"Look, Mr Bingham, I've been where you are, and I think you have a compelling argument for violation of contract.
But we've got to get a few details covered. You state that you signed a contract, in blood, with the devil. Are you certain it was the king of hell, and not some other entity. He does get imitators and soul selling scams are a dime a dozen."
"Well, sir, I reckon it was the man hisself. He had them horns, and the tail, and the glowing red eyes, and them wangs. Cain't rightly be nobody else."
"You'd be surprised how many things out there look like that. One of my exes could do a damn good version of that when I'd come home drunk.
At any time, did the eyes change color, did the wings shift to some other appearance at all? Any shifts?"
"Ayup, shore did. His eyes went from red to golden when we signed, and his wings started shining with a white light that durn near hurt my face. I had to turn away fer a moment." And I swear, when it started to dim and I looked back, he weren't red a'tall. He was almost like marble, only shinin' inside out as the light faded and he turnt back to what I seen a'first."
"Well, that certainly helps, we know it could only be a few things other than Lucifer, and none of those can give any power without the approval of the divinity they serve. Those divinities can't pull tricks in their arrangements because it isn't in them.
So, it seems that Satan, the dark lord of hell did pull a fast one.
The contract here says you wanted the power to clear a field in a day, no matter how big, no matter what the crop. In exchange, your immortal soul would be given unto Lucifer, the Exiled, to reside with him until the end of time.
The signature matches all known examples, and you specified a crop to be cleared.
I would definitely say that being caused to belch fire any time you step into a field would not match the intended exchange. Nor the, ahhhh, it says here the winds what tore a hole in your pants at the same time and demolished your harvester. No crop being present means that the field being cleared is a default of intent, and that matters in the celestial court."
"Ayup, that's what I reckon."
Alright Mr Bingham, lets get a few things signed in regular ink here. Power of Intercession, plea to the Saints and Martyrs for a hearing, and an affidavit of your version of the statements made today."
"You reckon I oughta sign anything a'tall? Last time I did that, I was fartin' tornadoes."
"If you don't, I can't stand for you in the court, I can only give you advice here on earth. That's your choice, and I have seen successful cases won that way. But you'll still have to present a plea, and the written version is the fastest. You have no idea how backed up the Saints and Martyrs are these days."
"I been backed up afore. Took some castor oil, cleared me right out. Hain't had no trouble like that since them winds started comin' out though. I reckon, if I didn't have the sense to not sign before, and it got me into this mess, maybe I oughta not have sense again, and see if'n it gets me out."
"That's one way to look at it, yeah."
As the parchments were signed and witnessed, I looked Mr Bingham up and down again. I should have seen this coming. You don't just escape a soul deal on a technicality and not piss the entity off. You sure as hell don't go on to find and help other betrayed souls to negate their contracts and begin the process of repentance.
The only question in my mind at that point was who Bingham really was. Could be one of the older incubi, they tend to be good at hiding their nature, even from someone familiar with the signs. But I don't think they would have gone with the hokey bullshit fake farmer thing.
No, it had to be something else. Maybe a greater demon, maybe one of the damned given privileges and power for the task. But it was definitely not the Mr Bingham that I had a friendly air elemental look into. Oh, it looked the part, but the real Mr Bingham didn't have that fake corn-pone drawl. And, while he definitely did fart tornadoes, he seemed quite happy with it. Had a little wind farm going, making nice income just from eating some beans every night and pointing the direction of the turbines when regular wind was low.
We would see, though. No way could it keep up the masquerade past the Celestial Gates. The guardians would sniff it out in a hot second.
"Mr Bingham, if you'll return tomorrow morning, ten a.m., I should have a response to your plea, and we can set up a time for a trip to purgatory to enter the Gates and have your case heard."
With the usual handshakes and malarkey goodbyes, I showed him out the door and made some prayers.
I'm going to continue this as a response to this comment because I don't want to hit the character limit, and I need a nap. Not sure exactly when I'll finish up, or how many sections it'll run.