Special THANKS go out to Thomas Mikkelsen and Nemo Blank for their patience and assistance in beta reading these stories!

Nick: Okay, we've covered four authors so far – Jane Lane, Brittany Taylor, Tiffany Blum-Deckler and Kevin Thompson. Today we're discussing Sandi Griffin and her story. Jon, Rich?

Jon: We're going to do a little something different on this story. When we first got it, we found two files – the original story and the original story with a new ending by the original author.

Diane: Isn't that one and the same?

Jon: Not really as we found out.

Rich: We were able to piece together what happened and we'll insert some video footage from the Li years to fill in the gaps. You'll understand when we get there.

Jon: What we wanted to do was show you the whole story as it's more interesting than the individual components. Here goes.

The day started on a sour note, so I slammed down a shot of sour whiskey and waited for the landlord to quit spitting in my face.

"Whatdaya mean you don't have my money?!" she yelled less than two feet from my ears.

"Business has been down a bit," I replied, savoring the taste of the liquor. The way my luck was running, the booze was bound to be the highlight of my day.

"Morgendorffer, you'll be out on your decaying ass by the end of the day if I don't get my back rent! You owe me $200 and I want my money!" Her name was Esmirilda Tobias Christians. A pretty enough name, unfortunately it was attached to a 315 year-old bat who couldn't control her saliva motors.

I didn't doubt her for a second; I would most likely be on my ass tonight following a drinking binge anyway. The only problem was that if she kicked me out, I wouldn't have anyplace to store my stuff. And since I died 40 years ago, I'd become the epitome of the word materialistic. Wouldn't Quinn have been proud.

"And don't think paying your back rent will get you off the hook, sister! Look at your office! It's a dump! I've seen better kept radioactive waste dumps! Why don't you sleep at your apartment instead of on the couch?!"

I wiped her spittle off my face. I didn't have my apartment anymore — how do you think I could afford my drinking binges? Then I went to my desk, sat, opened a drawer and grabbed a dry handkerchief. My hand brushed over a loaded Colt .45 and I considered pulling it out and plugging the ol' bat, but since she was already dead, it would have been a wasted effort. All the bullet would probably have done was inconvenience her as it ripped through her remaining anatomy and embedded itself into the wall behind her. Heck, she probably would have been more bent over the slug in the wall than another hole in her spine. Stupid ol' bat.

"Well, Morgendorffer, when am I going to get my cash?! The afterlife is getting pretty crowded these days, and if you won't pay any rent, I'll find someone who can!"

There went my second handkerchief. "Rent's not due 'till tomorrow," I said flatly, nudging my hat back just a bit so I could see her reaction..

"As if you'll get a client by then, shamus!"

On cue, as if this were a badly written story from an ill-read writer, a 30's looking looker waltzed into the office. He didn't dance; he glided over the floorspace with fluid movements like a smooth martini sliding its way down towards my gullet. The bat shut her face, though not out of respect. She was awe-struck; so was I. The dish was as easy on the eyes as they came — soft blonde hair, green eyes and an angel like face with an unbroken nose. And more than anything, he still had all of his remaining anatomy in place. Unlike some of those still in this office. He was shaped like an expensively paid model and walked with a similar air of arrogance.

What he was wearing would have turned heads in my time and had her locked up in the stockades in Ms. Christians' era. Short black jogging shorts, ankle-high socks under some running shoes, and part of a white shirt that just barely made it halfway down his chest. I wondered if retro-fashion was back in style. Like I cared for fashion to begin with. This was the first time in four decades that a stiff like me actually got a rise out of a client. The clients I usually got were, well, on average about 90% whole, with large holes marking where the remaining 10% had gone and how they had actually died. It wasn't a pleasant experience to look at any of them, especially if they'd just recently died and hadn't started to decay yet. We may have been in purgatory, but that didn't mean time stood still.

"Daria Morgendorffer? My name is George Silvers, and I need your help."

"Esmirilda, slam the door on your way out."

"Don't order me around, you two-bit, stupid..."

"Blow, or I'll shoot your spinal cord out," I hissed, hefting the .45. She left, but didn't slam the door.

"Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Silvers?"

"No thanks, I don't drink anymore. Not since I sucked down some codeine mixed in a strawberry daiquiri."

"Is that how you died?"

"No. While I was blacked out and probably in the process of dying, someone syringed me with a needle of air, which did a number on my brain."

The dude moved to sit down on the chair in front of my desk. He had a nervous look to his face, as if this was unpleasant business. Of course, it was unpleasant business to some souls that couldn't rest unless they knew how they died and who had killed them. That was where I came in. Daria Morgendorffer, private eye of murder and mayhem for the recently deceased was how my ad read. It wasn't as if I had anything else to do. If only I hadn't picked on others as much as I had when I was alive – then I wouldn't be in this mess.

"What are you looking for, Mr. Silvers?"

"George, please. And what I want is what everyone wants from a dead P.I. I want you to find out who killed me."

"I don't work cheap, George. Seventy-five a day, plus expenses." That was an old line, one I'd begun using the day I got nailed and found out the Pearly Gates were closed to me. I put my boot-clad feet up on the desk, leaned back in the chair, and sucked down some cigarette smoke. It was a real Kodak-moment.

"Jesus Christ, chick! What expenses?!" he exploded. "In case it slipped by that miniscule gray matter residing in your remaining cranium, we're dead! We're spooks, ghosts — i.e. not living! We don't eat, we don't have to sleep, we don't have to do anything!"

"Except pay taxes. And in my case, rent."

"Taxes?!" the looker asked in a tone just short of hysteria. If I was lucky, he'd begin screaming and I'd get a chance to slap him around. I could pretend he was Quinn or better yet, Quinn with a bad hair-day and too much testosterone. 'Course, I lost a lot of clients that way, but it was kind of fun going back to those happy memories.

George seemed to tense up a bit. He sure didn't seem to have any of the right stuff that people from older generations had. He seemed like he was going to start hollarin' or somehow start throwin' a fit. Personally, I'd always thought those touchy-feely seminars to find your inner child was a complete waste of time and now I had the proof. Lucky me.

I got up and quickly came around the desk to stand in front of him, not wanting to miss any of the action. Especially since I knew I'd be starting it.

He sucked in a lungful of air.

I smacked him one across the chops. His eyes bugged out as if I'd just shot him. I guess he didn't get smacked enough when he was alive. I smacked him again.

"That was to get your attention," I said.

He looked like he was going to smack me back. Man, I hated that chivalry was dead. So I smacked him instead.

"Ow! What was that for?" he whined.

"That was a pre-emptive smack. Don't go spaz on me, got it?"

He didn't "got it" and was out of his chair in a flash. He picked me up and threw me over my desk and against the wall. So that was the way he wanted to play it, eh?

I watched him come around the desk, his lungs heaving with frustration. I could relate – I'd been there when I'd first shown up here. Only I just didn't have the physique to do much rough stuff.

I kicked his shins and his feet went out from underneath him. I took that time to get up and reach in my drawer. He was a little faster than me and slammed the door shut on my wrist, breaking it. So much for ending this with a minimum of pain.

With my hand stuck in the drawer, I kicked him again, this time in his viagra-chapel and this time he went down and stayed there, his eyes watering as he curled up on the floor. I pulled my wrist free of the drawer and sure enough, it was broken. It stung a bit but that was the great thing of decay, after 40 years, you didn't feel much in your neurons any longer. I twisted it around so it was looking correct and it was functional once again. You'd think that in all this time I could find out why some parts of me healed and some didn't – but truth be told, I really didn't care.

As pretty-boy groaned on the floor, I thought back to my last case three weeks back. It was an old lady in her 80's who'd been snuffed out by her ex. She'd lived through the 30's and 40's (that was the 2030's and 2040's) and had a good understanding of her place in the grand scheme of things growing up in Japan's hectic revival of the family first motif. She hadn't wanted to be here any more than any of the others I'd met over the years. All of them had a spaz-out now and then but none of them were as bad with the tension as George here.

"Yo, George, when did you die?" I asked.

"...urrrrggghhhh...."

"I forgot to tell you that I wear steel-tipped boots, pal. Anyway, what year did you die in?"

"...urrrrggghhhh... 2052..."

"Yeah, I kind of figured it'd gotten around to the 2050's by now. Now let me give you some background on the afterlife – Purgatory Division. Your soul is in a 50-50 blend of good and evil. You're neither damned or saved, and until your karma shines or is soiled, you're stuck in this lousy existence, making the best you can. But if I were you, I wouldn't look at it like you're waiting for something to fall on your head. Purgatory is the place you go if you have some sins to atone before entering Heaven. If you were destined go to the Big-H you'd go there directly; you don't go to Purgatory first. That means the higher powers think you're worth saving. Just don't screw it up.

"Now, you're having a hard time accepting anything since you don't have all the answers. That's understandable and that's where I come in."

"So you're saying you know how to... urrrgggghhhh... save my soul?" he asked, getting up and planting himself in my chair very gingerly.

"Not really. If I knew how to save a soul, I'd have been out of here a long time ago. I'd suggest asking a priest, but you won't find one in this existence. And souls I've talked to don't know either – you just do what you can and hope for the best. And when you've crossed the line in either direction, you fade from this existence. And believe me that can be really annoying when it's your waitress fading while bringing you coffee. No, all I can do is find you the answers you're looking for and from that, you can either move on or not. Your choice."

George sat motionless, taking his death in for the first time. All my clients did. I just hoped that I didn't have to put him in his place again. Not that he didn't deserve it after breaking her wrist and all, but I was actually starting to like this poor schmo the way you take to a rain-soaked cat. Besides, I needed the case to get my landlord off my back.

George loosened up after I got him to take a couple swigs of whisky. He told me the particulars as best he could remember. He went for a run on the morning of August 20^th, 2052. He ended up at his agent's boat in San Diego. Turns out pretty-boy was a Sunday ads model for a department store chain. I didn't bother listening to which one. He said he and the agent were going over ads for the next shoot which began a couple weeks down the road. He took some bad liquor and started going out. Then he noticed the agent motioning with his hands and another person come out of the boat with a syringe. He then woke up in a hospital morgue and heard the doctors talking about how he died. Then he began floating and stopped at Purgatory Reception Hall 23. From there he ignored the standard speech about doing good and instead found a phone book and looked up private eyes. He picked me since I was within easy walking distance to the hall. See – location does pay off.

It was time to visit the Recently Deceased List room of the local library.

I made my way to the RDL room all the while rolling George's story over in my head. How his last day alive started on a bright day in midsummer. He had gone to spend some time with his agent on his boat in the marina. It was midmorning when he arrived at his boat. By noon he had gone over several campaigns and had lunch in the marina restaurant. By early afternoon he and Sid were back at Sid's boat IMCOOL (which should have been IMVAIN) toasting acceptance of the deal over some drinks which included his favorite: Strawberry Daiquiri's. He drank, then came the blackness, the white tunnel, a quick debriefing in a government classroom that he vegged through, and then his feeling ticked at the killing and wanting to know who did it. Enter me.

I took his case and used the broken wrist as an excuse to gouge some more cash out of him. He was willing to pay. Now all he had to do was get a job and an advance once I had the answers. I also took his case for another reason other than monetary gains. I didn't want George to get angry and take it out again – next time instead of just hurting my hand which didn't hurt anyway, he might take it out on the furniture and that would give Esmirilda an excuse to hike the rent. Again.

My first stop was the library. Usually my first stop was a bar and some soothing throat medicine which I would have billed to my client as an overhead expense but in this case, time was an issue. Usually the recently deceased would have gone to an orientation meeting, paid a little more attention than George seemed to, and be put up in some temporary housing for a month or so until he got on his feet. As is, the next orientation meeting wasn't until another week out and since he didn't have a place to crash, he was currently residing in my office. And if Esmirilda found out about it, there would be heck to pay. Again.

