Deader Still
“After fighting my way across the convention floor through a line of either dark elves or Smurfs—I wasn’t sure what look they were going for—I made my way back to our D.E.A. booth. Connor was nowhere to be seen, but the Inspectre was already busy arranging the piles of brochures and aptitude tests.
“Anyone try to kill you yet today, my boy?” the Inspectre asked with cheer in his voice.
“Not unless you count crosstown traffic,” I said, “but I don’t think I can blame that on cultists.”
... We were interrupted by a short, balding man in a hideous tweed suit approaching our booth. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a flourish of his arm and a deep bow. I figured him to be dressed as a character from Doctor Who.
“Pamphlet?” I offered, holding up a copy of Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for Ghoul.
The man shook his head. “Perhaps another time. We, like you, are fellow vendors.”MoreLess
“Anyone try to kill you yet today, my boy?” the Inspectre asked with cheer in his voice.
“Not unless you count crosstown traffic,” I said, “but I don’t think I can blame that on cultists.”
... We were interrupted by a short, balding man in a hideous tweed suit approaching our booth. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said with a flourish of his arm and a deep bow. I figured him to be dressed as a character from Doctor Who.
“Pamphlet?” I offered, holding up a copy of Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for Ghoul.
The man shook his head. “Perhaps another time. We, like you, are fellow vendors.”MoreLess
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