So I walk into my favorite bar at one in the mornin', see, and the place is dead, like I been sucked into the anti-blogosphere. The regulars are all there; they just ain't talkin' and there's this new guy polishing the bar. I saunter to my bar stool but it's covered with ash. So I says, "What kinda smokes make this much mess?"
"Writers," the barman says, then glares. "What'll it be?"
I sit on a different stool, feelin' awkward. "Um--" I read his name tag. "EE, gimme a Shirley Temple with extra syrup. So what's with Frank?"
"Kicked by a burro."
"Choir shot -- soprano unless he recovers."
While EE bends over to get a glass, I get this feelin' like someone's lookin' at me so I swivel around. The regulars are wavin' their hands in front of their faces. I don't see no flies so I wave back then return to watchin' EE make my drink.
I says, "When did it happen? I been out for a coupla days. WIP's had me diggin' up his cemetery -- fresh holes in all the plots."
The bottle in EE's hand cracks.
"Oh, man, Frank kept the first-aid kit above the vodka. Anyway, you'd think a guy with a name like Willoughby Ingram P--" The last thing I see is EE's eyes glow red and this flash of light.
"…and that's why you need to use my patent pending re-embodier? Minion, I told you to lay off the sugar," says WIP.
"It was just one and I wasn't gonna be driving or operating heavy machinery for a coupla hours. I didn't lose my body this time, boss, it got ashed. You gotta believe me."
WIP shook his head.