Death had an appetite for walnuts, and so did Poalama Grimes. She hunted them in her sleep, twisting their wrinkly rinds into galaxies of potent mish-mash.
“My god that sucks,” Mavis Hartman said to her assistant, Glem Capultnick.
“Yes, but she’s paying us,” he reminded her.
“I know, I know,” Mavis said, “but sometimes it gets to me, you know? Even us nobodies leave a slime trail behind of the things we’ve done and the places we’ve been.”
“Don’t think of it that way,” Glem said, “think of it as money.”
Mavis took a deep breath and held it for several seconds. I’m going to have to read the next sentence, aren’t I? she asked herself.
“She’s paying us by the word, so yes,” Glem replied, as if he’d read her thoughts. Macvis exhaled, and said,
“Ok, so … 26 down, 159,974 to go.”