repeated. 
 
 The chef paused and vanished back into the cabin. Now he'd have to prep another course for the stranger who looked as if he needed a good meal. 
 
'You remember who I am?' The stranger asked, still holding Tom's hand. 
 
 Tom slowly nodded his head. 
 
'And you remember our deal?' 
 
 Tom nodded again, a small drop of spittle slowly ran down his chin. 
 
'And you remember the price Tom?' 
 
 He shook his head. A blood vessel burst in Tom's nose and a trickle of blood ran down his left nostril to meet up with the drool, dripping on the deck, mixing with the beer froth. 
 
 
 The Devil let go, Tom grasped his hand back, clasped it to his chest. 
 
'No, its, its too early.' Tom's voice was high.'We have other markets to expand into, new products, we have...' 
 
'No Tom, I'm sorry, no more time Tom.' The Devil pulled out a single sheet of paper from his breast pocket and stood up, began to read from it in the tone of a teacher trying to help a difficult student understand. 
 
'Hereby set forth, I Thomas Belinda Baxter, do so sign this agreement with the understanding that service level agreements shall be delivered to me over the course of a ten year period starting on the 17th of March, 2005.' 
 
 Tom wondered if he could simply jump off the boat into the sea and swim for it, the horizon glittered far, too far away. 
 
 The Devil continued, his voice now that of a dry accountant, listing recent stock prices, gross sales, international profits, sexual scenarios Tom's teenage mind had rushed to specify, muscle mass and body fat percentages. 
 
'... forthwith I, Tom Belinda Baxter do so agree to pay with my hands, penis and testicles.' The Devil looked over at Tom who started screaming, pawing at his shorts with what were now seamless stumps.
