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352 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 6, 2015
“All my friends are gone.”
“Your . . . friends?”
“Captain Morgan, Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels. Who’s the guy in the commercial who fights a sea monster to get his whiskey back?”
“No, that’s not it—Jameson! There were a bunch in the liquor cabinet, but they seem to have mysteriously disappeared.”
Max sighed. “I poured out all the alcohol to make it look like O’Connell was drunk—”
“You POURED!” Burg cried. “OUT! The ALCOHOL?”
“What is the matter with you? Don’t tell me you don’t like bacon.”
“Not when it’s a million degrees and flying directly at my head!”
“Puny little humans. So weak. So soft.” Burg picked up another slice and popped it into his mouth, the fat dripping down his chin and into his beard. “Mmm,” he said with a satisfied quiver. “If there’s anything on earth more delicious than a hot, dead pig, I don’t want to know about it.”
"Oh. I'm Satan. ... Well I'm a Satan. There are six hundred and sixty-six of us, not that anyone's counting. ... The name is Burgundy Cluttermuck, devil-at-large. I do bachelorette parties and retirement galas, but NO MORE children's birthdays."
“Please call me Burg,” he said with a smile, his beard widening. It wasn’t a well-trimmed beard, but rather the feral, unkempt kind that resulted from a weeklong bender, with Cheetos debris sprinkled throughout. His forehead was tall, his brow cavemanlike. His hair probably had things living in it. And his horns, while white and polished and slightly iridescent, ended in ragged, cracked tips.
In short, he didn’t look like the devil. He looked like the kind of early forties, thrice-divorced alcoholic who owned a grungy car wash and had to become a sperm donor to pay rent.