Dearth of a Salesman

David's hand glistened with sweat after he wiped his forehead clean. His ceiling fan churned overhead, doing little to lessen the cloying heat and humidity.

"I would give anything to be out of this heat," he muttered.

He heard the sound of popping bubble wrap behind him. He swiveled his computer chair around and saw the imp hovering in midair in the center of the room. It looked fairly stereotypical: small, somewhat chubby, hairless and with bright red skin and tiny bat wings. Its canine teeth protruded outside its mouth. It held a short, tarnished pitchfork in one hand.

"I hear you got a deal you want to make?" the imp asked. It spoke with an inexplicable Texan accent.

"Er." David had never encountered one of the infernal denizens before and he wasn't entirely sure how to react. He'd read a fair bit about them and how they go about their work, though.

"I was mostly just talking to myself there," he said at last.

The imp's body slumped. "You sure?"

"Yeah, positive. Sorry."

The imp sighed and vanished. David turned back to his computer.