The Wish List by Eoin Colfer

dress.
    â€œIt’s a kaftan,” said Beelzebub coolly.
    â€œWoof,” croaked Belch. Seemingly his quadruped side dominated in times of stress.
    â€œThat’s right,” continued hell’s Number Two. “I can read minds. Only weak ones, granted, but you’re smack-bang in the middle of that category. Don’t even think about escape, because the second your life force runs out you’ll be snapped back here like a pooch on an elastic leash.”
    â€œRight.”
    Beelzebub primed his trident for a level-four whammy. Very nasty. “And you know I can’t let you off with that girly dress crack, don’t you?”
    Belch shook a shaggy head. “Arf-arf.”
    â€œMy thoughts exactly,” grinned the demon, jabbing his buzzing staff into Belch’s expectant skin.
    So Belch was back. Spewed from the mouth of a sweating elevator. Back where it had all begun; correction, back where it had all ended. The gas tank at the oldtimer’s apartment.
    Very nice it was, too. All orange and shiny, with barely a sign of the tragedy that had occurred there. Except for a hundred shrapnel gouges in the surrounding walls.
    Belch had a big advantage over his adversary, because he knew exactly what was going on. His implant had filled him in on no end of spiritual trivia. For example, the only reason he could come back at all was because of the untimely riddling of his torso with metal fragments. This left him with decades of unused life essence, or soul residue. Unfortunately, life essence without a life is like a brain outside a skull: fragile and quick-drying. A day per decade was about all you got. Even with the booster shot, that left him one week max to complete his mission.
    He also knew what Meg had to do to put a little blue in her aura. And it would be his absolute pleasure to put a stop to that. That little turncoat had cost him his life. So he would make absolutely sure that Meg Finn wouldn’t be spending eternity sipping chocolate milk shakes on some cloud up at the Pearlies. No sir. She’d be turning a greasy spit in hell, and getting the odd lick of Belch’s whip to keep her moving. Belch chuckled, a throaty growl. That was one image that appealed to him enormously.
    So Belch had a plan. He would mosey over to the old coot’s flat, frighten him to death, and then poor little Meggy wouldn’t have anyone to help. Genius.
    â€œWon’t work,” said an electronic voice.
    Belch glanced up. The virtual help floated at shoulder height, with a condescending sneer stretching its five-hundred-pixels-per-inch lips. The sneer looked like it belonged there.
    â€œYou’re Myishi, I suppose? I’ve been told about you.”
    The icon blinked and flickered. “Yes . . . and no.”
    Belch groaned. Great. A schizophrenic computer program. (Obviously what had been Belch Brennan didn’t think the word schizophrenic, but that was the general idea.)
    â€œIn terms of brain power, I am Myishi. His thoughts and expertise have been programmed into my memory. Spiritually, the Great One’s soul still resides in Hades.”
    Belch scratched the nub of flesh on his crown where the implant had been inserted. “Best place for him, the maniac.”
    The diminutive animated icon tutted. “Do not disrespect the inventor. I will be forced to activate the ectonet and send a live feed. This, in turn, will most definitely lead to a pain surge in your mainframe.”
    â€œEctonet? Mainframe? What the hell are you?”
    The impeccably dressed figure bowed. “I am your EctoLink and Personal Help program. You may refer to me as Elph.”
    Belch squinted at him. “You’re not draining my juice, are you?”
    â€œNo. I come free with the package.”
    â€œGood. Now, what’s wrong with my plan?”
    The condescending sneer returned. “It is the plan of an idiot. To kill the old man now does not make Meg Finn bad. If she has