dress.
âItâs a kaftan,â said Beelzebub coolly.
âWoof,â croaked Belch. Seemingly his quadruped side dominated in times of stress.
âThatâs right,â continued hellâs Number Two. âI can read minds. Only weak ones, granted, but youâre smack-bang in the middle of that category. Donât even think about escape, because the second your life force runs out youâll be snapped back here like a pooch on an elastic leash.â
âRight.â
Beelzebub primed his trident for a level-four whammy. Very nasty. âAnd you know I canât let you off with that girly dress crack, donât you?â
Belch shook a shaggy head. âArf-arf.â
âMy thoughts exactly,â grinned the demon, jabbing his buzzing staff into Belchâs 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 oldtimerâs 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 wouldnât be spending eternity sipping chocolate milk shakes on some cloud up at the Pearlies. No sir. Sheâd be turning a greasy spit in hell, and getting the odd lick of Belchâs 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 cootâs flat, frighten him to death, and then poor little Meggy wouldnât have anyone to help. Genius.
âWonât work,â 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.
âYouâre Myishi, I suppose? Iâve been told about you.â
The icon blinked and flickered. âYes . . . and no.â
Belch groaned. Great. A schizophrenic computer program. (Obviously what had been Belch Brennan didnât think the word schizophrenic, but that was the general idea.)
âIn terms of brain power, I am Myishi. His thoughts and expertise have been programmed into my memory. Spiritually, the Great Oneâs soul still resides in Hades.â
Belch scratched the nub of flesh on his crown where the implant had been inserted. âBest place for him, the maniac.â
The diminutive animated icon tutted. âDo 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
âEctonet? Mainframe? What the hell are you?â
The impeccably dressed figure bowed. âI am your EctoLink and Personal Help program. You may refer to me as Elph.â
Belch squinted at him. âYouâre not draining my juice, are you?â
âNo. I come free with the package.â
âGood. Now, whatâs wrong with my plan?â
The condescending sneer returned. âIt is the plan of an idiot. To kill the old man now does not make Meg Finn bad. If she has
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