At the library I spent the better part of six hours researching George's life. For an average client all I would've had to do was skim their final moments to know who the killer was and then do a little background research and I'd have the motive. Elapsed time no more than 30 minutes. But George's case proved to take longer to solve than a book editor hitting the streets for a power lunch with his publisher.

I couldn't find his killer right off. It wasn't listed. That was highly unusual as the Fates kept better track of records than a mob accountant looking to skim a little of the till. That was the second time in 40 years that had happened. The first time had been with a client who had died in a house fire. I had spent days researching it, days I could have been drinking. It had been an accident which my client wanted to make sure was an accident and not murder – for his wife's sake. They hadn't been getting along, but he didn't wish the underworld on anyone. He was relieved. But George's case had been poison. That wasn't natural, unless you ate the fish in Japan.

I did find George's death mentioned in an article near the back of the Entertainment section of a Hollywood rag. The article mostly centered on his agent and stated that George's agent, one Charles Ruttheimer (the Fates surely had it in for me – I just knew it) had died as well and been cleared of any wrongdoing. The police were ruling it an accident. A crosscheck on FATE.COM showed him heading towards Heaven when he died – imagine that, he'd actually worked with an honest agent. He wasn't the killer or his karma would have pointed him to H-E-double hockey sticks.

(Why don't I swear? Well, being on the border of good and evil, I didn't feel like taking any chances.)

This wasn't good. Not only was the only witness to George's death also dead, but FATE.COM was showing clear signs it was faulty. I mean, c'mon, Charles Ruttheimer going to Heaven and I'm stuck in Purgatory? There was some fishy soul business here and I needed to find out more on it. It was going to take more digging to come up with a suspect.

Over the next two days I combed through George's entire life and came up with zero! Nada! Nix! This was certainly not the easy case I was expecting. There was only one thing left to do – and it certainly wasn't giving the retainer back. It was time to visit the crime scene on Earth. Finally, the big case I'd waited four decades for to take me back. It wasn't just anybody who could go back – only those on official business. And this counted.

A few feet from the steps of the PTO – the Purgatory Transition Office I encountered Jon. He'd been around the place for years and years selling hotdogs. Or whatever they called hotdogs these days. "Yo, Jon," I said.

"'Lo, Daria," he replied, his eyes not meeting mine. They never had. His grin was infectious though.

"One with the works. Is credit okay again?"

"Sure thing, Daria," he grinned. He got to work and within moments I had my bland tasting dog with its bland tasting mustard goo-ing out the ends of it.

"Why you still here, kid?" I asked him while quickly shoving the gooey mess into my mouth. It was the same question I always asked him. He shouldn't have been here. There were some people here who you can tell certainly need to be here for a bit but he wasn't one of them. He was a really nice kid who should have gone to Heaven at the front of the bus. I didn't have any idea why he was relegated to the big P, but since I wasn't paid to look into these things, I didn't ask. I wondered if it had anything with a glitch in FATE.COM's server.

"Dunno, Daria. I s'pect someone knows." That was his standard answer as well.

I don't know why I bothered to eat this crap. It wasn't like I was hungry to eat bland food. Heck, I wasn't hungry at all. But old habits were difficult to give up.

"Same time tomorrow, Daria?"

"You got it, Jon. You have a good day, y'hear."

"Okay, Daria. You have a good day too."

Entering the PTO building I saw everything I expected – lots of government people diligently working on archaic typewriters and typing in triplicate. Near as I could tell, they'd been doing this since the beginning of time.

"Fudge!"

Steady, thoughtful fingers slowly plinked individual keys. Rows and rows of typists worked in here. It looked as if time stopped in the 40's here – the 1940's that is. You could just smell the dust and carbon paper smell on everything.

"Nuts!" came the sound of someone who'd made a mistake and would have to do whatever typing they were doing all over again.

"Dang-it-all!"

The powers that be (who they were, I wasn't sure – I'd never met them, but the fact that Purgatory existed in this state meant someone knew something) could have modernized everything to get it online and computer ready but for some reason they never did. Heaven was computerized but not this cesspool. Even the big H had its own network but for some reason Purgatory languished in obscurity.

In short order I met with Jonathan Smithy, the head camper in charge of the PTO, Earth recon division. I sat in his office on an even older chair than I kept for visitors in my office which I only kept because I didn't like visitors to stay long and was why I used an old chair – plenty of splinters. Jonathan must've had the same philosophy.

"Whatdaya want, Morgendorffer? I'm busy." Tact was never a strong characteristic for Jonathan. Not that he needed it.

"I like all the new typewriters you gave the staff outside. What are they – Royal electrics? Waxed-based ribbons, right?" In case I hadn't made it plain, I was trying to sound sarcastic.

(SB NOTE: this was actually my cheesy-ass high school graduation present. My sister got a car.)

Jonathan didn't bother to look up. "Thanks. I got them at auction. Sure beats carving up a tablet any day. Can you believe the government was actually going to recycle them?"

"As a matter of fact, I could. Anyway, I need a body."

That got his attention.

His eyebrows didn't twitch and his breathing (if you could call it that) evened out. He looked at me and said, "Anyone in particular? Or are you just fishin' to see what we might have in stock?"

"I want my body."

"Any reason why? Or do you plan on just rising from the dead and walking the halls of Earth once again? Please, take all the time you want to answer since I'm sure it'll be a doozy comin' from you."

Jonathan and me kind of had some history. I guess he didn't like it when I got ahold of my body 32 years ago on his watch. Busted him back to sector head instead of division chief.

"Why sure, Ms. Morgendorffer. For you, anything. Would you like us to wash and wax it for you as well or do you just want to wear it out of here?"

"Cut the crap, Jonathan. I need my body and I have a legit reason. I've already filed it with the PNOD."

"If you've already talked with those spooks, then why bother coming by and checking in with me? Why not simply go and pick it up?" He was actually confused.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Jonathan. And I think I may need more bodies before this case is over. Also, I wanted to see if you could have someone check into FATE.COM. I think it's flaking out."

"You're here for a reason, Daria. We all are. We've gone over this a thousand..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don't know. Only tell my why my client was murdered by someone not showing up on FATE."

"...I'll have someone look into it. Here." He handed over some legitimate travelling papers (in triplicate) and now I didn't have to wait for the PNOD to send me travelling papers through the mail (which took forever up here).

"Thanks, Jonathan. You're aces. I mean it."

"You can pick up your new body at Purgatory's boundary. Just make sure you return it with a few less holes in it this time, okay?"

"C'mon, the last time was an accident. Trust me."

"I don't trust you any more than I can throw you."

"See? You know just the right thing to say, you old smooth talker you."

I got a body – made out of condensed ectoplasm no less, but what can you do with budget crunches and all – out of storage; one molded to my spirit form and headed for Earth on a bus. It was strange to be on the bus all by myself. Usually it was only populated when coming back from Earth, and no passengers made the return journey. Not normally, that was.

I arrived in an alleyway in present day San Diego. I didn't recognize any of the landmarks or any of the cars. Where the heck was a Ford when you needed one? I looked down and noticed I was dressed in the same outfit when I died – including the hat, just like I was everyday in Purgatory. I was in an unpressed, unwashed gray pantsuit wearing a grey fedora. Food stains were apparent.

I had a couple stops to make. The first was the local library where I wanted to research my client's death from the mortal point of view. I looked up a location and hoofed it the two miles since Jonathan hadn't thought to include any money or plastic with this body for ground transport privileges. Tightwad.

I made it to the library while it was still cool. Cool for San Diego maybe, but I was sweating. I'd forgotten that I used to do that when I was alive. Entering, I looked for a librarian. I spotted him easily enough from the back. He had a slender body, a fine sandy-yellow hair with a ponytail and was wearing a loose outfit like a jogging suit.

"Hey, buddy. How about a little service with a research project I'm working on and then afterwards you can join me in a cup of java if I find what I need?"

The librarian turned around and I noticed a couple of glowing eyes. The nametag read: Tina. Jeez, when did women start dressing like women again? Mom would have been proud. Or maybe it was grandma who would have been proud. Any way you looked at it, times had changed.

Tina grinned and in a feminine voice to match her manicured nails and stylized hair asked, "Is there something I can do for you, or more to the point, to you? After all, I do get a break in another hour and I know of an out-of-the-way espresso bar."

"Look, toots, sorry for the mistake, but I mistook you for someone else."

"Oh yeah? Who?" she asked.

"A man," I answered.

"I presumed as much," Tina laughed. "Since you're no longer interested in picking me up, how can I help you – and hopefully this help will be quick as I have a lunch date with my husband in less than 40 minutes."

"You know, with some different clothes and a different hairdo people wouldn't take you for a surfer dude anymore."

Tina smiled, looked me over once and replied, "Tsk. And you know, with some updated clothing choices people might think you weren't a bigoted jerk."

I knew when I wasn't going to win an argument. "Point. Can you show me the news articles on the deaths of George Silvers and his agent last August 20^th?"

"Hmmmm. Since the deaths happened over six months ago, the articles are probably on microfiche now. I'll set you up with a reader."

"Huh?"

"Microfiche," Tina replied again.

"Huh? What the heck is microfiche?"

"What are you, a techno-elitist or something?" Tina asked, arching her eyebrow. "Not everything runs off the internet these days, you know."

Tina showed me how to operate the microfiche machine and go through six months worth of papers. I didn't bother wondering why it took George six months to search me out before wanting to find his killer. That's because it didn't take him six months at all – time simply worked differently in the afterlife. That was why I didn't bother to wear a watch. I watched a clock tick through a minute when I first showed up in the afterlife and I didn't want to go through that again.

I found several articles on George – how he and his agent had died, along with five other people in the marina that day. Official cause of death: food poisoning as all seven had had the fish at the local restaurant. There was quite a bit of grieving, apologies and lawsuits, but there was no one to blame – only corporations in general. And there was no mention of a coroner finding air bubbles in George's bloodstream.

Great. Just great. The info I needed now wouldn't be found in the public sector. This job was turning into some real work.

I needed a drink.

I just wish I had time for it. I headed for my next stop – the marina district's resident cop shop. I made it there in one piece despite the efforts of numerous motorists looking to run me down on the sidewalks. I walked up the steps, a cigarette hanging from my lips and went to the front desk.

"Hey, lady, can't you read?" the desk sergeant asked, pointing to a NO-SMOKING sign above his desk.

What the heck happened to the world while I was away? Now I can't smoke? I just couldn't win.

I also didn't learn anything from the flatfoots other than they were a bunch of non-smoking, anti-sugar, politically correct, obsessively polite idiots! Give me a bunch of doughnut hoarding semi-corrupt intelligent goons with badges any day – even though you couldn't trust them, you could usually bribe the info out of them. These palookas didn't want to hear any theory that threatened their neat little accidental death report. Lazy bas.....slobs. I meant to say slobs. Yeah, that's it.

So out the doors I went towards my next destination.

The less said about that the better. Simply put, the boat was no help at all. It had been sold, redecorated and infested with little monsters. Other people called them kids. What other type of kids were there? Whatever evidence could have been found was long since destroyed. That left the marina restaurant.

I opened the doors and walked into the restaurant. The headwaiter snubbed his nose at me (no real surprise there) while pointing to the NO SMOKING sign. The owner must've been related to that desk sergeant. I sighed and put out the cig on a wall, causing some snobs to put their noses up on the air as well, which was odd if they were health conscientious, why would they be trying to inhale the fumes (in some cases like gasping fish) instead of disdaining the act of smoking. This time period was weird. Oh well.

