Brad Marigon felt better than he had feared

Brad Marigon felt better than he had feared after the soul inspection and vacuuming. When they brought out the black snake, it turned out to be pretty cool, technically. Back in hi

s cultist initiation, Brad's peyote-spun visions had seemed to warn him about darkly-colored snakes. But here was an ebony pit viper wearing a miniature top hat. Brad's soul was

in torment, writhing about in twisted agony within the confines of his mortal form, earning him a concerned sideways glance from a hooded cultist. He gritted his teeth, and said,

"Alright, you can sit closest to the window." He was in for a rude awakening.

If he thought for a moment that the I'd disabled the bomb, he was wrong. I'd lied to him constantly. He knew that. His faith in me was touching, but misguided.

A kind soul, but simple, lord yes. So very simple. My thoughts drifted to the first time I met him, scrubbing away at a filthy McDonalds floor. He didn't even work there.

Certainly not for the minimum wage. Then I heard him mutter "Out, out- damned spot!" over and over and I realized that he was the man who had killed Ronald McDonald on this very

day back in '84. My mind was racing. It seemed like only yesterday that the death of that clown had been on the front page of every paper. Could it be that I had discovered the

culprit? I heard a soft step behind me. A click. Bubble-gum breath filled my nostrils. Slowly I turned.