Mickey’s Infernal Bargain

Contains Some Foul Language Consistent with Character (Satan)

SATAN SLOUCHED AGAINST the obsidian throne, picking ash from under his fingernails with the tip of a ceremonial dagger. The screams from the ninth circle had dulled to white noise centuries ago. Another day in Hell—predictable, boring, and exactly how he liked it.

A lesser demon scurried in, clutching a stack of contracts. “My Lord, we’ve got seventeen new arrivals from Wall Street. The usual package?”

“Give them the broker special. Eternity of cold calls that never connect.” Satan waved him away without looking up. The demon bowed and backed out.

Hell ran like clockwork these days. No surprises, no challenges, just the smooth operation of damnation. Satan almost missed the old days—fire and brimstone, epic battles with archangels, tempting prophets in the desert. Now it was all paperwork and middle management.

His phone buzzed. Satan glanced at the screen and grunted.

The text came from an unknown number: I have something you want. Meet me at Disneyland. Tomorrow. Main Street. Noon.

Satan hurled the phone across the throne room. It smashed against the wall of fire, melting into the lava floor. That made the seventh phone this month.

Disneyland. Of all the festering cesspools on Earth, it had to be there. He’d rather swim in holy water than set foot in that sanitized nightmare. The Vatican? A breeze compared to Disney. At least the Catholics had style—gothic architecture, centuries of corruption, and a gift shop that didn’t sell mouse-shaped everything.

“Beelzebub!” Satan roared.

His assistant materialized, clipboard in hand, his fly head twitching. “Yes, Lord of Darkness?”

“Some asshole wants to meet at Disneyland tomorrow.”

“Would you like me to send a lesser demon in your place?”

Satan scratched his beard. “Can’t. Message said they have something I want.”

“A soul perhaps?”

“Possible. But someone gutsy enough to demand I show up at that corporate anti-hellscape? I’m curious.”

Beelzebub scribbled on his clipboard. “Shall I book you a flight?”

“Hell no. I’ll take the express route.” Satan cracked his neck. “And have someone get me a new phone. Something fireproof this time.”

Beelzebub hesitated. “Sir, the last time you visited Earth’s surface, you caused that incident in Vegas.”

“That wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know holy water and vodka make such a volatile combination?”

“Three casinos burned down.”

“And I tipped the firefighters generously.” Satan stood, his full height scraping the cavern ceiling. “I need this, Beelz. I’m bored out of my skull down here.”

Beelzebub sighed—a sound like flies buzzing through a corpse. “Very well. I’ll clear your schedule and alert the board that you’ll miss tomorrow’s quarterly torture review.”

“Tell them I said to get creative. Maybe try something with pineapples.” Satan grinned, revealing teeth filed to points. “I’ve got a feeling tomorrow might actually be interesting.”

Satan approached the Travel Department, a bustling room filled with outdated equipment and the damned souls of travel agents who’d booked honeymoon couples into rooms next to ice machines.

“Fire up the Earth portal,” Satan ordered, tossing his cape to a nearby demon. “Anaheim, California. Disney-fucking-land.”

The chief technician, a grotesque creature with too many eyes, cringed. “Sir, the Disneyland portal’s been acting up. Last demon we sent through came back with mouse ears fused to his skull.”

“Do I look like I give a shit? Just get it running.”

The technician sighed and pulled a rusty lever. A swirling vortex opened, crackling with energy and emitting the faint sound of “It’s a Small World.”

“Coordinates locked, my lord. But I should warn you—”

Satan didn’t wait for the rest. He stepped into the vortex, felt his atoms rip apart, spin through a tunnel of nauseating colors, and reassemble themselves behind a dumpster near the entrance to the “Magic Kingdom.” The stench of fresh cotton candy and mouse-shaped ice cream bars crawled up his nostrils and throat-punched his gag reflex. He doubled over, dry heaving. Even Hell didn’t smell this unnatural.

He adjusted his appearance—trading his usual horns and hooves for a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, cargo shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. Perfect camouflage among the throngs of sweaty tourists.

The line to enter snaked back like the world’s most depressing conga line—parents with the thousand-yard stare of hostages, kids hyped up on propaganda, all of them willingly paying two hundred bucks to be tortured. Satan almost felt professional admiration. Almost.

A family with five children crowded behind him, the youngest staring up with a mixture of terror and fascination. The kid had good instincts.

“Cool tattoo,” the boy said, pointing at Satan’s forearm where a living gecko writhed beneath his skin, its eyes blinking as the tail coiled around Satan’s veins.

“Billy, don’t talk to strangers,” the mother snapped, pulling the boy closer. Satan winked at Billy, who giggled.

Two hours later, Satan trudged through the gates, surrounded by families with shrieking children and adults sporting Mickey ears without a hint of irony. The sun beat down like God’s personal spotlight, reminding Satan why he preferred the climate-controlled depths of Hell.

