Dr. Ron Paul sighed as he inhaled deeply on his weed joint. The primaries were going poorly. At this rate, he would never get the Republican nomination. His supporters were still earnestly fighting the good fight, but the damned media just weren't giving him the chance to put forth his case. The whole game was rigged to keep good, honest men like him out of the presidency. As the heavy fog of his high settled in his brain, he turned from self-pity. He started to envision his way forward. Puffing again on his blunt as he idly scratched his balls, he idly considered turning to the dark arts for inspiration. He'd not made any unholy pacts in a decade or two, but what the hell. Can't hurt to reach out for help from a higher power.

He sought out his grimoires, cape and ceremonial knife, stopping only to roll two more joints. He hoped the cape would help whatever infernal spirit he summoned overlook his lack of pants. As he was way too stoned to really give a fuck, the pentagram he inscribed on the floor was pretty wonky but he was pretty sure it'd get the message across that he was down to make a deal with the devil. Just to make sure, he began chanting.

"O unholy ones, hear my plea, come forth and negotiate that I might do your bidding or something. Listen, just c'mere and let's make a deal, dude. C'mon you guys totally know how this works, don't hold out on me. I totally never held out on you guys, not even with the soul of my firstborn which, like, a lot of dudes would have. But not me. Ron Paul, a face you can trust."

The air was suddenly rent by the screams of the damned and the stench of burning flesh as a hulking demon rose from the sigil, howling.

"Hey there Dr. Paul," it rasped, "long time no see."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's nothing you guys did, I swear, it's just that I don't have any more souls of the innocent I can offer for trade so it didn't seem worth bothering you guys for the minor stuff, y'know? But anyway I could totally use a hand from you all right now this whole Republican nomination bid is really going to shit and that's just some real bullshit. You reckon you guys could swing it for me?"

"Well sure, our hellish abilities can achieve anything, provided the price is right."

"Sweet, sweet, cool. So, uh, what'll it be?"

Dr. Paul was nervous. Was it inappropriate to smoke weed in front of a minion of hell? Whichever way, he really felt like he should have gotten considerably more stoned before getting into this. Just to calm his nerves. The fiend eyed him closely, and leaned down, their faces mere inches apart.

"We can do this for you. In return, when you become president, you will serve us. Unquestioningly. You will usher in a new age of darkness in this pitiful nation."

It was took much. Dr. Paul took the largest drag he could possibly manage on his weed joint. He paused, and then finally exhaled. Turning to face the fiend again, he nodded.

"Sure. No problem there, buddy."

A puff of acrid smoke was all that remained to attest to the demonic visitation.

"Sucker," thought Dr. Paul, "I was gonna do that anyway."