Our three narrators sit around a booth, each with a pint of his favorite, discussing an eerie happening that occurred on the University of Pennsylvania campus in days of yore. Lets take a listen…

Narrator 1 (sipping a pint of Guinness): There he was, standing at the Crossroads, 37^th and Locust, better known at the University of Pennsylvania as the "Compass". It was a dark and stormy night…Ok, it wasn't that stormy…Actually, it was the middle of the day and the sun was bright as can be (Can you blame a man for trying to build the suspense?). It was the middle of October and the weather was unusually nice. Seventy degrees, beautiful azure sky, lovely ladies enjoying the warmth in their skimpy clothing…and we digress; suffice to say the weather was lovely. He had just finished another interesting class on the effectiveness of applying Fourier transforms to an electrocardiogram reading (please don't ever take Bioengineering 465). The usual extreme student groups were out in abundance on Locust Walk pushing their extreme beliefs on anyone who happened to stop in their general vicinity. His head was down in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact, when suddenly he noticed a not-so-ordinary vendor. An enormous purple banner ran across the front of the small tent that read: "Kaplan: The Leader in MCAT Prep". What did this mean? He was "pre-med"; he would need to take the MCATs. He was obviously puzzled. Should he inquire? Slowly, he stepped right up to the woman behind the tent, whose name tag read: "Angel" (we aren't very creative), and asked her what the cost of a full course would be, what times were available, etc… She was amazing! She had a head full of unusually blonde hair. She had an angelic face - how original, huh? She was dressed almost head-to-toe in white that might have been a little too tight for her slender form. She had deep red lips and a curvaceous body; legs that went…and I digress yet again. Anyway, in a voice that sounded like a choir from heaven, she gave him some excellent advice about the MCAT and the process of signing up for MCAT classes; she even discounted him $100 for signing up so early. What a deal. More to the point, what a woman! As he turned to walk away from the table, it was clear that he had never been so content in his life. Nevertheless, he uttered the fateful words that would undoubtedly change his life forever…

Narrator 2 (he enjoys Beamish over Guinness): Hold on there, slappy! Lets give them a little background on the young man first. His name was Marcus Frohm. He was a junior pre-med student in Bioengineering at the University of Pennsylvania. He was from Detroit, Michigan. While he did well at Penn, he had never really grown to love the city that "loves you back". Philly smelled like dirty water, and he wasn't really fond of dirty water (With the reputation it has, I'm sure Detroit is a WHOLE lot nicer, a veritable spring garden if you will.). Anyway, he'd known that he wanted to attend medical school since he was a young child. He didn't want to be a doctor just so he could be a servant to the community or because he had grand ideas of bettering the world. His parents hadn't even pushed him into it like most pre-meds. Oh no, all the doctors he met as a youngster were rich men. He wanted the lifestyles that they had. He wanted a Porsche and an enormous house and would do practically anything to attain his white picket fence dreams. Seems kind of Faustian doesn't it?

Narrator 3 (Black and Tan for narrator 3): Come on, he wasn't all bad. He volunteered at the hospital and worked in the ER for free. He was kind of a sadist, in that he liked to watch all of the blood during surgery, but I would hardly say he was some imp. You make it sound like he was practicing necromancy or conjuring Beelzebub. He simply wanted a little bread in the bank. Nothing wrong with a little financial stability.

Narrator 1: Knock it off you two! This creative project ain't going to write itself. So, Marcus was not the average "Penn" student. He was never a big fan of the frat party scene and never went to Smoke's. He could often be seen at The Bard's or The Irish Pub, most often alone and reading, while sipping a frothy bitter stout. He had simple pleasures, but then he didn't have the financial ground to live the life of Riley.

Narrator 2: Who the hell is Riley?

Narrator 1: It's an expression for Pete's sake. Please stop interrupting me.

Narrator 2 (muttering): Fine, but I don't understand all the name-dropping.

Narrator 1: And now, we will pick up where we left our young M.D. hopeful. At the Crossroads of his life, about to utter those words that would change his life indefinitely…

Narrator 3: Quit being so dramatic!

