Free Bones and Bagger (Waldlust Series Book 1) by Ted Minkinow

George W. Bush for everything from teen pregnancy in North Korea to Pluto losing its status as a planet.  The conservative site wasn’t much better.  The BBC just reported the news.  I checked the timestamp on the first page.  Less than a couple of minutes old.
    From what I’ve observed of Karl and Helmut, ghosts possess no ability to move objects in the living world.  Give up your notions of poltergeists and rockers that creak without an occupant.  Good for props, bad for facts.  Helmet stood behind me stroking a sleeping Karl and scanning the pages over my shoulder. Yes, dogs are still lazy in the afterlife.
    I admit to knowing less about computers than I do about how to apply eye shadow.  Still, I don’t think computers know what you want out of them before you instruct them to do something.  Do they?  I glanced back at Helmet and wondered for millionth time.  Remember how I said ghosts can’t move things in the physical world? 
    And what about viruses?  I’ve left the seat in frustration after spending hours clicking links to sites promising I’d won.  Funny how the only prize they ever awarded came in the form of critical warnings from my virus software, and how my computer always ended up slow and useless.  Even funnier how the little box healed itself during my work hours because every evening I found the same three news sites up and the computer purring.  Could someone who died before the age of technology come back as a computer wizard?
    I sensed shuffling behind me.  Helmet impatient for the next news article. 
    “Do it yourself,” I said and stood up.
    Helmet gave me his bored-Gestapo-agent-arresting-his-hundredth-collaborator look as he watched me walk away. The typical nothing from Helmet.  You could get a better conversation out of a stone face on Easter Island.  The liar. I’ve considered setting up one of those webcam things to catch Helmet in the act of IT services.  But to what point?  If he was keeping it all running and virus-free, why would I want to risk it just to prove I’m right?  Because I’m a man.
    Enough time without a beer in my hand.  It looked like I’d miss the Friday night bar crawl with the bagger gang.  I passed the bathroom door and heard Sparky singing an old Czech drinking song over the shower spray.  A bit chipper for a guy who just lost a body part.  And what about the Blood Feud?
    I can handle myself orders of magnitude better than Sparky, and having Soyla concentrating full alien-feminine thought patterns on my demise would do a lot to dampen my urge for shower opera.  More likely I’d give up showering altogether until that kind of insane threat worked itself out.  So why not Sparky?  I wondered about that.
    Do I sound overly suspicious?  Once you know Sparky better you’ll understand why even a text message from him should make you wary.  What was he up to?  The answer would likely never come, and if it did surface, it’d be something so asinine as to make any prior guess impossible.
    He’d been in there for about twenty minutes.  Herr Doktor controlled the water heater for the building and set it to some Euro-saving level that provided tepid water for about…  Twenty minutes.  Crapola .  Cold shower for me.  One towel .  What were the chances Sparky brought his own towel?  Zero. He didn’t even remember to bring his own arm.  The word misdirection kept flashing in my mind.  You know, Sparky working hard to make his visit appear casual.
    Nah.  Too much thinking for a Sparky thing. Now you can call me Sir Knucklehead of Paranoia.  Was I turning into my father?  Maybe.  What could I know for certain?  This: After the knife-through-lung thing from Sparky, the cage-fight with Soyla, and after standing between my flighty friend and certain death, my reward would be a cold shower.  OK, two things.  I’d also get to use a wet towel impregnated with arm goo.
    Refrigerators in the USA are large enough to hold a week’s food