"Satan, I summon you for a pwning!" I shouted, completing the incantation from within my circle of USB cables and hubs. There was a flash of green light, and then a sound like all the air was being sucked out of the LAN party.

"You dare challenge me?" Satan roared. He had a voice like, what if James Earl Jones and Tom Waits made a baby, but he looked about 15 years old, covered in acne with a purple Mohawk so sharp it was cutting my eyes from across the room. He strolled angrily to our table and sat down, taking a computer out of a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

No cloven feet, no horns, no tail, but his sweet-ass laptop had a red sticker on it that said PITCHFORK in a devilish font. It emitted a blue glow and throbbed gently like a living thing. Ahh--my prize. I had to have it.

G.R., my best friend and clanmate, fell out of his ergonomic chair and onto his ass when Satan appeared. I continued with my challenge terms as the ritual required.

"One round of Counter-Strike. My soul against your computer," I said.

Satan drew a cat-5e cable out a pocket to Hell in thin air. It made a sound like a thousand souls screaming for all eternity, but they shut up when he plugged into our hub. "Gamers are always so fucking cocky," he said. "You're on."

Five sweaty minutes later, I put a bullet through Satan's avatar's head. He vanished in a cloud of acrid smoke, wailing and gnashing his teeth, but leaving the laptop behind.

"Dude,' said G.R. "I can't believe you just used wall haxx against Satan."

I sniffed. "Not my fault he's a total noob. I'm going to Hell in the end anyway, so I might as well have a totally sweet laptop until then."

Dude," G.R. said, clearly impressed. "What's that summoning spell again?"