Cheese of Gold to Win My Soul

 "You know what? I'll make you a bet. I can make the best grilled cheese in the world. Win-win for you - at worst you get the best grilled cheese you'll ever eat, and if I lose, you can have my soul."

"Deal," said Satan, snapping his fingers to conjure a burning scroll that flamed up into a puff of smoke once I scrawled my name.

I hadn't really expected him to accept, and my palms were sweaty as I headed to the bakery-deli to gather supplies while Satan sat at home menacingly tapping his fingers on my kitchen table. Baguette, soft but crusty, perfect for slicing and toasting. 3 types of cheese: American, cheddar and brie. Fancy butter. And some garlic and herbs for my favorite twist, garlic bread as the outside of the sandwich. In front of the stove, I plopped a pat of butter in the skillet and preheated until it melted to coat the whole pan. I squeezed the baguette, enjoying the crackling of the crust, then drew my serrated knife through, releasing the fresh-baked aroma. I used the knife to scrape the soft, yellow butter evenly and generously over the slices, creating little lines like a zen garden for delicate herbs to nestle into. I minced the garlic and scattered it over the buttered bread, then tossed fresh and dried herbs on top with some flaky sea salt. As a final touch I sprinkled a bit of parmesan to form a cheesy crust. I placed the bread in the hot pan where it sizzled deliciously. I lay several slices of cheese on top, artfully arranging to allow drips of melted cheese to ooze down over the edges. "Cover for three minutes, so the cheese gets melty," I muttered to myself. Uncover and flip to brown the other side so both sides were evenly, Maillard-ly golden. Tilt the pan to slide the sandwich onto the plate, and cut in half diagonally - everybody knows that cutting lengthwise is blasphemy that even Satan wouldn't enjoy. Heart racing, I presented Satan with his sandwich, thinking that I should've made myself one too so I could at least enjoy my last day on Earth. The devil's pointed teeth crisped into the toasted sandwich and tore away a bite, cheese stringing down his chin. I felt the self-satisfaction drain from his body and start to enter mine as I read the win on his face. For a moment I thought I had him, but slowly a wicked grin spread across his face. He ceded: "Best grilled cheese I've had all day, or even all week. But best in the world? That calls for more research."

So Satan and I traveled around the world. He said he had to pick up a few other souls anyway. We rocketed off at terrifying speed straight down through the center of the Earth to Australia and ate a panini-style jaffle, crispy at the edges and gooey in the center, but disqualified for being technically a melt - contained tomatoes. We hit up a British pub for a few brews and tried out some Welsh rabbits, which, while tasty, don't count as a sandwich in my book. We traveled to Colombia (taking a wormhole through Hell this time, which was quite disconcerting), and sat on a patio drinking aguardiente and munching on arepas. We even stopped in Mexico for a quesadilla. I could see in his eyes every time we took a new bite that he still hadn't had a better true grilled cheese than mine. He refused to admit defeat and called for a final test: I must win unanimous agreement from a panel of taste-testing demons, citing unfair bias in the current bet as he was both participant and judge. I couldn't argue with that.

The grilled cheese contest became a bit of an event in Hell. (I had agreed to hold the contest in Hell, as my apartment wasn't big enough to host a cadre of Underworldlings; plus, Satan had a very well-stocked kitchen.) Demons gathered to try my sandwich, lining up behind a long table set up with a skillet and all the works. They even put up a giant flaming banner. Some of the minions participated to have their own variation judged, but still no sandwich could beat mine. Time went on and the line stretched farther than ever, especially as some of the demons were returning for seconds. The event grew until even people up on Earth got wind and started committing atrocious acts to try to enter Hell, though once admitted they had to wait a literal eternity, able to smell the toasting garlic and melting cheese wafting through the air but never able to bite into the gloriously crispy, garlicky bread and burn their mouths on gooey melting cheese.

After what felt like an eternity, a VIP arrived unexpectedly: a notorious TV celebrity chef, known for bashing on people's dishes with relish and abandon. Cantankerous, rage-filled, and higher standards than the devil himself, probably: at last, the contest would be decided. I made the most beautiful grilled cheese to date; after all, my uncanny skill had only improved over the course of a thousand sammies. I set it before the chef, mentally noting that my impression of "Chopped" as literal hell had in fact been correct. He took a bite. I waited. He took another bite, then another, jamming the garlicky, cheese-stuffed carbs into his mouth. He devoured the whole goddamned thing! Finally, I was proclaimed the Grilled Cheese Master by Satan in a quite wild closing ceremony. The demons went wild cheering and celebrating, and I even won a Nob-hell Peace Prize for my accomplishment. Satan knew when he'd been beat and opened a hell portal back to my crummy apartment where my greasy line-cook job waited. I hesitated for a single moment before I stepped through, and the devil pounced. "You know, my minions work up a big appetite torturing people, and our housing options really aren't bad..."

So that's the story of how I got a job in Hell. The healthcare is actually pretty good, and parties are way more fun here. Plus it doesn't hurt being a local celebrity. If the world has seemed particularly evil lately, it's just people trying to get on the waiting list for the best grilled cheese in the Underworld.