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

mushy.
    “Darn it, Karl.”
    Multiple visitors proved too much for his atom-sized brain and he’d deposited a pile of overflowing joy on the floor.  Ghost dog poop isn’t supposed to stink.  That’s my hypothesis.  Ghost dog poop also doesn’t have physical mass.  Despite the science I swore I smelled fresh dog crap and felt the stinky gel between my toes.  Just like every other time I stepped into a floor sculpture by Karl.  Why does something that never eats insist on dropping half its body weight three times a day?
    Karl must have sensed my anger because he did the instant decompose thing in time with the knock at my door.  Perfect. The little git could remain a rotting pile for the rest of his death for all I cared.  But here came Helmet to the rescue.  I answered the door.
    J-Rod and “us” turned out to be the entire bagger gang.  Surprise, surprise.  Sister Christian walked into my place for the first time.  I don’t know whose face registered more shock: hers or mine.  Up to that point the only two people other than Herr Doktor and his Franken-Frau ever to walk through my doors were the Deutsche Telekom guy and the horny exorcist chick. 
    But there came Bonny Prince McDonald, David Smith, and I’ve already said I’d spoken to Jesus.  I like saying that so you’ll probably have to put up with it a few more times.  I meant J-Rod, of course. He came in last.
    “D’ju fart Homey?”  Back to Latino gangsta speak.  Must have left his southern accent outside.
    “No,” I said.  “I think I stepped in something outside.”  J-Rod looked down.
    “You barefoot, Homey.  Don’t see nothin’ on you feet.”
    Times like that made me wish Karl were alive.  So I could kill him.  Of course I’m just joking.  I actually adore it when a group of my friends breaks the seal on the hospitality force field around my inner sanctum.  I like it more when one of them accuses me of floating an air biscuit in front of my work colleagues and then imply I’m lying when I defend my innocence.  Thank you, Karl.
    The five of us, make that six because Sparky entered the fray smelling fresh and looking good in my biohazard outfit, crowded into my foyer. Helmet and Karl would have made seven and a quarter but only Sparky could see them.
    J-Rod spoke to Sparky.  “Hi Karl.”
    Sparky smiled and shook the hand J-Rod offered.  A little awkward because J-Rod offered his right and Sparky shook with his left. I noticed Sparky had already managed to regrow his missing arm down to the elbow.  At least I thought he did because, on closer inspection, he hadn’t donned the biohazard suit at all.  No, that was one of my good sweaters with the right sleeve tucked into his pants.  The front of his pants.
    Great.  Now all of my bagger buddies would wonder about my friend with the perpetually itchy nuts.
    “His name’s Sparky,” I said.
    “Oh,” said J-Rod.  “Where’s Karl?”
    It was like J-Rod had summoned forth a tiny love demon. Karl reconstituted in full tail wagging and nose sneezing mode.  I knew I needed to take quick action to avoid another icy baptism.
    “No Karl here,” I said.
    “Then who I hear you talking to, Homey?”
    Good question.  No answer.  Good thing Sister Christian stepped forward and introduced herself to Sparky. 
    “Pleased to meet you,” he said.
    Sparky gave a slight bow and actually kissed her hand.  Barf .  Sister Christian didn’t seem to mind because she returned a 100-watt smile.  How come I never got one of those?  Karl indicated approval by squirting on my kneecap.
    “Hey homey,” J-Rod said.  “I think maybe you piss yourself.” 
    Had Soyla already killed me?  I mean, was I in hell?
    We all stood in the tiny space like animated garden statues.  I wouldn’t have closed the door even if Bonny Prince McDonald hadn’t been blocking it.  I’ll look up how to spell claustrophobia later.  Let’s just say things were so tight with sweaty bodies that I