I recalled the ritual of eating good food, which caused me to salivate as it had been 40 years since I'd had a decent hoagie – Purgatory did have food stalls, but he food was only a simulacrum of real food – there was no taste, no calories – really, no life. I just had to get a steak before going back to the big "P". I'd probably end up having to wash dishes to pay for it, but it would be worth it. Especially if my body plasmed out while washing and my spirit zipped back up. The headwaiter reluctantly sat me at a table near the constantly opening kitchen doors, probably figuring I'd get annoyed at the activity and leave. I was made of sterner stuff than to quit when I got annoyed. After all, I was a private dick, a shamus. And besides, the scent was great after all this time of not smelling anything like it.

"Oh, like, y'know, wow. Bitchin' suit, babe," my waiter gabbed, bringing me out of my thoughts. "Like, totally rad and, um... what was that word I was learning about the other day in history class?"

"Bodacious?" I supplied.

"Right! Are you a new wave setter?" he asked with vacant eyes like that of a fresh corpse in designer jeans.

The aura of life surrounded him, but that was the only spark of life. There was only one sure way to talk to these living dead. "Steak sandwich. Rare. Double scotch. No ice. Extra tip if you leave now and work hard before you bum me out, dude."

"Excellent choice, babe. And what was that? Double tip? Bitchin'." He vamoosed with my order.

Vernacular from around my time now being taught in history class? I was old.

In short order he came bouncing back with my sandwich and about 30 bottles of topping sauces, any of which could rust steel. I took the sandwich plain and savored the sensation of eating grain, onion, dead cow flesh and bitter almond...? What was that? Bitter almond?! Codeine. "Plaugh!" I spat out the sandwich much to a kid monster's delight who mimicked me and had the snot beaten out of him by an angry mother. It was good to see some things hadn't changed.

I stormed into the kitchen and noticed the demon right away – he being all red with two horns sticking out from under his chef's hat. As part of the spirit world, I could see things mortals couldn't, such as a demon cook in a swank restaurant. The same was true for humans who could see a joke setup a mile away while yours truly would blunder into it. However, getting back to the subject at hand, a demon was a demon no matter whose apron he wore.

There was no easy way to tackle a demon, especially one invisible to humans while working in plain sight. But I tried my best by grabbing a skillet, sneaking up behind him and giving him brain job that must have hurt – even to him. The other workers reacted in terror; the demon was wearing a disguise and it looked as if I had just walloped one of their friends. Not that I cared. I had my hands full with a red, smoldering, fumes coming out of the ears of an angry demon.

"Oh crap," I heard myself say as the demon grabbed a pan of frying fish and flung its contents at me.

I slid under a mobile tray, pushing the dishes and dinners to the floor in a loud crash but better it than me. I just couldn't stand the smell of cooked fish on me for another 40 years.

I came out the other side of the mobile tray and found some convenient silverware and began flinging knives, forks, salad forks and spoons (including teaspoons) at the demon. They all missed, except for one teaspoon which actually hit him in the eye.

That made him mad.

On the plus side, since I was already dead, he couldn't hurt me. Well, at least not too much.

He grabbed a handful of flour and whipped it towards me and I lost sight of him since my vision was clouded by white. I found out where he went once he punched me in the gullet.

The punch knocked the wind out me and me out of the kitchen and back into the dining room. I'm pretty sure I didn't startle the guests since I was pretty sure they'd heard all the fighting over the past minute or so.

I grabbed a basket of bread and butter off a table and whipped it at the demon chef as he came out the doors. He knocked it aside but I was expecting that. I then grabbed some more butter and threw it at him but he knocked it aside as well.

"I'm sorry I dropped the lunch, sir! It was an accident! I was only trying to get it to the customer so it would be fresh! Please don't hit me anymore!" I quivered.

"Hey, don't beat up the waitstaff!" someone yelled from the audience.

"Marvin, are you beating the help again?"

"They beat the waiters here? Stephanie, get your things and let's go. I'm not eating here."

"Hey!"

"Why don't you beat up someone your own size."

"You suck!" came more cries.

The demon chef stopped in his tracks and looked around at the dazed audience now turned against him.

Sucker.

He was right over me so I let him have it with both boots. Thank God my body came with my original steel-toed boots.

He dropped like a sack of mushy potatoes, similar to George at the beginning of this story. But he recovered faster. I got off the floor and put him in a chokehold. He flexed his shoulders and I went backwards.

I got back up, grabbed an object he had dropped and was on his back again a moment later. This time I grabbed his left horn with my left hand and smacked him in the face with the frying pan with my other hand. That got his attention. "Invoke the oath of surrender or else," I ordered.

"Or else what?" he grumbled.

I hated it when I had to come up with an answer to that. Fortunately I had a frying pan. WHAM! "Do it!"

"Not this time, you mook," he groused and then disappeared into smoke.

Crap. I got up, still holding the frying pan and the demon's left horn, which couldn't disappear since possession was 9/10's the law. Like I said, I couldn't avoid a joke setup if my afterlife depended on it.

A demon working as a cook was unusual, even in the afterlife. A codeine-steak sandwich. No coincidence this time around. The case had just gotten more complicated, and I needed help. I heard sirens in the distance. It was time to head back home.

"Well, well, as I don't live and don't breathe. It's Daria Morgendorffer. Going for the traditional ghost look now?"

Getting back to Purgatory hadn't been hard since all I had to do was think of a bland existence and blammo, there you were, just outside the PTO. Jonathan must've had some advance warning I was coming because he came with a couple of spirit-bruisers ready to take the body back to storage. As for his comment, I looked down and saw all the flour still on my body.

"Not so fast with the body snatchers there, Jonathan," I said. "We got a problem. I need to talk to you... alone."

"Scram, fellas. Ok, Morgendorffer, what's the scoop?"

I gave him a condensed rundown on my activities while cleaning the flour off my borrowed body. "...so that's why I need to keep the body for a little longer. I need another visa."

"You just came back from Earth and now you want to go again? Why didn't you just stay there?"

"Not Earth. I need to go to Heaven."

"And just who are you going to see there?" Jonathan asked indignantly.

"Well, since I really don't know anybody up there, I was kind of hoping you'd help me out."

"I swear, if we didn't have history together..."

"You know you still like me."

"...grummmmble... I'm such a sucker, you know that? I don't know if I can wrangle you a pass to Heaven on your story alone. The big boy's are going to want proof."

"How about this?" I asked, showing him the demon's horn.

Heaven was a pure thought later (and believe me, it hurt) where I cut to the head of the 4-million person line (and growing) and presented my temporary visa.

"Hey, who the hell do you think you are cutting in front of us like that, you bitchhhiiiiiieeeeee... eee... ee.." someone yelled way in the back which was a big mistake as a hole appeared in the cloud he was standing on and down he went, probably towards Purgatory (if he were lucky) where he could learn the error of his ways or the error of his big mouth before returning here again. Someday.

I had to say this for Heaven. It sure was bright. Probably because it was closer to the sun or son. Take your pick.

I went to the St. Peter's Plaza where St. Peter had the top 2 floors of a 45,715 floor high rise. His receptionist informed me that St. Peter was at an all-Saints convention with the other Saints in town. The location was a secret. Sorry. A busybody from the word go yet not around when you needed him. Typical.

Walking out of the building I noticed some people gathered around a redheaded camper waving a sign which stated, "Elect Me!" To kill some time before being ejected from Heaven, I went over to the commotion. Besides, I'd heard the word Saint used several times. The three people milling about looked at me, my grey PI clothes (it was probably my hat that gave me away) compared to their white robes, stuck up their noses and walked off.

I ignored them while reading the other signs the do-gooder wannabe had. "Christopher - Once A Saint, Always A Saint" was accompanied by, "You Could Do Worse".

"Elect me as your next saint," the happy camper (Christopher, I guess) said to the departing souls. "Aw, crud." Then, "Oh!" He noticed me. He smiled and then noticed my clothes. It was true in Heaven that clothes made the woman. The smile faded.

"What are you doing here, Purgatory-woman?" he asked me in a some sort of holier-than-thou voice.

"Looking for a Saint, but it appears they're all away attending a convention."

"Not all!" cried Chris, handing me a leaflet describing his plight. "Here, read this. It tells you how I was once a Saint, but now I'm not because some mortals couldn't find the proof of my sainthood and thereby stripped me of the title. Lousy bastards."

"Hey, how come you can swear, but not get fined or fired?"

He grinned. "Saints, even ex-Saints, are given some leeway up here, shamus. But you know, maybe we can help each other. You need help, and I need a nomination to get my sainthood back."

"But I'm not in Heaven," I stated the obvious. "And I certainly can't do anything in Purgatory."

"Correct, you're not in Heaven. Not yet. But I'm willing to take any risk here, even a long shot."

"What the heck," I said. I didn't have anything else to lose, so I told Chris the story, ending it up by producing my solid evidence – the demon horn.

"Holy shit, shamus. You weren't kidding when you said you needed help on this. If what you're saying is true, then some demons have violated the Heaven/Hell Charter of Non-Interference. And with all the Saints out of town, there isn't anyone around to pass the buck up to an Angel."

"I take it that's not something an ex-Saint can do?"

"You take it right. Being an ex-Saint doesn't mean I still have access to the Angel hotline. I hate to tell you this, but I think there's only one thing left for you to do."

He hated to tell me that? I hated to listen to it. It was the last thing I wanted to do.

One bland thought was all it took to find myself standing outside the PTO building. I looked up and saw its motto branded on the front of the building. "Abandon All Privacy, Ye Who Enter". That was a motto only a government could dream up. I've known some of the poor souls who've had to work their stint in here and they were mean. I thought I was mean until I ran into Floyd ...somethingorother at a bar about 28 years ago. He gave me a run for my money.

While I had to book time and get clearance, all Purgatory government souls had direct access to the FATE.NET, as well as all up-to-the-minute dated history files on anyone who walked in. Apparently they didn't like to waste time with a client hedging about his business. They also liked to know all about the client, so as to keep him or her off balance during fee negotiations, job listings or any of a thousand other things they claimed to offer besides headaches. You would have thought that bankers would have either ended up in Heaven or Hell – not in a wishy-washy Purgatory! Darn slobs.

As I entered the PTO I noticed that there had been some changes while I was away – the air conditioners used to cool the building were gone and instead each desk had a little fan that seemed to rotate once per minute at high speed. Who said technology was dead?

I'd only been in Heaven about a couple hours my time but down here days had gone by. Hope George remembered to feed my dead goldfish. Or barring that, at least pay the darn rent on the office.

Time was tricky in the afterlife. I could never keep track of what time it was since it changed all the time. A month could go by on Earth and only an hour go by here. But the reverse was also true – depending. And Monday's were the worst since they seemed to drag on for eternity. I tried to sleep through Monday's whenever possible.

"You're wearing out that body, you know," Jonathan said as I walked into his office. His bully-boys were still there, still waiting for the body. It was going to feel good to ruin his day.

"I need the body for a bit longer. This case has just gone to Hell."

"Hey, watch the language already. No sense bringing down trouble when you don't need it."

"No, Jonathan, I mean it in the literal sense. I need to go to Hell for the next leg of this trip."

"Jeez, Daria, that's rough. Alright, you can keep the body a few days longer. But keep in mind, the cleaning bill on it is coming out of your pay. Here's a pass."

"Thanks."