Narrator 1: If you don't quit interrupting me…

Back at the Crossroads and those fateful words

Marcus: Angel, if to the moment I should say, 'My MCAT scores are so fair'…Actually, screw fair. What is this, Goethe? I don't want fair, I want exceptional. In fact, I would give anything to ace the MCATs. I need to get into med school, and not just any med school, I want top ten. After med school, I am going to go into cosmetic surgery for the rich and famous, move out to 90210 and ride the liposuction gravy train all the way home.

Angel: Cosmetic surgery? You could be an excellent physician and actually help people. You could save a lot of people and better a lot of lives.

Marcus (getting excited about his future of sloth): That savior doctor shit is not for me. I am going to get the cash and get out of the game. Early retirement. Then I am going to sit back, drink Guinness, get a big belly, and coach little league football. But first, I have to destroy the MCATs. I would give anything ace that exam!

Angel: You better be careful what you wish for…

Narrator 1: Just then, a young man dressed all in black, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the unrivaled Emil Jannings in Murnau's Faust, steps out from behind the Kaplan tent. He apparently works for Kaplan, since he has a Kaplan he has a nametag, but the nametag is blank, almost indicating that he represents nothingness or negation…

The Guy: Nope, it just means that they haven't put my name on my tag yet. Pleased to meet you Marcus, My name is Luke, Luke Iblis. I hear that you HAVE to do well on the MCATs. Well, you have come to the right place. Why don't we head downtown for a drink, and we can discuss your "preparation" options? I have a taste for stout, how bout The Bard's?

Marcus: Say no more. You are a man who is obviously cut from the same cloth as myself. Lets hit the bar!

Angel: Wait; there is no replacement for faith, hard work, and diligent study. Don't make this mistake…

Narrator 1: Marcus, who is wholly focused on his next worldly pleasure, a frothy Guinness, is unable to hear her pleas as her voice is stifled by the incessant yelling of a certain disturbed "preacher Stephen" on Locust Walk. A "supposed" man of God drowns her appeal to Marcus. Ironic, huh?

Outside The Bard's Cellar

Narrator 1: As Marcus and Luke walk down Walnut Street, they quietly converse. Eventually they reach the Bard's and prepare to whet their whistles…

Marcus: So how did you do so well on the MCAT's? I cant believe you got a 41!

Luke (holding the door open for him): Well, lets sit and have a drink. Then we can get down to business.

Narrator 1: As Marcus looks around the nearly empty bar, he notices three men sitting in a booth talking and arguing vividly over some silly story. Luke and Marcus grab a seat at the bar and both order a Guinness.

Marcus (looking at his Guinness): The nectar of the Gods.

Luke: The Devil yes, God no. He prefers Beamish. Anyway, lets discuss this MCAT topic. You say that you are willing to do anything to get a good score?

Marcus: Absolutely. You name it.

Luke: What if I told you that I could make it happen. I can assure you a score of forty or better.

Marcus: Look buddy, Kaplan ain't that good. No matter what that Angel said.

Luke: My boss has a special class designed just for special students, and it GUARANTEES a score of 40 or better, or you get your expenditure back.

Marcus: A full guarantee? That sounds too good to be true. Can I get that in writing?

Luke: Sure. Actually, he would rather have it in writing. Just sign this little contract I have here, and you are guaranteed your desired score. All you have to do is show up to the Kaplan center on the night before the MCAT to meet with my boss. Other than that, no preparation is necessary.

Marcus: This is unbelievable. When can I pay for it?

Luke: Don't worry; you don't have to put anything down right now. You can pay much later…

Narrator 1: As Marcus takes a pen from the bartender, he cuts his right arm on stray peanut shell, a nasty gash. His blood spills ominously onto the contract. He apologizes hastily to a now smiling Luke, grabs the pen, and quickly scrawls his name on the contract. As a general rule I read contracts before I sign them. Apparently he doesn't…

Marcus: I hope the contract is still binding, even though I really messed it up with all that blood.