“Welcome to the happiest place on Earth!” A teenager in a Disney uniform beamed at him.

Satan glared. “We both know that’s a lie.”

The kid’s smile didn’t waver. They’d trained him well.

“Enjoy your day!” The teen handed Satan a map covered in cartoon characters with psychotic grins.

Main Street violated Satan’s senses with all the subtlety of a chainsaw colonoscopy—relentless cheerfulness drilling through his skull, manufactured nostalgia choking the air, and the stench of overpriced popcorn mocking actual food. Speakers blasted “It’s a Small World” for the fiftieth time since he’d arrived. If there was one thing Satan regretted in his eternity of evil, it was not claiming the songwriter’s soul before that abomination was created.

A small child crashed into Satan’s legs, ice cream smearing across his shorts.

“Watch it, you little shit,” Satan snarled, as the mother approached.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Timmy’s just excited.”

Satan forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. “No problem.” He leaned down to Timmy’s level. “But be careful who you run into, kid. Some of us bite back.”

The woman yanked her son away, firing a death glare at Satan that combined maternal rage with the unspoken promise of calling management. Satan actually blinked, impressed. He’d seen souls tortured for millennia who couldn’t muster that level of pure, concentrated judgement. He made a mental note to recruit her when her time came—that look could freeze the Lake of Fire.

As he wiped at the sticky mess on his shorts, Satan spotted him—a figure in a Mickey Mouse costume waving at passing children. Unlike the others, this one stared straight at him, then beckoned him toward a staff-only door.

Satan followed, pushing past a group taking selfies with some lame-ass princess. Mickey punched a code into a keypad, and the door clicked open.

Inside, the dim hallway offered blessed relief from the sensory assault outside. Mickey removed his oversized head, revealing a balding man in his fifties with dark circles under bloodshot eyes.

“Thanks for coming,” the man said, extending a hand. “I’m Reggie.”

Satan ignored the hand. “Cut the shit, Reggie. What do you want?”

Reggie set the Mickey head on a shelf. “Straight to business. I like that.” He gestured to a small break room. “How about a seat? My feet are killing me.”

They sat at a table covered in coffee stains and employee schedules. Reggie rubbed his face, smearing his makeup.

“I want out of my contract,” Reggie said.

“What contract?”

“The one I signed thirty years ago. With Disney.”

Satan laughed. “You think I run Disney? I’m flattered, but even I have standards.”

“No, but you run Hell,” Reggie pulled a worn document from his pocket. “I sold my soul to be Mickey Mouse.”

“You sold your soul... to be Mickey.” Satan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me get this straight. You had one shot at a Faustian bargain, and you wasted it on this?”

“I was twenty-two and stupid. I wanted to be part of the magic.” Reggie’s voice cracked. “Do you know what it’s like wearing this suit in August? Or dealing with kids who kick you in the nuts and parents who demand you pose for one more photo when your shift ended an hour ago?”

“So quit.”

“Can’t. The contract binds me to the role.” Reggie pulled up his sleeve, revealing a black Mickey silhouette branded into his skin. “Try to quit, and this burns like hell. Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken. Hell’s actually got decent air conditioning.”

“Plus, where would I go? Thirty years as Mickey Mouse doesn’t exactly build a resume for the real world.” Reggie rubbed bloodshot eyes. “Last week, I caught myself speaking in that damn voice to my ex-wife on the phone.”

Satan shrugged. “Sounds like you got exactly what you asked for.”

“I want to renegotiate. I’ll give you something better in exchange for my freedom.”

“Like what? A lifetime pass to Space Mountain?”

Reggie reached under the table and pulled out a small wooden box. “Like the original contract Walt Disney signed.”

Satan’s eyes widened.

“Kept in a temperature-controlled vault. Took me years to figure out how to get to it.” Reggie pushed the box across the table. “Walt made a deal too. Why do you think this place is so successful?”

Satan opened the box. The yellowed parchment inside radiated dark energy. He ran a finger over Walt’s signature, sending sparks flying.

“Son of a bitch. So that’s where this went.” Satan grinned. “Walt’s contract disappeared from our archives decades ago. Thought one of the archangels pulled a heist.”

“Wait, you actually did make a deal with Walt Disney?” Reggie’s eyes widened.

“Of course. Man shows up in Hell’s lobby, demands to see me personally. Says he wants to build the most profitable mind-control operation disguised as family entertainment the world has ever seen.” Satan chuckled. “Had to respect the ambition.”

“The great Satan himself, making deals with a cartoonist.” Reggie smirked, looking almost impressed. “But something tells me you didn’t read all the fine print, or I wouldn’t be standing here in this sweaty mouse head.”

Satan’s grin faded. “Look, after the first few thousand years, you get complacent. I was running Hell like a Fortune 500 company by then—delegating, outsourcing, trusting the legal department to handle the details.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Walt caught me during my cocaine-and-disco phase in the ‘70s. I was more interested in Studio 54 than reading the goddamn fine print.”