I took the Lord's name in vain. That was all it took for a hole to open up under me and I slid downwards, finally landing on my rump. I got up and noticed that I was on a dark highway – well, mostly dark since the horizon line had a reddish tint to it. There were a few other folks. I got in line behind them and before too long a pair of bright eyes showed up. As it closed in on us I saw that it was a bus. It slowed, stopped, and opened its doors. The crowd surged forward. I was last on and showed the driver my pass. He scratched his head in wonderment and shoved his thumb towards the back of the bus.

Typical.

While on the bus I thought over what Chris had said.

Chris really didn't have any power left and the angel gangs weren't a real help because of management difficulties with the unions. But a demon working in the mortal plane was really, really, really against the rules; it was possible the demon was freelancing where he shouldn't have been. If that was the case, then the big cheese of H-E-Double Hockey Sticks should be made aware of it. To break the contract would invite heavy retaliation that the underworld's big cheese wouldn't want. Or so he said. I just wondered how much clout to give an ex-Saint and all.

The bus ride was long and we stopped for more souls on the way. I didn't want to think about it. By the end of the trip, the ride could be summed up in one word: Bumpy.

It seemed like it took forever since we stopped every few miles for more souls but eventually we drove past the gates and instantly night became day ...and the temperature increased. The bus drove about another mile and then pulled over next to a little shack. There were no souls waiting but the doors were opened.

The door on the shack slammed open and five demons sprinted towards the bus, all wearing red fatigues, specially designed boots to cover the traditional hoofs, and neatly pressed hats, each with two holes to allow the forehead horns to extrude unencumbered.

"Alright you maggot sucking little pieces of crud!! Move it off this bus! You! Why aren't you moving?!! Go, go, go!!"

"Um, sir, there's got to be some mistake," a timid soul said.

Bad move as the demon grabbed the poor soul's head, twisted it around 180 degrees and yelled, "Any other mistakes on this bus? No?! Then get moving!"

The bus exploded as the souls all tried to get off the bus before someone or something twisted their heads around. It didn't matter if they were quick off the bus or not. The demons were swearing over the souls like bees swarming over a hive – they were doing it constantly and with enthusiasm. Strangely enough, it reminded me of my boot camp drill sergeants.

I waited until the rest of the souls were off the bus and standing in line. That kept the others busy and then I lit a cigarette and walked off the bus.

A demon raced over to me and swore in my face. "You took your own *@#%$#*&!! time getting off the *@#%$#*&!!**!!#&!! bus!" His breath was very hot.

I blew some smoke in his face which he seemed to like, sniffing out residual nicotine like those poor diners back on Earth.

The bus started its motor and when I turned to see where it was going, it was gone and in its place was a boat with a figure pushing it out to the middle of the river which had also replaced the highway. Hmmm.

"Where's the bus going?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter where it's going since you won't every be leaving HELL, toots!" the demon sneered in my face. His breath was still hot.

"That's what you think, pal," I said, shoving the bus pass into the demon's face.

His eyes lost some of its yellow color and went big and oval as it read the pass. "Hey, Joey, Jeffy, Zuin, Alberto! Over here! We got us a situation!"

The other demons ceased harassing the souls and sprinted over to the demon in front of me. They crowed around his shoulders and read, with agonizingly slowness, the pass. Finally, they finished the sentence and looked up as one towards me. That was not a pretty site any way you looked at it.

"How do we know this isn't a forgery?" Hell-Alberto asked.

"Try to rip it," I replied.

He tried and had no luck. Purgatory paper wasn't worth its weight for much, but official Purgatory paper was worth every cent Jonathan paid for it since he usually bought Angel overstock which was unbreakable by a demon.

The demon's demeanor changed immediately. "Golly, gee, the lady is correct – she will be leaving the underworld domain in short order. Jamie, get her a chair! Joey, get her a pillow! Zuin, contact the garage for a ride for the lady. Jeffy, you go and watch those other bastards."

"Our apologies, miss," Hell-Zuin said before running to the shack.

"Wait a minute," I said, lighting another cancer stick and snapping closed my lighter, "what happened here? Where's your foul tempers and cursing mouths?"

Hell-Alberto took the time to look sheepish. "Oh, that - well, ma'am, that's our job to be mean and cruel. And having to do it millennia after millennia, well, I needn't tell you that it can take its toll on someone. That's why one takes the opportunity to be polite when one can. Is there anything we can do for you? Soft drink?"

Stunned, I asked, "How about a ride to Hell-Hall?"

"Absolutely, miss. I'll see that Zuin makes all the arrangements. Ah, Jamie and Joey are back. Here, you just sit here until the ride comes. It's awfully hot down here and I wouldn't want you to get ill on my watch. Let me see if I can find you a cool drink. Lemonade okay?"

I nodded and he took off. The others smiled at me, not with demon grins but with a polite smile of a butler or a chauffeur. I sat back in amazement. It was a little unsettling. It was an old chair but a comfortable fit since it seemed as if no one used it. It was definitely comfortable which was good since it was also definitely hot and borrowed body or no, I was starting to feel the heat.

The tormented souls stood at attention on the black asphalt and whenever one of them moved, Hell-Joey or Hell-Jeffy or Hell-Jamie or Hell-Zuin (or all of them together) produced a steel-whip and began flaying that soul. I had to avert my eyes. There wasn't anything I could do for the soul. I knew that but it didn't mean I didn't feel each whip-slice.

Hell-Alberto brought me a lemonade with ice even. That was nice. I sipped it as he ordered Hell-Zuin to double-time the damned out of my sight as it was "bothering the nice lady," as he put it. He complied by first running back into the shed to get me another pillow before whipping the damned behind a nearby mountain.

While waiting, three damned walked by – one a redhead, another with black hair, and the third a sandy-blond in pigtails. They were each wearing a paper bag for clothing.

Pigtails walked by with her hands cupping her mouth, trying to amplify her words as she said, "I have told people about an incredible clothes closeout sale even though I wish to purchase them myself – but my card has been rejected. What am I to do?"

The black haired woman had her hands cupping her ears as if trying to hear voices far and faint as she said, "I have heard about an incredible clothes closeout sale and wish to purchase them – but my card has been rejected. What am I to do?"

Red's hands cupped her eyes as if holding invisible binoculars as she said, "I have located an incredible clothes closeout sale and I wish to purchase them – but my card has been rejected. What am I to do?"

Well dip me in honey and throw me into the second Circle of H-E-L-L. I recognized this troupe. It wasn't all that hard since the redhead was my sister, Quinn. "Hey, Quinn," I greeted, waving a hand to get her attention.

"I have located an incredible clothes... oh, hey, Daria. Okay, everyone, take five."

The two others of the troupe, presumably Stacy and Tiffany, stopped what they were doing and went to mingle with the demons nearby.

"Never thought you'd end up here."

"Well, you never know, you know. One day I'm going along all healthy and stuff, doing an LL Bean shoot and next thing you know, you get run over by a car all because the photographer wants more realism. Anyway, you die and just like that you end up in the 7^th Circle of Hell. Who would've thought that Dante was right after all?"

"Jeez, Quinn, that's rough," I said sympathetically.

"No kidding. I swear, once they started getting shutterbugs coming over from Hot Rod, my career really tanked. But at least here the working conditions never change and I've got an ironclad contract."

"Can I do anything for you?"

"You don't have any gum by chance do you?" she asked hopefully.

"Sorry. That would've meant I gave up smoking."

Deflated, she returned, "That's okay. So how are things in Purgatory?"

"The same as always. Literally. How about here?"

"Hell? Well, the HJ's on HTV all have speech impediments and play nothing but polka, Jeopardy-Hell is nothing but reruns with categories like 'The Most Embarrassing Moment Of Your Life' or 'The First Time You DID It', and roadkill seems to populate every plate of Chez Pierre."

"They have a Chez Pierre here?"

"Of course. It's a franchise."

"I walked into that one, didn't I?"

Quinn grinned. "Of course. I'm not evil for nothing, you know."

One of Quinn's compatriots yelled, "Aaaaahhhh, I'm gaining weight again, Quinn!" Hell-Tiffany actually ballooned up to at least 800 pounds while doing nothing else but breath. This was truly Hell for her.

Quinn smiled and we shook hands. "Well, gotta get back to work. No rest for the wicked and all that. Stacy, quit hitting on that drill instructor and get back in line. See ya, Daria. Don't be a stranger, okay? Ooooohhhhhh," she began to moan as Stacy broke off her conversation with the demon and fell back into line.

That was weird.

Soon enough I found myself at Hell-Hall, which was identical to the PTO only they had air conditioning instead of decades-old crappy fans. Oh, and all the employees dressed up in 3-piece suits and had horns on their red heads, but other than that, it was identical. They even ignored or belittled me as I walked through their offices to Hell-Jonathan's office (my Jonathan's counterpart).

When I first went to talk to the Hell-Jonathan, the man was like any of the other demons – rude at first, and then polite when he found out I was there on a pass. But unlike the others, Hell-Jonathan was not open. He was in a position of responsibility and tended to guard that responsibility with care. Hell-Jonathan didn't bother with small talk, and instead he went straight for a bottle of rotgut in his desk drawer. I knew Hell-Jonathan's plan in an instant – cordial drinks at first, then the heavy stuff until I was blitzed and raggin' at the mouth. But like any private dick worth her salt, I could booze it like a pro.

But I didn't have that much time – already two days had passed on the mortal realm. I had to work quick and skip the hedging around with the Hell-bent bureaucrat and hope he had a polite streak. Besides, the best defense was when you controlled the offense.

"Let's just skip the bullpucky and get down to brass tacks, Hell-Jonathan. I'm here because I've caught one of your boys working the mortal plane."

"So? Happens all the time," he replied politely, putting the rotgut away. Shame. I would've at least liked a sip.

"True. But this one was killing people which is in direct violation of the Heaven-Hell Charter." I noticed Hell-Jonathan get apprehensive.

He sat at his desk and pulled his computer over and typed away as if he'd been born with a keyboard in his hands instead of a pitchfork. "I'm not showing any breech. It's nothing," Hell-Jonathan said, trying to blow it off. "Besides, did you see him try to kill anyone?"

"He tried to kill me."

"Then, technically, he was only defending himself since you aren't really alive. There you go, have a nice day. Off you go."

"And he was directly responsible for killing my client," I said before he could push me out the door.

"It's permissible," he defended.

"This is true. It is permissible. I've even known someone to die from one of those cases. However, I checked. My client had no demon-contract against him. This was an open hit. Meaning a breech in the Charter. As yet, the big boys upstairs are unaware of it, and judging by your expression, neither do the big boys downstairs. So what's the scoop here? You know something, I'm pretty sure of that."

"I'm really not at liberty to say who is working on what assignment," Hell-Jonathan began.

"Look, it's hot and I'm tired. All I have to do now is say a certain name and suddenly some hellish big cheese would be there, a big cheese who I'm sure would be interested in the Heaven-Hell Charter. Are we clear here?"

"Fine. By the rules then. I only have your word of what you say. I have no proof. No proof means no case. Get lost, shamus."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the horn. I showed it to Hell-Jonathan who went pink, as if sick to his stomach. "Proof," I said, flipping it to him.

He caught it and turned it over. Slowly, he pulled a hand-held scanner and scanned the bar code on the side of the horn. It pinged on his monitor. He nearly turned grey with the ping. That was all I needed to know I was onto something.

With a sigh, Hell-Jonathan broke the news to me. "Ten months ago real-time, mortal plane, an ad appeared in the Hell-Gazette. Six demons answered the help wanted for a supposed move in Purgatory. I processed their bus tickets myself. I didn't think twice of the workers since Hell has cheaper worker rates and we're not talking soul points, chicky. Cash on the barrelhead. The six demons haven't been seen since. I've hired my own investigator, but this horn is the first real clue to come up. So I'd like to hire you, Morgendorffer."