Luke (still smiling): Don't you worry about that. How could it not be binding; you practically signed in blood! Hey everybody, how bout a toast! To the future Marcus Frohm, M.D.! Drinks are on me! Raise a glass everyone - that includes you three gentlemen hiding in the corner over there - a toast to my latest victim, er victor!

Narrator 1 (sipping his free beer): And so the deal was done. Without his knowledge, Marcus was no longer his own entity. His essence belonged to someone else…

The Eve of the MCAT

And so we rejoin our beloved narrators at the Irish Pub at 20^th and Walnut. They are again discussing their favorite pre-med character and his unknown, but almost certainly undesirable fate…

Narrator 2: No way! No way he just sold his soul to the devil and had no idea that he was doing it. So the guy liked money and really wanted to go into a profession that would allow him some great financial opportunities. That's no reason that he would give up his eternal life! This story sucks.

Narrator 3: Yeah. How come he didn't even read the stupid contract! This is insane! This is no Devil's Pact that I've ever heard of. And he wants to go to medical school. Not too bright, if you ask me. Oh yeah, what about the peanut shell cutting his arm? That's a little far-fetched.

Narrator 1: I can't believe you two. You both got a free round of beers and neither one of you believes the story. Everyone wants visual proof. Everyone has to SEE to believe. Whatever happened to having a little faith. Now would you guys care to shut up for a little while, so I can continue? I am sure that you will eventually come around.

Narrator 2: Fine, but I still think this sucks.

Narrator 1 (perturbed, but determined to finish the story): And so it was the eve of the MCAT, and Marcus walked down Walnut Street towards the Kaplan center. He was more than a little anxious. He hadn't given the MCAT a second thought since the day that he had signed the contract, and now he wondered if he shouldn't have studied at least a little. As he walked past the Irish Pub, he noticed three gentlemen drinking Guinness and having a rousing conversation. He felt a little envious that they should be enjoying a good drink and good conversation when he was on his way to prepare for the most important challenge of his young life…

Marcus (looking in the Irish Pub as he passes it): Damn, that beer looks good. I can't believe I have to take this stupid test tomorrow. I should have studied. What kind of idiot signs a contract that guarantees a test score? I bet this Luke guy is gonna try to charge me a ton of money tonight. I really wish I could back out of this. What have I done? Dear Lord, give me a few more weeks just to study! I promise that I wont ever take the easy way out again. Oh Buddha, Allah, God of Scientology, Somebody, please deliver me from this silly situation I put myself in.

Narrator 1: As Marcus was despairing about his fate the next day, he slowly made his way to the Kaplan Center…

Marcus (As he opens the door): Well, here goes everything

Narrator 2: Ain't that the truth!

Narrator 3: Shhh! It's getting interesting!

Marcus: Angel, what are you doing here?

Angel (behind the counter): I work here. If you had taken the class that I signed you up for, you would remember that.

Marcus: I am sorry, really. I just really want to get the best possible score on this exam, and I had a great offer. I didn't think your class was worth it.

Angel: I should have told you this, but I think Luke is a huge scam artist. You still have time to do the right thing. Go home right now and study hard. Maybe, just maybe you can get your good score on your own.

Marcus: I thought about that, but it is too late. I could never learn all of that material before eight tomorrow morning. I am just going to go through with this, even though it will probably cost me an arm and a leg.

Angel: Or so much more…Well, its nine o'clock, and I am off for the night. (In a flirtatious voice) I wish somebody could walk me home…

Marcus (totally concerned about the MCATS and not even thinking about the sexual ramifications this situation could present): Do you want me to call a Specta guard escort for you? They are great company some nights for those long walks home.

Angel (with complete dismay): No, no. I will be alright I guess. Be careful tonight Marcus. I still think you should try to do this exam on your own.

Marcus: Its too late Angel. Be safe walking home. You know what West Philly is like, and wait til you get back to Penn's campus. That's where the real monsters come out…

Narrator 1: Angel walks out into the dark night.

Marcus (to no one in particular): Hello! Luke? Is anyone here?

Luke (popping up from behind the counter): Marcus, I am glad you could show up. Tomorrow's the big day, and I promise you will be ready. Follow me DOWNSTAIRS into our basement classroom, and I will introduce you to my boss...

