This is a story about two Vince Piccianis-one is real, and one is a clone. The real Vince is the unknowing, unfortunate victim of a pact with the Devil, a result of a deal his clone made. The clone, knowing he had no soul, but nonetheless having very human desires, purported to be the real Vince and inked a contract with Mr. M, the Earthly representative of the Devil. He lived a life of debauchery, excess, hedonism, and had an all-around great time. Because of the way Hell's soul database system worked, when the real Vince died, his soul was claimed by the Devil. This meant Hell's debt to the clone was fulfilled, but he still got a good fifty years of sin in. Important details of the incantation, pact, and database system are below, in the words of the clone himself…

My name is Vince Picciani. Right now, as I speak, I am lying on a beach in the Virgin Islands, sipping a margarita and enjoying the sun. I am 75 years-old, and I have led a very satisfying life. In fact, I have probably led the most satisfying life of any person on Earth. How can I make such a claim? Well, Hell served me for over fifty years, and followed every one of my orders. That's right, I sold my soul. Ah, I know what you must be thinking: shouldn't I be sweating bullets right now? I mean, I don't have much time left, right? The Devil is ready to claim my soul, and soon I'll be burning eternally-is that what you think? Well, I have news for you-I outsmarted him. I am out of the pact. How did I pull that off? Allow me to explain…

When I say I am Vince Picciani, I mean that for all intents and purposes, I am him. I am really a clone of Vince. I was created in a lab, by University of Pennsylvania scientists using Vince's DNA. Yes, what you see in the movies is true-people can be cloned, and it's not just fetal embryos. I am a full-blooded, fully-grown, identical copy of Vince, with all the memories he had up to the point of my creation. I look, talk, and act exactly as he would, but we are two different bodies, and thus two different people. I enjoy pleasures just as much as the next person, and well, quite frankly, when I came to existence, I just wanted to have a good time. I searched through my (Vince's) memory bank, and came across what was, at the time, a recent development-apparently, the real Vince had just completed a course on the Devil's Pact right before my creation. A light bulb went off in my head-if I wanted to enjoy my earthly existence, why not solicit the services of the main man himself, the Devil? So I conjured him up. I got the incantation spell off of the Internet. It's really quite easy to do-you just mix some common household baking soda with dishwashing detergent in a stove pan, throw in some eggs and cookie dough, and bake. All the while, recite a haiku asking his emergence:

Oh, please Devil sir

Won't you make an appearance

From behind this stove?

Works every time. Anyway, I did it, he (well, really his assistant) popped up in my kitchen, and introduced himself as "Mr. M." I outlined what I wanted-the devout service of Hell, making sure I get whatever I want, and in exchange, I'd sign my soul over to the Devil, to claim when I die. He liked the proposition, grabbed a cookie, asked for 24 hours to draw up a contract, and we made arrangements to meet the next day…

The two of us stood at the intersection of route 162 and route 52, in the middle of nowhere in Chester County. We had arranged to meet here at dusk on this hazy summer evening. "Why did you want to meet here anyway?" I asked.

"This buddy of mine, Legba, said it's a nice place to sign a deal. You know, real quiet, nobody bothers you. Plus it makes me look a lot more sinister, like I'm from a movie or something." These guys, always worried about appearances. "Whatever," I said. I leaned against my Honda and read over the contract. "This all seems in order," I muttered without looking up. I pricked my finger with a pocket knife, and gracefully initialed the agreement before me. "Done and done," I exclaimed as I licked my finger to get a quick taste. The red was vibrant and glistening as Mr. M. rolled up the somewhat dry parchment and slipped it into his inside coat pocket. "A pleasure dealing with you, Mr. Picciani," he said, drawing out the "Picciani", and flashing a smirk from underneath the bill of his hat. He was dressed well, in a black suit with white pinstripes, a red carnation on his breast, and a shiny black top hat to top it all off. "I'll send a minion to your service straightaway." He had the aura of a slick business man who was beaming inwardly, because he had just inked a deal that was much more profitable for him than the other guy. Ostensibly, he had good reason-I had just turned over my soul, in exchange for the all-powerful services of Hell's minions. But I wasn't worried about the afterlife one bit-you know why? Well, it had to do with a couple little secrets…

