Bob the Skull, bring us one.
I gave Bob a hard look. “If you’re not going to help me, at least don’t distract me.”
“Oh,” Bob said. “Check.” The romance I’d put back on the shelf quivered for a second and then flipped over and opened to the first page. The skull turned toward the book, the orange light from its eyes falling over the pages.
I went through one old text. Then two. Then three. Hell’s bells, I knew I’d seen or read something in one of these.
“Rip her dress off!” Bob shouted.
Bob the skull takes paperback romances very seriously. The next page turned so quickly that he tore the paper a little. Bob is even harder on books than I am.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Bob hollered as more pages turned.
“They couldn’t have been satyrs,” I mumbled out loud, trying to draw my thoughts into order. My nose hurt like hell and my neck hurt like someplace in the same zip code. That kind of pain wears you down fast, even when you’re a wizard who learned his basics while being violently bombarded with baseballs. “Satyrs have human faces. These things didn’t.”
“Weregoats?” Bob suggested. He flipped another page and kept reading. Bob is a spirit of intellect, and he multitasks better than, well, pretty much anybody. “Or maybe goatweres.”
I stopped for a moment and gave the skull an exasperated look. “I can’t believe I just heard that word.”
“What?” Bob asked brightly. “Weregoats?”
“Weregoats. I’m fairly sure I could have led a perfectly rich and satisfying life even if I hadn’t heard that word or enjoyed the mental images it conjures.”
Bob chortled. “Stars and stones, you’re easy, Harry.”
“Weregoats,” I muttered, and went back to reading. After finishing the fifth book, I went back for another armload. Bob shouted at his book, cheering during what were apparently the love scenes and heckling most of the rest, as if the characters had all been live performers on a stage.
Which would probably tell me something important about Bob, if I were an astute sort of person. After all, Bob himself was, essentially, a spiritual creature created from the energy of thought. The characters within a book were, from a certain point of view, identical on some fundamental level-there weren’t any images of them, no physical tangibility whatsoever. They were pictures in the reader’s head, constructs of imagination and ideas, given shape by the writer’s work and skill and the reader’s imagination. Parents, of a sort.
Did Bob, as he read his books and imagined their events, regard those constructed beings as…siblings, of some sort? Peers? Children? Could a being like Bob develop some kind of acquired taste for a family? It was entirely possible. It might explain his constant fascination with fictional subject matter dealing with the origins of a mortal family.
Then again, he might regard the characters in the same way some men do those inflatable sex dolls. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.
Good thing I’m not astute.
--
Murphy doesn’t look like a cop, much less a monster cop. She’s five nothing. She’s got blond hair, blue eyes, and a cute nose. She’s also got about a zillion gunnery awards and a shelf full of open-tournament martial arts trophies, and I once saw her kill a giant plant monster with a chain saw. She wore jeans, a white tee, sneakers, a baseball cap, and her hair was pulled back into a tail. She wore her gun in a shoulder rig, her badge around her neck, and had a backpack slung over one shoulder.
She came through the door and stopped in her tracks. She surveyed the room for a minute and then said, "What did this?"
I nodded at the twisted Futon Frame. "Something strong."
"I wish I was a big-time private investigator like you. Then I could figure these things out for myself."
"You bring it?" I asked.
She tossed me the backpack. "The rest is in the car. What’s it for?" I opened the pack, took out a bleached-white human skull, and put it down on the kitchen counter. "Bob, wake up."
Orange lights appeared in the skull’s shadowed eye sockets, and then slowly grew brighter. The skull’s jaws twitched and then opened into a pantomime of a wide yawn. A voice issued out, acoustics odd, like when you talk in a racquetball court. "What’s up, boss?"
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Murphy swore. She took a step back and almost fell over the remains of the entertainment center.
Bob the Skull’s eyelights brightened. "Hey, the cute blonde! Did you do her, Harry?" The skull spun in place on the counter and surveyed the damage. "Wow. You did! Way to go, stud!"
My face felt hot. "No, Bob," I growled.
"Oh," the skull said, crestfallen.
Murphy closed her mouth, blinking at the skull. "Uh. Harry?"
"This is Bob the Skull," I told her.
"It’s a skull," she said. "That talks."
"Bob is actually the spirit inside. The skull is just the container it’s in.
She looked blankly at me and then said, "It’s a skull. That talks."
"Hey!" Bob protested. "I am not an it! I am definitely a he!"
"Bob is my lab assistant," I explained.
Murphy looked back at Bob and shook her head. "Just when I start thinking this magic stuff couldn’t get weirder."
"Bob," I said. "Take a look around. Tell me what did this."
The skull spun obediently and promptly said, "Something strong."