Narrator 1: And so, Marcus and Luke DESCENDED into the basement classrooms where they met Luke's boss. The next day Marcus took the MCAT. Sixty days later he received his score. He managed to get a 43! Statistically, that is 100 percent of the questions correct. Suffice to say, he was amazed, and pleased with his "special" class.

Narrator 2: Wait a minute! What the HELL happened in the basement? He doesn't study a damn thing, and then he takes the exam and aces it? What did the devil do to him in the basement? This is incredulous!

Narrator 1: Look, I wasn't there. I heard this second hand. If you don't want to listen, you can take a hike and leave your beer with me.

Narrator 3: This story sucks, and it keeps getting weirder. Who is this devilish boss? What happened in the basement? Was Luke there? How did he do so well on the exam, when he didn't even study? I want some answers.

Narrator 1: You both know how a Devil's Pact works. The Faust figure signs over his soul, whether he knows it or not, and then he gets what he wants, but only temporarily. The devil's promises probably wont fulfill him; so the Faust figure will try to back out of the deal. The devil will scare him back into reaffirming the entire thing. Eventually, the Faust loses his soul, and we are all taught a lesson about how we should be satisfied with our lives and be faithful to God. Now do you want me to continue, or do I have to sit here and listen to you to ladies whine and complain about my incomparable storytelling prowess?

Narrator 2: For as much as I am complaining, I do want to know what happens to this poor sap. Go on, but please try to do a little explaining as you tell.

Narrator 1: Will do.

Celebration at McGillan's Pub

Our narrators again are discussing our tragic hero and his test scores. And again, they are drinking Guinness.

Narrator 1: Marcus was so happy about his scores, he decided take Luke out to McGillan's for a celebratory drink.

Luke: You know, Marc, you would be nowhere if it weren't for my boss and me. I am talking about sub-thirty MCATs. You owe us. Big.

Marcus (pulling out his empty wallet): I was wondering when I was going to have to pay up. I thought you would never even ask, and I sure as hell wasn't bringing it up. So what do I owe you? I know it aint gonna be cheap.

Luke: No. Don't worry about it right now. Lets enjoy the night, the good scores, and your future acceptance into the elite culture at Harvard Med. Then, after med school, we will discuss your end of the contract.

Marcus: Sounds good to me. Nothing like more debt for a med student to brighten his day! Hey that's Angel over there. You mind if I take off?

Luke: No, not at all, have a great time. The beers are on me.

Narrator 1: Luke chuckles to himself as he pays the bill. He knows that the beer and the MCAT score were a small price to pay for what he will get in return. Marcus is unaware of how great a price he will have to pay…

Narrator 2: I am sick of all your cryptic shit! Would you tell us what is going to happen?

Narrator 1: And ruin the conclusion? I think not. This is not Reservation Blues, and I am not Sherman Alexie. I will not be telling the story in reverse at any point in time. Deal with it.

Haaawvad Yaaawd (Boston, for Harvard Yard)

We find our crude narrators in Cambridge, Massachusetts. While they are a little out of their element on the affluent college campus, they have managed to find a nice little pub, and are quite pleased with the quality of the Guinness in this Irish town. As usual they are discussing the ultimate fate of their favorite doctor (he is a full-fledged doctor now), who has recently completed his general surgery residency.

Narrator 1 (cupping his brew): Are you two ready to find out what will become of our newly inducted M.D.

Narrator 2: All I can say is: 'It is about time'. We have listened to you tell this story for the past six years, and we will finally get to know what actually happened.

Narrator 3: I almost don't want to know the ending. I have lived with this feeling of uncertainty for so long that I am kinda used to it.

Narrator 2: You're full of shit. You want to know just as bad as I do. Shut up and let him tell finish the story.

Narrator 1: Are you two finished? On to the finale. And now, I will commence with the conclusion, begin the ending, an alpha to the omega…

Narrator 2: Enough of your B.S.! Tell the story already.

