Clearly I fucked someone over and am now paying the price.

Getting blackmailed sucks. Getting blackmailed by Satan really sucks—hard.

But I’m not a weenie or a welsher. I’m a semi-materialistic, Prada lovin’ Vampyre-Demon with a bad attitude and a serious lack of skills in both cheating and writing. If I were a good cheater, I wouldn’t be in this heinous position. I lost and now I have to pay. However, the price might deplete the wavering amount of sanity I have left. Not to mention this disastrous adventure is cutting in on nookie time with the smexy dead guy of my dreams.

Lack of sex makes me a grumpy Vampyre. Trust me. I’m very grumpy right now.

So I’m turning to you, Dear Diary, to pour out my inappropriate feelings and murderous inclinations toward a family member who shall remain nameless. Who in the Hell am I kidding? I’m gonna name that son of a bitch over and over on these secret pages. It’s Satan or Lucifer or the Lord of Darkness or the Dark Angel—or, as I like to call him, Uncle Fucker.

And just so you know, I think he secretly likes being called Uncle Fucker no matter how much he protests or blows shit up. Just sayin’.

Anyhoo, the Devil is driving me nuts and according to most of my loved ones, I’m already a bit unbalanced to start with. I see this redonkulous venture with my Uncle Satan as a ginormous clusterhump that probably won’t end well. I’m prone to property destruction when I get mad. This hobby does not make me popular as you can well imagine.

If I tell my mate, Ethan, he’ll get pissed at Uncle Fucker and that will go nowhere fast—or it could go straight to Hell in a fiery explosion. Pun intended.

That’s why I have turned to you, Dear Diary. You don’t have a mouth as far as I know and if you do, I’ll remove it—violently. Please keep that in mind as I tell you all my secrets. I’ve dealt with talking books and walls and they’re a real pain in the ass. So if you turn out to be one of those, we’ll have a problem.

But honestly, I don’t like the name Diary. It sounds like dairy, which reminds me of milk—which in turn leads me to start thinking about ice cream. I can’t eat ice cream or anything for that matter since I’m dead. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. Being a little sensitive about not being able to ingest anything but blood makes me pissy, to put it mildly. If I have to call you something that reminds me of black raspberry chip ice cream, I’ll tear you to shreds. That would be unfair to you since you didn’t do anything wrong. You feel me?

Yes, I’m violent, but I’m also fair.

The reasonable thing to do here is to think of a new name for you. How about Shelia? Do you like that? Please don’t answer. I’ll have to kill you.

Shelia it is.

In order to keep at least a tenuous grip on my mental health I’m gonna spill my guts to you.

You’re welcome.

So Shelia, this is the farked up conversation that started it all…

Read it and weep. I did.

“Apropos of nothing, do you know how to write? Satan inquired. “You’re constantly reading all those trashy romance novels.”

“Okay, that was kind of random and they’re not trashy,” I told the smug butthole and added an awesome eye roll to annoy him. “They’re fun and why in the Hell would you think I can write? Because I can read?”

“Well, yes,” Uncle Fucker shot back defensively. “I’m looking for a ghost writer.”

“For?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at the crazy man.

“For my autobiography. There’s so much misinformation out there on me. I thought I’d straighten the masses out, by letting them know my point of view on my favorite subject.”

“And that would be you?”

“But of course, Satan replied with his typical devastating grin. “I’m the most interesting person I know. We shall discuss this later.”

“How about we discuss it when Hell freezes over?” I suggested.

“It’s getting a bit chilly down under,” he told me with a wink.”

And that’s how we ended up playing cards. Winner takes all.

Satan won. Satan also cheated.

I lost. I didn’t cheat. I’m fucking writing his autobiography.

However, it’s a duet instead of a solo effort much to my great horror. Satan’s been showing at the Cressida House every day and dictating this catastrophe to me. Already the sticky fingered bastard has stolen more of Ethan’s office supplies than I can keep up with.

Whatever. It’s one month. I can survive one month.

Shelia… do you think I can survive a month with Uncle Fucker?

Don’t answer.

I’ll have to kill you.

xoxo Astrid