Monday, July 15, 2013

Dead Rite chapter 153.01


Harold parked at the kerb and looked through the side window at the house opposite. Fifteen, Black Poplar Road, home of James Metcalfe, zombie and-stroke-or demonically possessed corpse.

“Is this still a figment of my imagination?”

“What?” Jasfoup twisted in his seat, trying to get the tip of his wing unstuck from the panic handle over the van's nearside door. “Who's been talking about your imagination? Everybody knows you haven't got one.”

“Devious postulated the idea that I was making everything up as an exercise to relieve the monotony of a tedious like. He'd have you believe I was a clerk in an office somewhere. Somewhere terribly tedious where they value the staff less than the customers.”

“The job centre, you mean?” Jasfoup looked totally serious. “Even demons feel sorry for the grunts on the front lines there, besieged and abused by both the people looking for jobs and benefits and the managers and undermanagers who don't want to give them any resources or treat them with respect. They're at the midpoint of an artificial gravity well. Everywhere they look they see arses shitting on them.”

“That was a tad more graphic than I was visualising but essentially, yes.”

“Don't worry about it.” Jasfoup managed to free his wingtip and clapped him on the back. “You like your life as it is, don't you?”

“Mostly.”

“Then carry on enjoying it. You only live once, old bean, even if it's a five-century lifespan.”

“So this is real? All of it?”

“Life is as real as you make it.”

“You're evading the question.”

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