Narrator 1: Fine. So Marcus has just completed his residency in general surgery. It is almost seven years since he agreed to the fateful contract, and he has nearly forgotten that he still owes his debtors. He is enjoying a drink in a small pub after his final rotation, and he is extremely relieved that he has made it through his residency at the top of his class. He is guaranteed a position in whichever specialty he wants. His future is extremely bright, and he is looking forward to paying off some of the debt he has accumulated with the massive salary that he is practically assured. As he brings the mug of Guinness to his lips for a another bitter sip, he sees a familiar reflection next to his own in the mirror behind the bar.

Luke: Marcus! Long time no see. How have you been? I hear you are at the top of your class. Congrats, my man!

Marcus: Luke? Is that you? Amazing. You always seem to pop up out of thin air. Anyway, I have been great. I destroyed the competition in med school: so much for the elite at Harvard Med. I am finally through with this silly residency, and now I can start thinking about cosmetic surgery. A year or two from now, and I will have my own practice in a wealthy area with wealthy patients, and I am going to suck them dry. Financially speaking, of course.

Luke: Well, it seems like you have it all worked out. That is actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Remember a certain deal we made, oh about seven years back? Had to do with a rather important exam? Anyway, my boss says that it is time to collect. He is pretty adamant that I settle the bill now.

Marcus: No problem. What's another loan to a med student? I am only 100 grand in debt now, and after I start making seven figures, your price shouldn't be too high. So, what do I owe you?

Luke (taking out a blood stained sheet of paper that Marcus immediately recognizes): Well, it isn't that simple. First, lets talk about what you are going to do after med school.

Marcus: You know. I already told you. Cosmetic surgery, money, little league, beer belly. The whole nine yards.

Luke: Sorry to burst your cosmetic bubble, but that is not possible my friend. You see, this little contract was signed by you. In fact, it was even notarized in your own blood. It delivers full control of your future into the hands of my boss, through the contract that I constructed and you agreed with. In essence, I own your future. My boss determines your destiny.

Marcus (more than a little shaken): What?! Let me see that contract!

Narrator 1: As he reads the contract, his brow begins to fall and a look of utter, Faustian despair crosses his countenance. His hands tremble, and he appears worried.

Marcus: This cant be! I never wanted to go into Emergency Medicine. Do you know what kind of hours I will have to work, how under appreciated, and how underpaid I will be? Even in the nicest hospitals, ER doctors are on call all the time. They are forced to give their entire lives to the profession! Woe, woe is me.

Luke: Well, at least you won't have to worry about being in the nicest of hospitals. You will be working HUP. Or should I let you read the rest of the contract.

Narrator 1: As he continues to read, he becomes even more distressed. Tears well in his eyes, as he looks to the heavens for any kind of help…

Marcus: No way! I can't work at HUP. I will have to deal with the lowliest of men. The dredge of the earth. I will be forced to handle HIV, STD's (the sorority girls and the viruses), drug addicts, beatings, gang violence, drive-bys, and an endless stream of unconscious spring flingers! Dear, dear God. Deliver me from this contract. I knew not what I was doing when I signed this. Reverse the hands of time and allow me to go back to that fateful day. Do not let the devil steal my future! God, why aren't you listening to me?!

The Boss (in a whiney, mocking tone): What, no "please"? Where are your manners Marcus? I know Mrs. Frohm taught you a lot better than that. Are you just going to order me around without saying please? "Deliver me from this". "Reverse that". "Don't let the devil do this". What am I, your servant? I got more important things to do than worry about comforting your ass.

Narrator 1: As the boss steps out from behind the bar, he appears just the same as he did the night that he was introduced to Marcus in the Kaplan center. He has a black Kaplan t-shirt on with a nametag that reads: "The Boss" (not a very creative nametag). He has black eyes, short spiky hair and a trim goatee. Angel happens to be on his right arm…

Narrator 2: Wait just a damn minute. The Boss is God?

Narrator 1: No interruptions! We are almost to the end!

Marcus (Glances in the direction of a rowdy trio in a booth in the corner of the pub, who are arguing and conversing over three pints of Guinness. He envies their simple lifestyle.): My head is killing me. Are you telling me that you, the Boss, are God in heaven?

