I strode toward Mr. Coffee with lust in my eyes. We'd had a thing for quite some time now Mr. Coffee and I.

Apparently, this really was Kill Charley Davidson Week. Or at least Horribly Maim Her.... It would probably never get government recognition, though, destined to be underappreciated like Halloween or Thesaurus Day.

Dude,” I said, leaning over the desk, “I’m about as psychic as a carrot.

The dead guy looked at me with wide eyes. “I can’t move my legs.” I snorted. “You can’t move your arms either, or your feet or your freaking eyelids. You’re dead.

I was white. Chalk had more color than I did. And quite possibly more personality.

You’re just using me for my body.” “You don’t have a body,” I’d remind him. “Throw that in my face.” “Technically, you don’t have a face either.

Ambulances were cool. “You just want to fondle my extraneous body parts,” I said to the EMT as I picked up a silver gadget that looked disturbingly like an alien orifice probe, broke it, then promptly put it back, hoping it wouldn’t leave someone’s life hanging in the balance because the EMT couldn’t alien-probe his orifices.