Once there was a town called Tucson, way off in the Arizona territory. And this bookstore, decided to invite the local authors to come and sign books. And the writers came and even brought their pens. Except for one writer. They curiously forgot to invite him. And he came anyway.
"What's he doing here?" people were heard to ask.
"How come I wasn't invited?" the writer asked.
"Because we don't like you," everyone chimed. "Go away and don't come back. And your stories suck!"
So, that very night, a strange man with glowing eyes and a red top hat knocked on the writer's door. "Hi, I'd like to publish your book."
"Oh, sure," the writer said.
"Just sign here," the publisher guy said.
"What's with the red ink?" the writer asked.
"It's not red ink. It's blood," the publisher guy corrected.
The writer hesitated. "I know who you are, mister. You're the devil."
"Darn tootin.' Who else would buy your book? It's the worse book ever written."
"If it's so bad, why do you want it?"
"That is the sort of thing we publish in hell."
"You're not trying to get my soul?" the writer fellow asked, somewhat disappointed.
"No, we certainly don't want your soul. We don't want you in hell. Most definitely not. We want you right here cranking out deplorable fiction."
"Oh." So the writer signed the contract.
"Excellent. The check is in the mail. We'll probably be in touch."
And the writer fellow never went to another book signing.