The Boss: As of this moment, I happen to be in this cheesy bar, but yes, I am God. And I am thirsty as the dickens. What does God have to do to get a Beamish around here?

Marcus: But I don't understand, how can you let this happen to me? How can you let this devil steal my future?

The Boss: Number one, don't call this man a devil. Lucifer is an Archangel, and while I don't like to play favorites, he is actually one of my greatest angels. Number two, that is my contract you signed. Why on earth would I let you back out of it?

Marcus: But why? Why are you doing this to me? I didn't know what the price would be. I didn't know I had to give up the rest of my natural life.

The Boss: You should be happy that it is only your natural life and not eternity. I did think about that you know. Anyway, look where you were headed. You are extremely bright, and all you wanted to do was suck the fat out of some rich woman's hips and shove it back into her breasts. Is that any kind of profession for one of my brightest? I can't believe that you were going to go into cosmetic surgery after all the intelligence I have given you. You definitely deserved this. Think of all the good you will do now, the people you will heal, and the lives you will save. That is a lot more significant than tummy tucks and liposuction.

Marcus: But, why did Angel try to get me to do it on my own? She tried to get me to stay away from Luke and the contract.

The Boss: She works for me too. And she happens to like you. She was sure you would make the right decision on your own. She bet Luke that you would take the test on your own merits. And boy was she wrong about you. So much for free will and the gift of human reason, eh Angel? You were hell bent on making money and didn't stop to think about what being a doctor truly means. Now, though, you will find out. At least you wont be alone. Angel here lost a bet and will be serving time along side you in the ER.

Narrator 1: God waves his hand and immediately the new surgical team is damned to the HUP ER to work horrendous shifts and save innumerable lives. The three raucous men in the corner of the pub watch the dramatic scene from a distance. They are amazed when the pair disappears into a puff of smoke.

The Boss: Imagine that, I just got two great new emergency surgeons at no cost to myself. What a day. Good work Lucifer. Let me buy you a Beamish.

Luke (Lucifer): Thanks Boss, but I think I will take a Guinness.

Narrator 1: And so God and Lucifer looked at all that they had accomplished together. And behold, it was good.

Narrator 2: Hell of story! Great ending! But why did the devil and God join forces.

Narrator 1: Who said anything about the devil. You two just kept assuming the devil was involved, and that he was going to take Marcus' soul.

Narrator 2: But Lucifer was there; he made Marcus sign the contract.

Narrator 3: There is no devil. Lucifer never fell from God's grace. He and God are still good buddies, and enjoy going to the bar all the time. Those old wives tales about the envy of Lucifer and the battle between good and evil were just created to keep bad children in line. Sorry to rain on your Duelist parades, but this is a strictly Monist reflection of the Devil's Pact.

Narrator 3: I am sorry; that I ever doubted you. Excellent story. Marvelous.

Narrator 1: Thank you. Your appreciation means a lot to me. Now what do you guys say to getting out of this pub and getting a Guinness somewhere else before that big guy over there starts making more people disappear.

Narrator 2: Amen to that! I am right behind you.

And so, our friendly narrators, who at times could be a little crude, alit from the pub in Massachusetts, and returned to their favorite establishment on Walnut St., The Bard's. They spend their days drinking Guinness and discussing trivial things that go on in their simple lives. Oh, how I envy their simple lives. You see, they will never have to hear the cries of a gunshot victim. They will never watch a patient engulfed in pain, and they will never experience the death of someone that they are trying to save. That is the hell that I live daily. This reality is my hell. I sold my soul to God. In return for eternal bliss, I must spend my earthly life in the ER toiling day in and day out. Let this be a lesson to all of you Wharton students and Pre-Meds who are only interested in money (I don't have to worry about the Germanic Language Majors, cause they are obviously not interested in money). Money and driving ambition only lead to a hellish lifestyle: 110 hour work weeks in I-Banking and ER shifts that never end. No social life, ever! Take heed from our three narrators. Live the life that makes you the most happy, not the one that makes you the most money. My only solace now is that I have Angel to comfort me. Yet, even that is tainted. Alas, I work the night shift, while God makes her work days…