Other than the color and the horns, Hell-Jonathan was a lot like my Jonathan. Only a lot more polite. I was starting to like him in a weird, no-fraternization kind of way.

"Why me? Why not some of your own brood?"

"Are you kidding me? Look what I have to work with."

"I know what you have to work with, Hell-Jonathan. You've got some talent here. Yet you're not working them. Why?"

"Look, time's money, okay? You want this job or not?"

"Time's wasting as well. Put up or shut up. Talk."

"Fine. I need this solved fast. And I don't need it whispered around here that I'm involved in a conspiracy to break the Heaven-Hell Charter. I do that, and I'm fired. Literally. Got it?"

"Demons are bad business. Bad mojo," I said, stuffing a hand in my pocket while looking him in the eye. "It'll cost."

"It always does," Hell-Jonathan remarked. "One catch, Morgendorffer. You'll be working with a partner on this."

"No deal. I work solo. Have for years."

"Can't be helped. Once you catch the demons, you don't have the power to return them – she will. Besides, I'm sure you remember your old partner, Jane."

And there she was as Hell-Jonathan opened a door. Just as I remembered her. Only a little older. Okay, a lot older. But there she was.

She'd aged a little in the time we'd dissolved our partnership when I'd died. Her hair was still raven-black, her lips ruby-red and her eyes cold-water blue. Her angular face broke out into a grin when she saw me.

"Daria, how the Hell are you?"

"This is really going to cost you."

Grinning, Hell-Jonathan replied, "Oh, but it was worth it."

So the next thing I knew I was sitting on the passenger side of a red, topless classic Thunderbird driving the Hell-Earth Freeway 666 at 120 mph. It felt nice to know I was leaving Hell. Not too many people could say that in their life.

Unfortunately, Jane was in the seat next to me driving us up and out.

I concentrated on the road. It was a 7-lane freeway – six lanes clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic full of road rage and honkers looking for an off-ramp to anywhere but Hell, and a single, smooth lane exiting out. Not surprisingly, we were the only ones on this side of the road.

About four miles from this really huge black hole surrounded by a beating redness, Jane asked, "So how the hell have you been, Daria? You know, you never write."

I didn't bother to reply.

"Y'know, you really ought to lighten up and relax. Have some fun."

No reply.

"Hello? Hell to Daria? Come in, please."

No reply.

"You know, I always wondered something, Daria. I always wondered how you and Brian hit it off after I introduced you two. I thought of you the moment I saw him."

"You're kidding, right?" Darn it! I wasn't going to speak and now I'd gone and opened my big mouth.

"No idea at all. I figured when you didn't show up for work the next day you were still with Brian in bed or something."

"Or something."

"But then you didn't show up for work ever again. I figured you must've liked him and moved to your cabin in Montana. C'mon, give! Something what? I bet you two were like bunnies, right?"

I looked at Jane who was smiling evilly, not bothering to watch the road. "Fine," I said simply. "He killed me, Jane." I pulled off my hat to show her the hole in my cranium where an ice pick "picked" at it a few dozen times 40 years ago.

"Oooohhh, nasty. I bet that had to hurt. Why don't you do something to fix it? Oh, that's right, you Purgatory people won't do anything to implicate vanity on your record and jeopardize your standing in any way. Look at me – I was hit 22 years after you disappeared with 56 bullets ripping my body to pieces, and do I look like a mess? Of course not – I look great, and so can you. Just make a decision and you and me can be solving some hellacious cases – just like the good old days."

"What good old days? We were always looking for work or simply working. There wasn't anything good about it."

"Whatever. So are you getting' any on the other side? Oh, that's right, the Purgatory rules of abstinence. You guys got it worse than in Heaven, I tell you. You should go in for the Hell afterlife – the sex may stink some of the time, but at least there's no diseases that can be cured. You've always got a chance of dying and does that ever add some zing into it!"

"Do you mind knocking off the bantering so we can concentrate on the case at hand or..."

"Or else what?" Jane asked.

Stupid mouth. I'd been away from Jane too long and wasn't as sharp on holding my tongue as I once was. I let it drop – no sense giving her any more info than she had – after all, I wasn't sure Jane hadn't deliberately set me up with Brian the Ice Pick.

In silence, we drove through the beating heart.

Jane stopped the red T-bird in front of the dock's local cop-shop. I adjusted my hat to hide the pick holes and lit another cigarette as I got out of the car. Jane and I walked up the steps to the establishment.

The desk sergeant recognized me immediately and began tapping his nightstick in the palm of his hand while glancing at the NO SMOKING sign.

I could take a hint. I pug the cigarette out in my hand and slipped it into my pocket for later smoking.

Jane put her cigarette out on the wall and then pulled another one out and lit it, all the while grinning in the sergeant's face.

"You two looking for a beating? Then you came to the right place," the desk sergeant grinned back to Jane.

"Cut the crap, sergeant," I interjected before he could get up and try to make good on his threat. "Get your superiors down here."

"Why whatever you say, lady. It's not like they don't have anything else to do with all the available time on their hands," he sarcasmed.

Jane reached over his desk and pulled the nightstick out of his hands. Startled, he watched on as she snapped it in half and tossed it back onto his desk.

"I'm not going to ask you again," I said.

A few minutes later Lt. DeMartino came downstairs, got an earful from the desk sergeant and motioned the two of us to his office.

"Any reason I shouldn't lock you up for destruction of private property?" he asked while closing the door.

I ignored the comment. "We're looking for some information, not trouble."

"And that sweet comment is supposed to get me to roll over and tell you anything you want to know? I ran a check on you when you were here last time, Morgendorffer, and you know what I found? Nothing. No PI license, no driver's license, no library card – nothing! You're dressed for a 10's costume party and smell just as bad and I don't like unanswerable mysteries. I don't care what kind of trick you pulled with the nightstick, and if you try it again, I'll shoot you. Now cough up some correct ID or you two go in the clink!"

He must've been related to my old history teacher. His eye bugged out of his skull when he started shouting at us.

Jane blew smoke in the Lt. DeMartino's face and whipped out another fake ID, saying "IAD, you piece of $#%$. This entire department is under investigation. Upstairs wants to know who's been tipping you people off to look the other way and falsify reports on the murders at the marina."

"What murders?" Lt. DeMartino coughed.

"George Silvers for one," I replied. "His agent, Charles Ruttheimer for another."

"The coroner ruled them accidental deaths," he replied warily, apparently not liking where this conversation was going. He wouldn't since it contradicted his neat little theory of accidental deaths and meant forthcoming work on his department's part.

"Strange how air injected into the bloodstream can be accidental," I returned, holding his gaze.

"And were the deaths of Jane Smith, Paul Rubins, Roger Smythe, Juan Valdez, Courtney Love also accidental deaths?" Jane asked, whipping out her pocket notebook and flipping through it with an air of authority. "I also have the names of 65 more people in here who are dead following a visit to Chez Surf, a local marina restaurant in your area. All listed as drownings, drug overdoses, cardiac arrests – but none investigated for a possible lead. All dead within the last six months! Now it's your turn to put up or get locked up, $%^&* for brains!"

Jane was on her feet, leaning over Lt. DeMartino's desk showing her own demonic character. Her face was turning red and I doubt the Lt. was able to see the smoke simmering out of her ears since that would have required him to look beyond her face which he didn't seem capable of doing.

I put a hand on Jane's shoulder to pull her back. Jane had had a mean temper in the old days. These days, there was no telling what she'd do now that he was a demon. And I didn't want this guy to end up like George Silvers – dead before his time.

Jane's temper worked its magic and Lt. DeMartino was more than happy to give us whatever help he could. It wasn't very much since he really didn't know anything. I suggested he put the coroner under investigation along with the rest of the marina and he said he'd get right on it. I didn't think he was lying since that would mean another visit from Jane.

But knowing police work like I do meant it would be of no help to my client since it would take over 3 years of undercover effort to nab some two-bit pot smoker that fit the profile they'll get around to creating one day. Meanwhile Jane and I needed to find the real bad apples.

As we drove to our next destination, I said to Jane, "You haven't lost your knack for spinning a yarn."

"What do you mean?"

"Those names. You had him going thinking there was a serial killer lose."

She flipped me her small notepad. "I didn't make those names up, Daria. Jonny-baby gave me a rundown on the locals here who've been sent to Hell in the past six months when the Fate line indicated they were headed the other way."

"And he found 70 names?" I asked incredulously.

"No. Closer to 550."

"Jes... er..."

"C'mon, say it. I know you want to."

"Hush, you. We've got a big problem on our hands."

"No #$%$#. So you missed the way I could spin a story, eh?"

"I liked them in the old days. You managed to get me to laugh."

"Hey, remember when we bamboozled that street beat rookie into thinking we were undercover cops from another precinct?"

"Yeah," I grinned in spite of myself. "That was the best three months of free coffee and donuts we ever had."

Jane grinned, then laughed. "That rookie was so steamed when he found out we were a couple of private dicks. You'd have thought he'd have shot our heads off the way he was waving that gun. Heh heh – I wonder whatever happened to that poor mug."

I sobered. "He died from a hit and run and took the road upward."

Jane sobered as well. "It's going to take some time to track them down," she said.

"It's time we don't have to spare if we're to meet Hell-Jonathan's deadline."

"That's true – if the returning saints catch wind of the charter-breech, they'll fink to the angels and heads will roll, quite possibly yours and mine since we'll be in the middle of it."

We were quiet for a few minutes while we thought about it.

I broke the silence with, "We have to get them to come to us."

"Agreed. How about the bad cop, good cop routine?

"That'll work, but who plays which part?" I asked.

"Are you @#$%!%#$ kidding, or what?"

Chez Surf's kitchen was as I remembered it. Loud and not the cleanest place you would ever want to go to. All signs of the fight I'd had with the demon cook had been cleaned up. The demon itself was nowhere in sight and I didn't smell him so I knew he wasn't nearby. That didn't sit well with Jane who always had her own way of getting information when a job called for more work than she wanted to give it. That, or when she was just really having a bad day.

SMACK.

"What the #$%@$ do you mean you don't know where Johnson is?" Jane bellowed into the head cook's ear.

"Who?" prompted the maitre d' helpfully. He shouldn't have bothered.

SMACK. Jane cuffed him on the back of his head. "Whatdaya mean, 'who'? Melvin Johnson, a cook. My partner saw him here the last time she was in. You should remember it since he got into a fight with her."

"Urrk... urrk..." gasped the head cook still in a headlock.

"Speak up!" Jane said, releasing him and smacking him again for good measure.

"Urrk... don't know where he is," he gasped in reply.

"God$#%$$! I want Johnson and I want him now!" Jane screamed, and then pulled out her .45 so the two humans could see it.

They were scared spitless. We used to do this same kind of number back when we ran the business together. Back when we were alive. Now it was time for good cop to come in.

"You better listen to her, fellas. She means business. She's had this temper as long as I remember..." I said just before Jane shot me in the leg.

BLAMMM!

It was a good thing the bullet didn't hurt or otherwise there would have been a good chance I wouldn't be returning to Purgatory anytime soon. But being dead and all, I was beyond mortal pain. As for the gushing blood, well, what with Jane sticking a still smoking gun barrel up the cook's nostril and grabbing the maitre d' by the lapel and pulling him close so he could see the blister forming on the cook's nose, they weren't paying too much attention to me.

"Oh. Um... ouch. The pain. The agony. I must go sit down," I said with as much gusto as I could in order to maintain the illusion that Jane was psychotic. Not that there was ever a need to maintain an illusion.

"Who wants the next one?" Jane seethed to both faces.