I guess I'll let you in on the biggest secret first, if you haven't figured it out already. I have no soul. I'm a clone, remember? Quite simply, it is impossible for clones to have souls. We are created from the DNA of another person, but when God gives out souls, he only gives out one to each set of genes (He has a budget, you know). So the real Vince has the soul. This leads me to my other secret-it has to do with my creation itself: Nobody knew that I existed. The only people who knew were the scientists who made me, but I faked my death in a lab "accident," so they thought I was dead. Meanwhile, Vince had no clue I was even created in the first place-the scientists took a random fingerprint from a random doorknob of a random door in a random Penn building, and it happened to be his. Unknowingly, they created the ultimate candidate for a pact with the Devil-a soulless man who nobody knew existed. I took advantage of these two elements to the fullest, and the result was the deal I signed above…

Let me explain how I could barter the real Vince's soul without him, or the Devil, knowing it. Because of the high volume of soul-sellings in recent years, Hell has created a vast database of every human soul created by God. Its sort of like the FBI's system. Each person has a file with a picture, short biography, fingerprints, current address, soul status, etc. When the incantation is performed, Mr. M, the Devil's right-hand man acts swiftly to meet the person (more on his appearance in a bit). The deal is signed, Hell makes a note on the file, and they send one their many minions to do the bidding of the human. These minions only act out the person's desires-they don't actually collect the soul at death. When the person is a moment from death, their file pops up on the computer screen, and the words "Imminent Death," in big red letters, flash across the screen. The Devil's secretary pages him, lets him know that he needs to claim a soul, and the Devil is off. Using a device called the "Excessively Violent and Bloody Soul-fetching Apparatus," the Devil gets his booty and leaves. As for the minion, he returns to Hell and awaits his next assignment.

How did I manipulate this system? Well, when Mr. M appears after an invocation, he carries with him the file of the person requesting services. He checks the standing of the soul on file, verifies by fingerprinting and photograph that the person standing there is who he says he is, and then he flags the file. The file is then updated on the database, and the Devil and Mr. M send a minion to the contract-signer. The two of them move on to their next victim, not worrying about the soul until the moment of death. As I said before, right before this moment, the file appears on the secretary's computer screen. She briefs the Devil on his next victim, and includes the current address so that the Devil can quickly do his business. This was the loophole I found-Mr. M appeared to me and verified that I was Vince Picciani, but the file is under the real Vince's soul-they thought he was making the deal. I guess you could say I committed soul fraud. Anyway, you can imagine his surprise when the Devil appeared at his deathbed and ripped his soul right out of him-poor guy. If he's lucky, they're not working him too hard down there. But hey, in this crazy world, you have to worry about yourself…

So, I lived my life. Mr. M sent me a attentive little minion by the name of Number 307, and he followed my every order. That kid was a workhorse, I'll tell you that. To give you an idea of the kind of luxuries I had, I will tell you only this: I set the world-record for fitting the most Playboy models in one king-size bed. Uh huh, I had a great time, and as long as the real Vince was still alive, Number 307 served me in any way I wanted. The only small catch was that Number 307's services were contingent on the real Vince's survival. Once he died, Hell's service was up, and my life of debauchery would be over. So, I looked out for the real Vince whenever I could, to make sure he stayed out of harm's way. He lived a good fifty years after I inked the deal, but the old geezer finally kicked the bucket. The Devil claimed his soul, and as far as Hell was concerned, the pact was over and done with. Fortunately, I had taken provisions to make sure I had lasting luxuries after he died, so in the years leading up to his death, I had purchased all of the Virgin Islands and stockpiled millions of dollars. Now, I sit here writing my memoirs, and even though Number 307 is gone, I don't have much to complain about…

Do I feel bad for the real Vince? I guess I feel sorry for him, but if I had to do it all over again, I would do the same thing. These days, it's a take-no-prisoners type of attitude. You do what you need to do to put yourself on top (or in my case, to put yourself in position to do whatever you want), and don't think about the consequences. As long as your rear is covered, everything is fine. It's all business out there, and people don't care how you fulfill your end of the bargain, just as long as it gets fulfilled. Poor Vince was just the victim of a twist of fate-I can't help it if the opportunity presented itself! If you learn anything from my story, it should be that there are definitely things beyond your control-even the fate of your soul. You could be the most pious, upstanding Christian in the world, but if a mad scientist (like those at Penn) gets a hold of your DNA, your soulless doppelganger could be on the prowl. Why, your clone could be negotiating with Mr. M as you read this right now. And you know what, you'll never know until that one moment of truth, when you think you are about to head up that tunnel of light to eternal bliss, and all of a sudden…