You're plopped down into a boardroom in Hell. Demons can be seen carving up real-estate from the River Styx to the Bronx. By-the-second stock prices in souls fly by in magic cigar smoke.

 

"Well you buying or what?! Best deal you're gonna get, the blood's still warm don't'cha know." The head demon, with a face so hideous your stomach hurts, slides you a stack of papers as tall as a small child.

 

"Just sign your blood there, and the cup's yours."

 

You sign, and they tell you to take a sip. Peer pressure gets the best of you, and with just one sip, you're burnt to a crisp. You really should have watched the third Indiana Jones that one night your ex wanted to, you think through the flames.