“Walt’s contract had special terms,” Reggie continued. “His body might be gone, but his essence—his ‘magic’ as the company calls it—lives on in the park. Every smile, every ‘dream come true,’ every overpriced churro feeds it.”

“Yeah, the corporate structure clause. I remember that part.” Satan scoffed. “Guy was a better negotiator than most lawyers I’ve got downstairs. His soul gets fractured across the whole Disney empire. Can’t collect until the last piece of the company crumbles.”

“So that’s why you want the contract back?”

“Damn right. That loophole has been a thorn in my ass for decades. Walt’s probably the only soul who’s ever managed to technicality his way out of Hell.”

“Well, there’s more,” Reggie said, leaning forward. “I know about the fifty-year clause.”

Satan’s eyebrow raised. “The what now? What fifty-year clause?”

“The one hidden in subsection 666.B.3. It says any employee who serves for fifty years can claim a piece of the Disney magic for themselves. I’ve got twenty more years, but if I make it, I get a slice of what Walt took from you.” Reggie tapped the contract. “Think of all those park employees who hit the fifty-year mark. You’re losing power with each retirement party.”

Satan slammed his fist on the table, cracking the surface. “That sneaky frozen bastard! No wonder our infernal accountants keep finding discrepancies in the soul ledger.”

“Plus,” Reggie added, “I can tell you where he hid the original copies of his banned cartoons. The ones so scandalous even Hell would cringe or blush.”

“Fine. Give me your contract.”

Reggie slid a worn document across the table. It looked amateurish compared to Walt’s—written on what appeared to be Disney stationery, complete with Mickey letterhead.

Satan recognized it immediately. “Oh, this trash fire. One of Mammon’s deals from the ‘90s.” He snorted. “That idiot would buy souls for a sandwich if I let him.”

“So it’s real?” Reggie sounded surprised. “I always thought I hallucinated the whole thing after a three-day mascot training bender.”

“Oh, it’s real alright. The clause about ‘eternal joy through character portrayal’ was Mammon’s idea of a joke.” Satan flicked the paper with distaste. “We’ve got better contract templates now. Legal team from Enron—best acquisition I ever made.”

Satan snapped his fingers, and the paper burst into flame.

“Done. Your soul is yours again.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Now get me out of this nightmare before I change my mind.”

Reggie stood, relief washing over his face. “Follow me. I know a back exit.”

As they navigated through the labyrinth of backstage corridors, Satan glimpsed the park’s inner workings. Actresses playing princesses smoked cigarettes while checking their phones. A headless Goofy chugged water from a gallon jug. The backstage reeked like a funeral for deodorant—sweat-soaked polyester costumes and the sour stink of people who’d sold their dignity for minimum wage plus “magical memories.”

“How does anyone work here without going insane?” Satan asked.

“Most don’t last a year.” Reggie nodded toward a group of fresh-faced employees being lectured by a manager. “The ones who stay either drink heavily or become true believers. Scarier than any demon I’ve met.”

They passed a door labeled “Character Development.” Muffled sobbing came from inside.

“New Snow White,” Reggie explained. “Found out about the weight clause in her contract.”

Satan grimaced. Perhaps he’d been too harsh on Reggie. Disney had perfected torments Hell hadn’t even considered.

“So what will you do now?” Satan asked.

“I’m opening a bar in Vegas. Something grimy and authentic.” Reggie grinned. “I’m thinking of calling it ‘Mickey’s Hell.’”

Satan snorted. “I’d drink there.”

“You’d be welcome anytime. On the house.” Reggie stopped at a door marked “EXIT.” Sunlight and freedom waited on the other side. “Just one thing. If you ever go after Walt’s soul...”

“Yeah?”

“Make it hurt.” Reggie pushed open the door. “Decades of people asking where the bathrooms are will do that to a man.”

Satan stepped into the alley, squinting against the California sun. “One last thing,” he said. “The churros. Are they really worth twelve bucks?”

Reggie shook his head. “Nothing here is worth what they charge for it. That’s the real magic of Disney.”

Satan watched Reggie walk away, Mickey head tucked under his arm. The man moved with a lightness Satan hadn’t seen in any human for centuries.

Walt’s contract burned against his skin through his pocket. The old man had been clever, but not clever enough. Satan opened a portal back to Hell, the smell of sulfur a welcome relief from cotton candy and manufactured dreams.

As the portal closed, a family rounded the corner, spotting him in mid-disappearance.

“Mommy!” the little girl shouted. “That man went poof!”

“Honey, that’s just Disney magic,” the mother replied.

Satan made a mental note to assign Walt to a special circle when they finally caught him—one that played “It’s a Small World” on an endless loop.

Some sins were unforgivable, even in the eyes of the Devil himself.