Secondhand Souls (Grim Reaper #2)

A little girl’s voice said, “I am become Death, destroyer of worlds!” Audrey held the phone out for Charlie. “It’s for you.

Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? Seems like maybe it would make more sense to call in a SWAT team or Special Forces.” “That won’t work, isn’t Special Forces where everyone gets a hug?” Charlie called. “That’s the Special Olympics,” Rivera said over his shoulder.

At “tooth fairy,” Sophie popped her head out the door. “I will smack that bitch up and take her bag of quarters! I will not be fucked with!

Congratulations, you have been chosen to act as Death, it’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

Disorder in here harshing my mellow.

Do not be afraid Everyone before you has died You cannot stay Any more than a baby can stay forever in the womb Leave behind all you know All you love Leave behind pain and suffering This is what Death is. —The Book of Living and Dying (The Tibetan Book of the Dead)

Every time you smell peaches, a ghost just got his rocks off.

Getting a rise out of him was like trying to give a handjob to a parking meter: you were going to end up frustrated and exhausted long before a cop came along to haul you away.

He smiled to himself. Through many centuries and many incarnations, he had learned one universal truth: bitches love them some cushions.

I like my tea like I like my men,” Audrey said. Jane looked at her quizzically. “Weak and green,” Charlie said.

I’m not scared, Daddy. I just need some crunchy Cheese Newts up in this bitch.

Lily liked the fog, and didn't even mind the cold wind. She reckoned that Ocean Beach, the dunes there, and the Sunset were the closest San Francisco was going to come to the foreboding, wind-swept moors of England, where she had aspired to suffer romance and heartache when she was a kid. The foghorn, however, rather than a lonesome lament that conjured images of Heathcliff's dark figure, waiting with clenched jaw on the moor for her to bring light and warmth into his life, sounded like a distressed moose tied up in her neighbor's garage, having his nut sack singed with jumper cables at a precise interval calculated to keep her from falling asleep. Which, in turn, made her think of what complete douche bags people could be when all you wanted to do was borrow a defibrillator. Then she was awake and angry.

Look, I’ve always had an empty place in my life that I’ve alternatively tried to fill with food and penises, but now I have something.

LOST 2 Irish Hellhounds. Very black, like bear. Huge, like bear. Answer to Alvin and Mohammed. Like to eat everything. Like bear! REWARD!

Maybe life is just easier if you're a little goofy...

Mike had taken the rest of the day off, and he had rested, but unfortunately, he had also shared his tale of the ghost in the beam with his girlfriend of fourteen months, Melody, who first suggested that he might have had a ministroke, because that had happened to a guy on the Internet. When he insisted that no, he had seen and heard what he had seen and heard, she responded that he needed to see a shrink, that he was emotionally unavailable, and furthermore, there were much hotter guys than him at the gym who wanted to sleep with her and she had known deep down that there was something wrong with him and that’s why she’d never given up her apartment. He agreed that she was probably right about those things and that she would probably be better off if she slept with the hotter guys at the gym. He’d lost a girlfriend, but he’d gained a drawer in his dresser, a third of the clothes rod in his closet, and all three shampoo shelves in his shower, so he really wasn’t all that broken up about the breakup. Once she was gone, he realized that he didn’t feel any more alone than he had when she had been in the room with him, and he was a little sad that he didn’t feel sadder. All in all, it had been a productive day off. He’d been back at

Minty Fresh made a motion with his hands of leveling, as if he were smoothing an imaginary tablecloth of calm over a counter constructed of contemporary freak-out.

Minty now held his arms out to his sides, angry Jesus style, suffer all the bitch-ass motherf*ckers need an ass-whoopin' unto me, for I shall rain wrath down upon them -- that look.

Son, I’ma tell you something ain’t nobody else in the world can tell you: you got no soul. And I’ma tell your future, too: you ain’t never gonna get a soul, you keep makin’ people’s shit small.” Evan’s eyes started to roll back in his head and the big man shook him like dust mop until he came back to the room. “You ain’t shit, Evan, and you ain’t never gonna be shit until you show some passion for something. Y’all got to love something. Y’all got to hate something. Y’all got to want something. Pissing on other people’s passion ’cause you trying to be cool just make you a coward—a little bitch.

Their names are Death, Disease, War, and Sparkle-Darkle Glitter-tits,” Sophie said. “They’re the four little ponies of the Apocalypse.

The little people parted and two of them carried a tray with the head of an animal Wiggley Charlie didn't recognize down an aisle. (It was the head of an opossum, but the o was silent, as often happens with the decapitated.)

there's a shitload of insufferable know-it-all hipsters who will work for next to nothing for the privilege of condescending to customers about their musical knowledge.

This is a time in baseball when steroids have become a pretty big deal. On our team, you got Barry Bonds, who is hitting home runs like a mortar barrage, and whose head has grown to a size where when they make his promotional bobble-head, they just do the whole thing to scale, while across the bay in Oakland, Mark McGwire now has forearms like Popeye and will only speak in dialects of horse, and they’re keeping José Canseco chained to a post under the ballpark and throwing him raw meat until right before game time, so the league is starting to get sensitive about it.

Wait, what? Ain’t no thing. I’ma choke you out ironically, Evan, so you be too cool for school. Cool as a motherfuckin’ corpse, Evan.”

He let a little air through.

“I love something! I do love something.”

“You do?”

“My cat, Cisco.”

“Cisco? After the outlaw?”

“After the networking company.”

“Yeah, I’m sho-nuff gonna choke this motherfucker out!

When he was reading he could fly away into the wildest skies of imagination, untethered to the reality that his soul was trapped in a wretched creature cobbled together from meat and bone, like us all.

Which goes to show you, right there, the difference between sailors and marines: marines are fucking stupid. Running when you don’t have to.

Who goes out without a phone? This guy was a complete loser.

Wiggly Charlie lived in a big house with his friends Audrey and Big Charlie. He liked mozzarella cheese sticks, chasing his tennis ball, and putting his purple wizard hat on his willy and pretending they were friends.

Y’all got to love something. Y’all got to hate something. Y’all got to want something. Pissing on other people’s passion ’cause you trying to be cool just make you a coward—a

You should never pass up an opportunity to be kind. You should never not thank someone. You should never not say something nice when you think it.