Their eyes went wide and white. "We'd like to help you, lady, really we would. But Melvin quit. No forwarding address, no phone number, nothing."

"When did he quit?" she asked.

"Two days ago. Please don't kill me," supplied the cook, moving his tenderized nose off the end of Jane's gun.

"He get paid for his time?"

"Checks are cut only once every two weeks, no exceptions," said the maitre d'.

Jane thought for a moment and asked, "So when's payday around here?"

Eyes still wide, the maitre d' stammered, "Uh... uh... today at 5 p.m."

Jane went mean again. "Today's your lucky day, jagoff. When Melvin comes in for his paycheck, stall him and give me a call. This is where I'm staying," Jane shoved a freshly printed card with our hotel suite on it into his mouth.

"You got it, lady," he mumbled.

"You'd better," Jane menaced, using her fingers to imitate a gun and suggesting she'd shoot each person in the head if they didn't.

She then dropped both of them onto the floor and walked towards me.

I was on the other side of the kitchen, putting ketchup on rags and using them as bandages so the "event" would look real. "I heard," I said before Jane opened her mouth. "Let's go."

We were quiet until in the car and out of the parking lot.

"What's the big idea of putting a hole in my leg?" I asked as we drove down the road.

"It got them to talk, so what's the big deal? Another hole more or less isn't going to hurt you. After all, you're already dead," Jane smiled.

"You shot me. You used to never shoot me."

"You used to not be dead."

"Point. Still, I didn't even get to use my good cop routine on those stooges."

"Hey, what can I say, I saw a better opportunity to make my... our point and I took it."

I resigned myself to what was done was done. The shooting was really no big deal since I was dead, but I was going to tack on the cost of repairing the body to Hell-Jonathan's tab. But I still didn't like it. Nobody shot me and got away with it clean.

"Do you think this plan will work?" I asked, removing the fake bandage and tossing it in the backseat.

"Hell yes – all demons are greedy. We've got enough damn taxes to pay. It's worse than England. The way I see it is that those two goofs'll either stall Melvin and call us, or they'll give him one of our cards and Melvin will come to us. Either way, we win."

"I can't believe you Heck-people have to pay taxes like we do in Purgatory."

"You pay damnation taxation too?" she asked.

"Okay, we don't pay the same kinds of taxes."

"And I bet you don't pay as much as we do either. Those government office buildings don't come cheap, what with the fire codes and everything. I tell you, asbestos is everywhere."

"So what now?" I asked.

Jane drove into a parking lot. "We wait - wanna take in a movie? I hear there's a new Van Damme flick opening."

I thought about it. "It's been a long time since I've seen an action flick, so what the heck."

"Action movie? Morgendorffer, you got a lot to learn about the 50's. It's a foreign film. Action. Sheesh."

Jane and I rode the elevator up to our office in a cheap hotel. It seemed that no matter what the era, you could always find an office in a cheap hotel. It was one of the cornerstones of the universe.

As we walked down the hall, we were chattering like old friends. More like Jane was chattering. She always did that – moreso when we were alive. I walked behind Jane and nudged her arm when I saw our office door was slightly ajar. We stopped in the hallway. I sniffed the air. It smelled of evil. Contrary to popular belief, evil did smell pretty damn bad, but it took a special honker to sniff it out. I hadn't really smelled any evil for nearly four decades until this case, so my sniffer was primed. What it smelled like was an absence of air. Figure that out. It took me a long time to get it.

Jane looked at me for a moment. She then pointed to herself and then the door, and then at me and the hallway. I nodded and she went to the door.

She opened it and walked into the dark room. She flipped on a light and saw four demons waiting for her – one of which was my missing perp with the missing horn.

"Hello, Melvin. Nice horn job you got going there," Jane said.

One of the demons, his arms crossed and looking taller than the others said, "You must be Jane. I hear you're looking for my boy Melvin here."

"You heard right. You losers are in a heap of trouble back home."

"That right?" asked another demon. "What in Hell for?"

"Pre-killing," Jane said flatly.

"Hah! Good one!" laughed Melvin.

"Do I have it wrong? You're not pre-killing mortals? Why don't you tell me what I'm missing."

"Oh, you've got it right, Jane. We're pre-killing mortals but we're working someone else's job so technically we're in the clear. This job's all on the up and up."

"Really?" Jane replied skeptically. "So why didn't you renew your visa a couple months ago with Hell-Hall?"

Melvin shrugged. "We were busy."

Jane laughed in a non-believing way. "You losers always have an answer, you know that. I must say, you're all fairly calm in discussing your plans. I'm surprised. This has been the downfall of too many villains in times past."

The larger demon smiled and said, "Jane, Jane, Jane. You haven't been in Hell very long – you're still thinking like a mortal. What the Hell is going to happen to us? Heh, heh."

Jane smirked and snapped her fingers for me to come in. "What's going to happen is that you boys are going back to Hell. My partner and I've been authorized to return you dumb-@#$@ and that's what we're going to do."

"Whose your partner, hmm? Is it the Purgatory-woman being held by my demon chums?" he motioned behind Jane.

Jane looks behind her and saw me being restrained by a demon on each arm. I was smoking a cheroot and my hat was parked crookedly across his brow. I didn't bother to struggle; my hands were in my coat pockets.

Once inside the room, the two demons released me. That was a mistake since it gave me room to move. With my right hand, I pulled the stogie out of my mouth and began a question and answer period. Maybe I could get these saps to answer before I had to send them back.

"Since you demons seem to have the upper hand, you don't mind answering some questions do you?" I asked, knowing full well that megalomania was a normal parameter of each demon's psyche.

"Go ahead and ask, #$#%-for-brains. For all the good it'll do since you'll be pulped by day's end and used as building material in the next bypass on the Hell-highway."

"Hey, good one, Jimmy-John Joey-Jay-Bob," one of the other demons said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter! You $##$!" he replied.

"Gentlemen, please. My ears can't take much more of this," I said. I slouched, took a puff on the stogie and asked Hell-JJJJ-Bob, "Who paid your contract?"

"Nixon," he laughed in my face.

"Try again," I said. "His whereabouts are public record and he was nowhere seen near you pugs."

"He was wearing a mask when we met. It was Nixon. Chew on that, gumshoe."

"Good one, Donny," Hell-Carter said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter! You $##$!" Hell-Donny replied.

"Give me a description of him."

"Why should I, you $#@#?" Hell-Bob asked, flexing his claws.

"You mean that a demon skilled in working with mortals and Purgatory personnel can't remember a simple appearance? What would the big S say to that?"

Hell-JJJJ-Bob looked at me critically and said, "He looked like Nixon. Dark hair, large nose, polite, punctual, and had a sauerkraut scent."

"Who was your contact here?"

"Nixon, you stinky piece of #$%," put in another demon.

"Good one, Andy," Hell-Carter said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter! You $##$!" Hell-Andy replied.

"And did this Nixon have a name?"

"Tom. Hey, Jimmy-John Joey-Jay-Bob, are we going to answer questions all day or can we start killing them?" asked the last, nameless demon.

"Tom what?"

"Just Tom, so $#$%-you where the sun don't shine! Haw, haw!"

"Good one, Billy," Hell-Carter said.

"Shut the #$%^% up, Carter! You $##$!" Hell-Billy replied.

"Okay, since I seem to be taxing your limits, why don't you tell me how long you were at this game of killing mortals?"

"Ever since we showed up," one of the other demons answered with a confused look on his face as if I were the stupid one.

"How were you paid?"

"In cash. Dibs on the talkative one. I get to crush her head first."

"No, she's mine," snarled Hell-Melvin, rubbing the sore area on his forehead where his horn should have been.

"What kind of cash?" I asked.

"Quarters. Besides, who cares?! It's killing time," Hell-Melvin said, advancing on me. "I want my horn back."

I blew smoke in his face, but unlike others, he'd been accustomed to that trick and it didn't faze him at all. I pulled a wadded up hankie out of my pocket. "This it?" I asked, revealing the horn.

"It is and you know it, you $##$%^ #$%#$ #$%#$%# #@$%#$er!"

Got him. "By acknowledging ownership of the horn you are indeed Melvin Johnson 5434536, demon subclass 82, formerly dead 115 years ago. You and your five companions are ordered back to Hell under possible violation of the Heaven-Hell charter. Failure to do so will result in harsh consequences."

Hell-Melvin laughed along with the other demons and then shape-changed into a 10-foot tall, deep-red skinned, curved horn wearing, hoofed demon and asked, "How the Hell are you going to send me back to Hell? You are so dead!"

I pulled out my little surprise in the form of a snub-nosed .38 special.

He stopped at the sight of it. He then doubled over in laughter. So did the other demons. I mean, knee-jerk, falling down bellows of laughter.

Jane looked at the gun and with an astonished or bewildered look (I always got those two mixed up) said, "Daria, any demon can avoid bullets by shape changing, turning to mist, whatever. You won't get them with a gun."

"A bullet doesn't affect us, gumshoe," said another demon. "Didn't you learn anything in Purgatory?"

"Thanks, shamus. I needed that laugh. Let the killing time resume." Hell-Melvin advanced on me.

"I thought you knew the intricacies of demon hunting," Jane lamented.

"I do," I replied, firing a shot into Hell-Melvin since he was chambered first..

Hell-Melvin began to turn into mist in order to allow the bullet to pass through him. He was mist when the bullet got there but instead of continuing its mindless way to the wall, it stopped midway through the mist.

Hell-Melvin then screamed in pain. It turned into a howl of agony while he continued to shape change at a faster rate, morphing into one seamless wad of muscle after another. Finally, he stopped making noise when a white light enveloped him and he was gone from the mortal plane, dragging him downwards.

The interesting thing about firing blessed bullets into demons was the way they couldn't escape it by changing their shape like they could with mortal artillery. All you needed to do was make sure a bullet with their name got to them before they phased from this plane. And since Hell-Carter was nice enough to name out everyone, I had a better chance at getting them first time.

"Get her!" bellowed Hell-JJJJ-Bob.

BLAM!

"You get her!" replied Hell-Donny.

BLAM!

"I'm out of here!" Hell-Andy began to phase.

BLAM!

"Aw crap!" intoned Hell-Billy.

BLAM!

"Eeep!" went Hell-Carter

BLAM!

There was some screaming and so forth, but I put it out of my mind as I shielded my eyes from the white glare of the departing demons.

The office was empty save for me and Jane. She took a load off her feet by plopping down into an easy chair. I walked around so I could see her face. She then noticed me putting more bullets back in my pistol. "Who're you reloading for, Daria? We've completed our... oh."

I snapped the chamber back in place. "You're right. Our mission is over. It's time for you to go back home."

"Awww, you don't mean it, do you? We were having such a fun time and all."

"Jane," I started.

"C'mon, you haven't even solved the case yet. You didn't get a name from any of the demons you shot."

I cocked the hammer.

"You don't have a bullet with my name on it, do you?"

I smiled. Then I picked up my fallen cheroot and stood in front of Jane, the gun dangling in my left hand while looking at her straight on.

Jane got up and began pacing. "Think about it. You still need my help. The demons only received an upfront amount from the person who hired them. Knowing Hell like I do, they probably set up a contract so they'd receive a percentage of the souls once Heaven had been stormed."

"Jane..."

"I'm thinkin' here, Daria! These jerks managed to demonize people who should return to a mostly normal state now that they're gone but in the six months they'd been on Earth they'd pre-killed over 550 souls that we know about. Think about it. Why didn't anyone notice?"

"Jane..."

"Their contact wore a Nixon mask, reeked of sauerkraut and went by the name of Tom. The money was paid in Purgatory quarters. Sounds like you'll need help to solve this one, old friend. You need me."

