Seriously, I Need Some Gloves or Something

I was pissed. It was fourteen degrees outside, but the wind made it unbearable. The constant breeze was bad enough, but every gust of wind made my face feel like it was on fire. I cursed the gods for such a liberal distribution of squalls, and then cursed them again as soon as I entered the Campus Center, looking to escape freezer burn.

It was packed. This week was the annual Campus Center Christmas sale; vendor booths were set up all along the concourse, and people were flocking to the building to check out crappy jewelry and hemp bags. Added to this was the daily rush of people getting lunch, or just passing through on their way to class. Sometimes, all it takes to release one's inner evil is a large crowd.

I walked into the University Store, hoping to buy some gloves; being from New York, I had imagined Massachusetts winter to be at least similar to what I was used to, but I hadn't accounted for such winds. After a few sweeps of the clothing section, I found nothing.

I was not a friendly guy. I was of the disposition that nobody at the university really understood my brilliance, and it made me bitter. But they surely wouldn't comprehend my brilliance after seeing the way I was now dressed. I walked out of the University Store, wearing two over-sized, novelty, foam "#1" hands, the closest things I could find to gloves. I wasn't happy about it, but I at least understood the humor in this situation.

As I walked through the crowd, I had an epiphany. This was the most dense mass of people I had been a part of since arriving at the university; the perfect subjects for my revenge. I realized I was in the position to commit the perfect crime: I farted. Loud, rank, and wet, I farted. It was incredible, and I knew it; nobody could know it was me, and everyone but I suffered. I reveled in my evil genius. Then, Lucifer arrived.

With a puff of black smoke, the Dark Lord appeared, laughing maniacally, just like you always see on TV. That was disappointing; I had hoped he would be more original. I told him this. "Hey, fuckbag, you'd run out of ideas pretty fast if you had to do this shit every day for all eternity," he replied. I like to think I could do better.

"Anyway," he said, "I'm here because you figured out one of the few perfect crimes: farting in a gigantic crowd of people."

"No way, I can't be the first!" I exclaimed.

"Well, you're not the first to fart in a large group of people, and you aren't even the first to realize it as the perfect crime; you're the first to plan and commit this heinous act of premeditated olfactory terrorism, to this great amount of people. If you didn't realize it, didn't do it to this large a group, or didn't do it at all, it wouldn't warrant a visit. As it stands, however, you are officially evil. Congrats." I had always hoped the Devil wouldn't say words like "congrats."

"So... what happens now?" I asked.

"Well, you know those 'deals with the Devil' people always talk about? Since you're already heading my way, I figured I'd throw you something cool. Whatever you want, asshole."

I knew I wouldn't take this light--"It's fuckin' cold, just give me the Devil's Mittens!" Fuckin' idiot.

"Oh, you fuckin' dick! I really like those!" he complained as he disappeared in another puff of black smoke, leaving behind a pair of black and red mittens, ebony lining the edges. They seemed to glow with an impossible black light. As I picked them up, I could feel the power. This was to be merely the first step on my path to greatness. My rise and fall would be events of vast world importance; not a single person on Earth would be unaffected by my demise. So strong is the power of the Gauntlets of Forneus, Great Marquis of Hell; the Devil's Mittens.