It was about then that the effects of great wealth and a small gene pool started to spell their doom.

Cabal dimly recalled that the musical genius who’d decided to put on Necronomicon: The Musical had got everything he deserved: money, fame, and torn to pieces by an invisible monster.

You don’t?′ Horst was so astounded he almost leapt to his feet. His smile returned in full power. ‘Then you have treat waiting for you! It’s wonderful! I mean, I remember it as being wonderful. I do not eat cake. Not now. Being a vampire and everything. You did know I’m a vampire, didn’t you?’ He suddenly seemed to remember that they were doing introductions and held up his hand. ‘Horst Cabal, vampire. Didn’t especially want to be, but there you go. I miss Battenberg. Hello, everyone!

In the last few months, he’d found himself prey to strange twinges that, after some research, he had discovered to be his conscience.

Lots of forms. Stacks of forms. An average of nine thousand, seven hundred, and forty-seven of them were required to gain entrance to Hell. The largest form ran to fifteen thousand, four hundred, and ninety-seven questions. The shortest to just five, but five of such subtle phraseology, labyrinthine grammar, and malicious ambiguity that, released into the mortal world, they would certainly have formed the basis of a new religion or, at the least, a management course.

Horst lurked in a corner, sitting upon a tea chest, and undermining any menace his vampiric presence might have brought to proceedings by reading an ancient copy of Comic Cuts that he had found somewhere.

The truth of it was that an eternity of very much anything becomes torture after a while.

He’d asked for his to be cooked medium rare, which in Mirkarvian cuisine meant it had been shown a picture of an oven for a moment and then served. A very brief moment, mind.

In Atlantic City, Bernie Hayesman looked at the plate of ribs, and he was not happy. He had asked for an omelet, a simple omelet to be sent up to his office, and they had sent ribs. He couldn’t understand it. He’d spoken to the chef personally. They’d discussed eggs, if briefly. There was no earthly way “omelet” could have been misconstrued as “ribs”. He looked at the plate of ribs, and the ribs looked back. Neither he nor they were overjoyed at the situation.

May I ask what happened to your last revolver?’ ‘It turned into a sword.’ ‘Of course it did.’ ‘And then the ghouls probably stole it.’ Cabal smiled with an expression so close to fondness that it made Horst stare. ‘The naughty rapscallions.