I could hear sirens outside and feet rushing up the steps.

"I'd hate to have to shoot you, Jane, but I have my duty to perform and your services are no longer required."

Jane stopped pacing, sweated a little while looking at me raise the gun and finally said, "Catch you next time, Morgendorffer. Don't curse when you get back – who knows where you'll end up." She stood in the middle of the room and then said, "#$%@#@$%^&*&*." She disappeared.

"I'll keep that in mind."

I showed back up in PTO, waiting for Jonathan to return from his break and reclaim my body. I was sucking down more smoke when he came in, coughed and said, "Morgendorffer, put it out. After all, smoking'll stunt your growth."

I put it out on his desk – and not in the ashtray. That got his attention.

"Morgendorffer," he seethed. "Tell me why I shouldn't have you thrown down a sliding tube to you-know-where?"

"The fact that you don't have the clout to make that kind of judgment against my soul would lead me to believe that's an empty threat. Plus, before you pop another aneurysm that got you here to begin with, I've managed to solve my case. And, Jonathan-old-buddy, you are in deep ca-ca."

Jonathan honestly didn't know what I was talking about, so I briefed him on what had happened since leaving Hell and going back to Earth.

"So what's the big deal? The demons are back where they belong..." He started to think it through. Jonathan and I may not have seen eye to eye on a lot of things, but that didn't mean he was stupid. "...or are they? Somebody paid them with Purgatory money and we don't know who."

"Wrong," I replied. "You don't know who, but I do, and that's where this office is in trouble."

"Explain."

"Upon returning I went back to the library and accessed FATE.GOV. The demons had given me all the clues I needed. First, the ringleader was a male – therefore scratch 257,621,315 females off the list. Next, the demon said the perp smelled sauerkraut. Going out on a limb and suspecting our boy wasn't an Axis member, I concluded that food was implied. Foodhandlers dropped the number to 37,829,445. That number was still a little high.

"I narrowed the specifics by eliminating all persons who didn't traffic in sauerkraut which got rid of 37,815,332 – leaving 14,113. Further defining the parameters to those who had been in Purgatory for less then 5 years narrowed it down to 836. Figuring that the reason this person paid the demons in change meant that he or she was possibly a hot dog cart vendor further narrowed the list to 88 possibilities. I've spent the last three days checking their alibis. They all had one."

"So what are you trying to say? Did you find him or not?"

"Keep your pants on, Jonathan. I redid the computer search, this time including Tom or Tommy as a nickname or middle name and selected it down as before. This time one name came up – Jon-Tom, a local hot dog vendor. I met with him again and if what I suspect is true, I think we both need to get his story. He's waiting for us outside."

Jon, my favorite hotdog vendor came in, his hat crunched between his hands.

In as friendly a voice as I could muster, I said, "Hi, Jon. Do you know why you're hear?"

"Um.." he started. "Well, I was minding my own bizness at my hot dog cart in the Bronx in 2047 when I got caught in some crossfire. I didn't do anything wrong, did I? I don't want to... gulp... go down."

"It's okay, Jon," Jonathan said, trying to calm him down. "You can calm down. We just want to know if you know why you're with us today."

"I thought it was because you said you'd want some coffee and a dog, Daria. I've got my cart outside – I can go get it right now if you want. Your credit's still okay with me."

"No, no, that's okay, Jon. Now, why do you think you're in Purgatory and not Heaven?"

"Um... well," Jon fidgeted. "I guess it's cause I once caught my ma rushing from her bathroom to her bedroom without any clothes on. She got awful upset."

"Now, Jon, that's not the only thing, is it?" I prompted.

"Well, no, ma'am. I once took a pack of gum from a store without paying for it. But that's it, ma'am, I swear!"

Well, so much for the easy way. "I believe you, Jon. But how about Tom? Does he know why he's here?"

Jon grew increasingly uncomfortable. "Tom's a bad man, Daria. Please don't make him come here."

"I know he's not nice, but I have to speak with him."

Jon started crying. "Please don't make him come here, Daria, please."

"Tom, stop that crying right now," I ordered.

Almost instantly the tears stopped.

"What the hell do you want, gumshoe?" Jon/Tom asked, a sneer on his face.

"Tom, do you know why you're in Purgatory and not Heaven?"

"'Cuz the @#$%heads at the Pearly Gates wouldn't let me in, that's why. Something about multiple murders."

I drew Jonathan aside. "Jon/Tom's obviously a multiple-personality – one good, the other evil. Each balances the other. That's why Jon could never get to Heaven despite the number the good deeds he did. But he shouldn't be here – not in Purgatory, or at least not in this area. Not with open access to other planes of existence. Your department misclassified him and left him free to wander."

Jonathan sighed. "You're right, Morgendorffer. We screwed up – I'll take care of it."

"I'm sure your heartfelt condolences will do wonders for my client."

Time: Afternoon

Daria and Jane are at lockers and Jane has just finished reading the story.

Jane: That's it? Where's the rest of it? What happens now that Jon or Tom or whatever his name is has been identified as misclassified? It was just getting good.

Daria: The last section is being written as we speak.

Jane: I can't believe I get to go to hell. I didn't think Sandi knew me that well. I'm touched.

Daria: Don't be. Ted wrote it.

Jane: Ted?

Daria: Ted.

Jane: Ted?

Daria punches Jane in the arm.

Jane: Ow! What was that for?

Daria: I thought you were caught in a loop so I was jarring it loose.

Jane: Do you have anything I can jar loose?

Daria: Why are we friends again?

Jane: So, really, it was Ted that wrote this?

Daria: Yep.

Jane: How'd you find out?

Daria: It was easy. Here's the ending that was handed in on the assignment.

Daria gives Jane a piece of paper who begins to read it.

So then Quinn's cousin or sister or whatever couldn't think of anything else to say and left the building. She walked past the other losers in Purgatory and promptly went to their version of Cashman's where she got a matching outfit that would match the mop she called hair – as if it would make her a better person. But that's what happened because once she walked out looking like a million bucks, she was surrounded by angels who asked her what her name was. She told them and was instantly taken to the Pearly Gates where she told the Saint on duty what her name was and they whisked her inside, straight to the Angel Hall where she met its director, the lovely Angel, Sandi. Now, Angel Sandi was lovely to look upon and when she saw Daria she smiled which meant a whole lot to Daria who smiled and fell to her knees, asking if there was anything she could ever do for her.

Angel Sandi said, "Sure. You remember the time when you got me stuck writing some loser assignment when I could have gone shopping instead with my friends, well, I'm sure you don't. Never mind. Anyway, what I want you to do is head up a new division I've created just for you."

"Oh, Angel Sandi, anything for you!" Quinn's sister said.

"Okay. Here's the deal. I want you to head up the Hell-division where you have to constantly check up on the souls of those unfortunate enough to be losers and sent to Hell. It's a field office job but when I saw your name I just thought of you."

"Oh, Angel Sandi, I'll do it!" Quinn's sister cried in relief after having spent quality time with an Angel. And a pretty Angel at that.

A hole opened up under her and she promptly fell down into her office which was another shack near the gates of Hell.

She didn't last long before her old partner came along and shot her. But since she was already dead she simply stayed put. Her partner got a promotion.

The Jon/Tom stupid thing was resolved and everyone was happy.

Pretty soon the poor souls of puppy dogs and cats, including Fluffy, came to Angel Sandi's attention and she created a special place in Heaven for them. Including Fluffy.

Quinn never did make it to Heaven but that's because she was the sister of a loser. And a brain.

Time: Afternoon - continuation

Jane hands the page back to Daria.

Jane: I think I'm going to be sick.

Daria: Quinn and I had the same reaction.

Jane: You... and Quinn?

Daria: As strange as it seems, we have gotten on better speaking terms lately. Anyway, after reading the ending that's why I knew Sandi couldn't have written the rest of it.

Jane: So how did you find out it was Ted? Was it the Dante references?

Daria: ...um, no, I...

Jane: You probably ran through a list of all students at school with enough IQ to even think of a Dante reference and came up with Ted as your number one target, eh?

Daria: ...um, no, I...

Jane: Then you probably went over to his house and squeezed the truth out of him, right? And you didn't call me to watch the fun? What kind of friend are you?

Daria: The not-killing-your-best-friend kind of friend apparently. Much to my chagrin.

Jane: So how did you find out it was Ted who wrote it?

Daria: He had an attack of conscience. He came over last night, blubbering on and on about how he sold his soul to the devil for a pack of gum.

Jane: I'm going to stock up in some gum.

Daria: I finally got him calmed down...

Jane: I bet you used some gum.

Daria: I'm not telling. Anyway, he told me the story of how he was roped into writing Sandi's assignment.

Jane: Rope, eh? Now we're talking. So what are you going to do? You're not having him finish it, are you?

Daria: Actually, I am. I even upped the ante and gave him another pack of gum. All he needs to do is give me an ending.

Jane: That's not the Daria I know.

Daria: I just want the original writer to have his say and not this hack work just be accepted by Mr. O'Neill.

Jane: So you're going to let Sandi slide on her story?

Daria: Who said anything about letting Sandi slide? ...and speaking of the gum dispenser...

Sandi, Tiffany, Stacy and Quinn walk down the hall and are obviously talking about something.

Quinn: All I'm saying, Sandi, is that white is still a good color for a prom dress.

Sandi: Not according to Waif magazine it isn't.

Quinn: And God forbid we ever deviated from the dictates of a magazine.

Sandi: What was that, vice president?

Quinn: Nothing, nothing.

Daria slides a finger alongside her nose. Quinn, noticing this, also slides her finger alongside her nose. Daria walks up to the group.

Daria: Sandi?

Sandi: Um... yes, Quinn's cousin or whatever?

Tiffany: It's her sister, actually.

Stacy: Yeah, Quinn said so last...

Sandi: I don't recall asking for input on this.

Stacy: Eeep!

Daria: I just read your story, Sandi.

Sandi: Um... yeah?

Daria: It showed a wonderful depth of imagery.

Sandi: Um... it's a gift.

Daria: The way you portrayed your friends as homeless bag-ladies wearing paper dresses...

Tiffany: Paper?! Eeewwwwww. It makes me look fat.

Quinn: Paper?! That's so 70's.

Stacy: Paper?! When did styles change? Was I at that meeting? Oh, God – I missed out!

Sandi: Paper?! What did Ted... um... I don't know what you're talking about. My story was about puppy dogs and other cute things in the future.

Daria: Oh, right. Wink-wink. I get it. Your secret is safe with me. Only, I wanted to say that your story conveyed such power... such passion... you have a gift. It must have taken you a very long time to write it all out. I couldn't help but wonder if you had to skip dates or fashion meetings to write this out. It showed a lot of thought.

Tiffany: Wait a minute. You said you were home sick last week which was why you couldn't go to the mall with us.

Quinn: And didn't Skyler say you blew him off last Friday? Stacy, what are the bylaws regarding such unbecoming behavior in the Fashion Club as showing brainiac tendencies?

Stacy: Um... I'm not sure I rem...

Quinn: Check paragraph 8, subsection 3.

Stacy: Paragraph 8, subsection 3 clearly states a mandatory review of all activities for a three-month period is, um, well... mandatory.

Sandi: Um, guys? I didn't write this story Quinn's sister is talking about. Tell them!

Daria: That's right. She didn't write the story. Wink-wink, right, Sandi? Gotta go. Later.

Quinn: Tiffany, Stacy – it's obvious that Sandi's in denial about this supposed writing ability of hers. We need to counsel her in this time of need. Stacy, what's on her agenda?

Stacy: She has dates lined up through the rest of this week and into next week.

Quinn: Cancel them all. Plus all future dates for the next three months out are to be cancelled. She needs therapy.