Murphy gave me an oblique look.
"Oh, bite me," I told her.
“Oh,” Bob said. “Check.” The romance I’d put back on the shelf quivered for a second and then flipped over and opened to the first page. The skull turned toward the book, the orange light from its eyes falling over the pages.
I went through one old text. Then two. Then three. Hell’s bells, I knew I’d seen or read something in one of these.
“Rip her dress off!” Bob shouted.
Bob the skull takes paperback romances very seriously. The next page turned so quickly that he tore the paper a little. Bob is even harder on books than I am.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Bob hollered as more pages turned.
“They couldn’t have been satyrs,” I mumbled out loud, trying to draw my thoughts into order. My nose hurt like hell and my neck hurt like someplace in the same zip code. That kind of pain wears you down fast, even when you’re a wizard who learned his basics while being violently bombarded with baseballs. “Satyrs have human faces. These things didn’t.”
“Weregoats?” Bob suggested. He flipped another page and kept reading. Bob is a spirit of intellect, and he multitasks better than, well, pretty much anybody. “Or maybe goatweres.”
I stopped for a moment and gave the skull an exasperated look. “I can’t believe I just heard that word.”
“What?” Bob asked brightly. “Weregoats?”
“Weregoats. I’m fairly sure I could have led a perfectly rich and satisfying life even if I hadn’t heard that word or enjoyed the mental images it conjures.”
Bob chortled. “Stars and stones, you’re easy, Harry.”
“Weregoats,” I muttered, and went back to reading. After finishing the fifth book, I went back for another armload. Bob shouted at his book, cheering during what were apparently the love scenes and heckling most of the rest, as if the characters had all been live performers on a stage.
Which would probably tell me something important about Bob, if I were an astute sort of person. After all, Bob himself was, essentially, a spiritual creature created from the energy of thought. The characters within a book were, from a certain point of view, identical on some fundamental level-there weren’t any images of them, no physical tangibility whatsoever. They were pictures in the reader’s head, constructs of imagination and ideas, given shape by the writer’s work and skill and the reader’s imagination. Parents, of a sort.
Did Bob, as he read his books and imagined their events, regard those constructed beings as…siblings, of some sort? Peers? Children? Could a being like Bob develop some kind of acquired taste for a family? It was entirely possible. It might explain his constant fascination with fictional subject matter dealing with the origins of a mortal family.
Then again, he might regard the characters in the same way some men do those inflatable sex dolls. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.
Good thing I’m not astute.
--
Murphy doesn’t look like a cop, much less a monster cop. She’s five nothing. She’s got blond hair, blue eyes, and a cute nose. She’s also got about a zillion gunnery awards and a shelf full of open-tournament martial arts trophies, and I once saw her kill a giant plant monster with a chain saw. She wore jeans, a white tee, sneakers, a baseball cap, and her hair was pulled back into a tail. She wore her gun in a shoulder rig, her badge around her neck, and had a backpack slung over one shoulder.
She came through the door and stopped in her tracks. She surveyed the room for a minute and then said, "What did this?"
I nodded at the twisted Futon Frame. "Something strong."
"I wish I was a big-time private investigator like you. Then I could figure these things out for myself."
"You bring it?" I asked.
She tossed me the backpack. "The rest is in the car. What’s it for?" I opened the pack, took out a bleached-white human skull, and put it down on the kitchen counter. "Bob, wake up."
Orange lights appeared in the skull’s shadowed eye sockets, and then slowly grew brighter. The skull’s jaws twitched and then opened into a pantomime of a wide yawn. A voice issued out, acoustics odd, like when you talk in a racquetball court. "What’s up, boss?"
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Murphy swore. She took a step back and almost fell over the remains of the entertainment center.
Bob the Skull’s eyelights brightened. "Hey, the cute blonde! Did you do her, Harry?" The skull spun in place on the counter and surveyed the damage. "Wow. You did! Way to go, stud!"
My face felt hot. "No, Bob," I growled.
"Oh," the skull said, crestfallen.
Murphy closed her mouth, blinking at the skull. "Uh. Harry?"
"This is Bob the Skull," I told her.
"It’s a skull," she said. "That talks."
"Bob is actually the spirit inside. The skull is just the container it’s in.
She looked blankly at me and then said, "It’s a skull. That talks."
"Hey!" Bob protested. "I am not an it! I am definitely a he!"
"Bob is my lab assistant," I explained.
Murphy looked back at Bob and shook her head. "Just when I start thinking this magic stuff couldn’t get weirder."
"Bob," I said. "Take a look around. Tell me what did this."
The skull spun obediently and promptly said, "Something strong."
Murphy gave me an oblique look.
"Oh, bite me," I told her.