Mephistopheles relaxed after a good (evil) day’s work, buying souls.
He’d chalked up three witches, a magus, a brick-maker who’d had too much to drink, and Michael Bay. (Boob, explosions and flash-cuts could only get you so far.)
The day’s coup had to be snagging the eternal mojo of an untalented, passive-aggressive tenured professor of Comparative Literature. Few outside the world of academia were willing to sell their souls, period, but usually they required at least world-wide fame, or in the case of the brick layers, as much beer as they could drink.
That prof really wanted to be Chair of the Department.