Sandi: You mean you're going to cancel all your dates as well and we're going to spend time shopping?

Quinn: Certainly not. We're still popular and in no way associated with being a brain. Stacy, see if you can line up Brooke and someone else, say... Andrea, to stay with Sandi in her time of need. They'll help you, Sandi, for as long as you need.

Sandi: Why me?

Tiffany: Have you thought about taking the self-esteem class?

Sandi: Eeep!

Behind the Fashion Club Jane and Daria have finished watching the action unfold.

Jane: You have a real mean streak, you know?

Daria: Thanks. It's a gift.

Jane: Here comes trouble.

Daria: Good thing I thought to bring more gum to school with me today.

Ted: Here's the rest of the story, Daria.

Daria: Thanks, Ted. Any problem writing it?

Ted: No. You might say I was ...inspired.

Jane: I think you've earned a stick of Juicy Fruit, my boy.

Jane hands Ted a stick of gum. Sandi glares at the three of them.

Ted: Thanks. Oh, boy. Gummmmmm.

Jane: I feel like I'm contributing to the delinquency of a minor. And not in a good way. Y'know, I don't think Sandi likes you.

Daria: What was your first clue?

Ted: It's probably because she doesn't like gum.

Jane: Are you related to Kevin or something?

Ted: No, really. I like gum. Everyone I like likes gum. Sandi doesn't like gum. I don't like Sandi. Ergo, won't like you if you in turn like gum.

Daria: I think you've taken in too much Wintergreen on the brain, Ted.

Ted: Mmmmm. Wintergreen. Gummmmm.

Daria: Maybe I should've just gotten Sandi to take Ted out on a date instead of placating him with a pack of gum.

Ted: Gummmmm.

Jane: Maybe that's what she offered him first time around...

Ted: Gummmmm.

Jane: And then again, maybe not.

Ted: Gummmmm.

Daria: That's it. I'm outta here. Ted, this ending better be worth it.

Ted: Rewrites will cost you an extra pack.

"All right, that's enough, Ted!!" Sandi bellowed in my ear. The pen flew out of my hand as I rushed to soothe the aching audio chamber.

"Uh...something wrong?" I managed to stammer out between the excessive ringing in my head.

"Wrong?! Wrong?!! You lousy dunderhead! I paid you a pack of gum in advance to write a detective story where Quinn's cousin or sister or whatever gets hers in the end ...not this stinkin' piece of trash! I wanted a modern-day Chandler, not Sam Spade meeting Casper the Friendly Ghost!"

"Um, I..." I started.

Sandi didn't notice and overrode my voice with hers. "I wanted a story involving anti-social types, bullets, bombs, cars, defective credit cards, dives, excitement, fashion disasters, fire escapes, garish coordinating, garrotes, and hellish behavior. I wanted some icky people, jerks, klutzes, lush-faced losers, mooks, narcotics, obtuse crimelords, polka-dot wearing pugs, quest-less bums, rods, saps, some screaming, and tramps! I wanted undesirables such as Quinn which I will admit you did get right in the story by putting her in Hell, voluptuous blondes, weird thingies, xerox killers, yammering bubblebrains, and a zenith reaching climax! Is this what I got from you?! I don't think so!!"

"Well, you know, I was getting around to that. You see, in the next chapter I was going to involve a demon influencing Jon/Tom as the killer and work it so that Daria has to leave Purgatory again to team up with her old PI partner, Jane, who's seriously mad at her, so she can bring that demon to justice."

"What the hell are you babbling about, you geek?!"

"Well, I had to take a lot of liberties with the afterlife and all but the way I saw it, there's this plot by a bunch of senior demons to cross over to the living domain and start snuffing people left and right so the ranks of Hell will swell with unrepentant deadheads. Then they'll try to storm the Pearly Gates. Now, Lucifer has heard rumors of this plot and he isn't pleased since it would shift him out of power. So he gives Daria a couple more hellish-type PI's, one still being Jane, which is where the private dicks you want to read about come from, and together they search for the hidden demons. That way I can have her going through the nine circles of Hell like in Dante's work. Pretty snazzy, huh?"

"I don't know what a pizza place has to do with anything, you loser. The only good thing about it is that Morgendorffer likes to beat other people that remind her of Quinn!"

"Um, so you don't like it?" I may not have been the brightest boy in school when I accepted the offer to do some writing collaboration with Sandi, but she had offered me something that I just couldn't pass up. Three packs of gum to work on her story. She had come up to me the other day in the halls at school and knew how to pump my ego. I was a great writer, she said. I like your style and so on. I should have known better.

Still, I wasn't entirely stupid. So when Sandi started ranting and raving, kicking the furniture and her little brother, I knew it was high time to vacate the scene. I quietly tiptoed to the door, opened it and said, "Um, Sandi, about the rest of the gum we talked about in our contract..."

She stopped punching her other brother and looked at me. "Contract?" The word oozed out from between clenched teeth. Good God, I didn't know she was such a detective fiction fan. "Don't worry about the contract. You'll be paid. Now get out!"

I left at a dead run.

The day started on a sour note, so I slammed down a shot of sour whiskey and waited for my landlord to quit spitting in my face. As usual, she was wanting her rent. I was about to shoot her in the spinal column when this guy walked in. He was wearing an eyepatch over his left eye, but there was no mistaking the powder burns on his face. His left eye had the look of an area destroyed by a bullet searching for a convenient brain.

"Are you Morgendorffer?" he asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"My name's Ted, and I'd like for you to find who iced me and why..."

Nick: Well, that was certainly strange. Discussion. What conclusions can you draw from this story? Who is Sandi Griffin? Anyone?

Naomi: That Sandi sure was a bitch.

Mrs. Whitmore: Hey, hey, language, young lady.

Naomi: Sorry. But she was.

Nick: Why? What brought that up?

Naomi: The other authors, while a couple of them weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer...

Bob: What do you mean?

Naomi: Their elevator didn't make it all the way to the top floor...

Bob: Drawing a blank.

Nick: Knock it off, Bob. Naomi, go on.

Naomi: My point is that the other authors, whatever their handicaps, at least did the work themselves. This Sandi coerced someone else into doing it for her and even then, she wasn't happy with the results. To me that's kind of, well... bitchy.

Elizabeth: I have to agree. I mean, when we saw how their project was conceived, that Sandi just about made it a done deal that she was going to write something nasty about Daria since it was apparently Daria's fault that she had to do this project.

Jon: I'm not so sure I agree. Sure, Daria was the protagonist of the story but it was Sandi's colleagues who ended up in Hell.

Rich: No, that was written in by Ted. Daria ended up in Hell when you read Sandi's original ending.

Jon: I know, but I think Sandi actually wanted a different story than what was written for her and when she canned Ted, I think she just wanted to get it done and so ended the story as fast as she could. I think she threw Daria into Hell because she thinks the only things that were Heaven-material at the time were puppies and cats.

Nick: Interesting interpretation. I hadn't thought of that angle when I first read the story. So where's the author now?

Rich: Ted DeWitt-Clinton was a hard person to track down. We found some old college records that indicated he went to GW but he apparently only went there two and a half years. A college newspaper article at the time alleged that he was involved in a thesis paper scandal where he wrote papers for profit for other students. But as the university officials couldn't prove he actually made any money at it since he apparently bartered for everything in gum, they dropped the case. He dropped out of sight for the next 22 years until he re-appeared in the Caribbean as a gum-runner.

Geoff: A gun-runner?

Jon: No, a gum-runner. Once the Anti-Sugar League got its way in the House and Senate in 2026, I think he probably took it a little hard and headed to the sugar source where he was reportedly seen running blockades to get sugar and primarily gum to the American Republic's shores. He did this for about 12 years until 2038's VLS scare managed to overturn too much P-C on the lawbooks and reopened Japanese vehicle, tobacco and sugar traffic to our country. Once sugar and gum were no longer outlawed, Ted dropped out of sight. Whereabouts unknown.

Rich: For all we know he could be feeding the fishes now. Or have changed his name. We came up with a dead end on that.

Mrs. Whitmore: What about Sandi?

Rich: She wasn't as interesting as Ted so we didn't get too much of her bio.

Mrs. Whitmore: That wasn't part of the assignment.

Jon: Technically, it was since it was Ted that actually did the writing and the assignment was to find the bio of the author. However, she did contribute so we dug up a few things on her.

Rich: Sandi Griffin went to a community college; didn't graduate. She went to a business school to learn how to operate a computer; didn't graduate. She went to beauty school; didn't graduate. She apparently married at about age 24, however, to a Roger Levine. He owned a 2^nd hand furniture store which he built up over the next 35 years into a very large furniture business. She was well off. Had three kids, names unknown.

Mrs. Whitmore: Why?

Rich: We found notices in the paper of the kid's births but no names listed. School records have been sealed. No Levine's are listed here where she lived. My guess is that they changed their names or moved after Roger Levine was convicted of embezzling his employee's retirement funds. The articles we found on that dealt mostly with the trial and not with Sandi but it came out that Roger Levine had had a mistress he needed to support.

Mrs. Whitmore: So where's Sandi now?

Jon: Sandi filed for divorce and was granted it since Roger was in jail. She dropped out of the social circles when she lost everything she owned which was seized in order to pay back the retirement funds. Penniless, she spent the next few years as a bag-lady around town. About 2043, she had a near-death experience on the streets she wouldn't go into and sought out help. She got it and is now working for the Salvation Army.

Mrs. Whitmore: What do you mean by, "she wouldn't go into"? Did you contact her?

Rich: Oh, yeah. She's in the phonebook here under her maiden name. Once we found her past which seemed to end when her husband went to jail and she was liquidated, we needed to look her up just to see what happened next. And to see if she's had any contact with Ted or could steer us in the right direction. She confirmed the rest of the bio, refused to give us her kids names and had no idea who Ted was.

Kara: Was she still... bitchy?

Jon: Actually, not at all. She was very polite and happy to talk with us. She seemed content with her life now. When she talked about her ex, she wasn't bitter – just sad.

Bob: That he'd been caught?

Jon: I don't think so. I had the impression that she was sad that he'd hurt others by raiding their retirement accounts.

Nick: Good work, you two. Who's up next? Larissa, Barry – you two volunteering? Good enough.

E-Mail me if you want.

Disclaimer

Copyright (C) 2001 by Steven A. Brown, all rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, with the exception of 1) brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews (yeah, like that's going to happen), and 2) the complete, unaltered text of this work, including this disclaimer (or an electronic document containing same and which has been data-compressed using a lossless algorithm) when used or reproduced for private and non-commercial use only (again, like that's going to happen).

Permission is granted to repost, republish, or retransmit this work in any way, shape, or form as long as these disclaimers remain intact, and no one except Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis, MTV Studios, or Viacom, the parent of MTV receive financial remuneration.

The Characters of Daria Morgendorffer, Quinn Morgendorffer, Jane Lane, Trent Lane, Kevin Thompson, Michael Jordan "Mack" MacKenzie, Brittany Taylor, Jodie Landon, Sandi Griffin, Timothy O'Neill, Angela Li, Anthony DeMartino, and many more, even if not mentioned here, are the creation of Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis and Copyright MTV Studios. This story is in no way to be construed as a challenge to said copyright.

The Characters of future students are entirely fictionalized and only sounds like the names of other fan fiction authors whose work I have read and enjoyed. Just wait until I start putting in other author's nam... er, that is, it's all a coincidence I tell you. A coincidence! To those of you who may be offended, remember: this is a cartoon. This is not and could never be real. Or could it? I leave questions like that to philosophers, or to OTR drivers who have experienced significant sleep deprivation.