Michael received an invitation from Souls Incorporated two weeks after Doc's death. He kept the appointment, thinking it was a talent agency.
When he showed up at the meeting, he was promptly
ushered into a professional business office by a very
pretty blonde. A tall man in a double breasted suit
stood to greet him.
"Thank you, Natasha." he winked at the receptionist. "Ah, Mr. Taylor! Please have a seat."
Michael looked the man over. Mid-thirties, styled
hair, nice suit and effervescent greeting - must be an
agent.
"Mr. Taylor, I am Bubba Elzi of Souls Incorporated, and I believe we have some business to attend to."
"We do?" Michael questioned.
"Oh yes, we do indeed. It seems you have inadvertently interfered in our business dealings."
Michael was caught off guard. "I have?"
Bubba sighed. "I know you are aware of the early
and unexpectedly tragic demise of a gentleman by
the name of Doc Ingram."
"Who?" Michael lied.
"Oh, don't feign ignorance, Mr. Taylor. Mr. Ingram held a contract with our firm. He was in need of... something more to offer his consumer base. "Higher Magic," if you will. You breached the terms agreed upon in that contract. Therefore, you are responsible for the fulfillment of said contractual agreement. Do you follow me, Mr. Taylor?"
Michael wrinkled his brow. "Are you an attorney?"
"Not quite," Elzi said.
"I don't understand," stated Michael. "What do you want from me?"
Bubba Elzi sat forward. "Why souls, Mr. Taylor,
nothing but souls."
Michael kept himself from laughing. Either this man is a cop, he thought, or crazy.
He tried a sarcastic approach. "Shouldn't you be
sporting horns, or something?"
Mr. Elzi stood. "Please Michael, don't be passe.
Actually, we had to go corporate for tax purposes.
As for the old clichés having to do with our business,
they're all left over from our ad campaign during the middle ages. But today's investors have different requirements that have to be met. Broader needs for
today's fluctuating markets, Mr. Taylor. Consider us
more of... a brokerage."
"A brokerage." Michael repeated. "Look, if you are going to arrest me, you'd better do it now. If not, I'm leaving."
Elzi belted out a spirited laugh. "Arrest you, Mr.
Taylor? We're not law enforcement, Michael. Though
if we do not come to an agreement, you will wish we were."
Michael made for the door. "I don't know what you
have in mind, 'Bubba,' but if you contact me again, I
will call the police."
Mr. Elzi smiled. "Call the police? Oh, that's rich,
Mr. Taylor. Here, go ahead and call them," he offered. "In fact, use my phone."
Michael turned to go.
"Please Michael, don't make me turn this matter over to Collections."
Michael slammed the door on the way out. He heard Elzi yell through the office to him.
"We will collect this account, Mr. Taylor!!"

"Faustus?...... Faaaustuuus?" It was Kellar's voice. A stupid game he liked to play. "Faustus?"
Michael kicked the magic set just to watch it all
slowly come back together. "That's not my name,
you stupid twit." he said.
Kellar giggled. "Faustus, where is Mephistopheles?" Kellar giggled again.
"Truth!" Yelled Eric Weiss.
"Truth?!" Michael yelled back into the empty air.
"You want truth? He died because he was old!
Because he was weak and fragile!"
Weiss laughed. "He died," said the voice,
"because you pushed him!"
"It was an accident!" Michael screamed.
In the background, Michael could hear Dante's
eerie high-pitched voice. "Sim sala bim! Bim sala
swim! Mis Alma Bis!"
These guys were minor league.
One night Michael had woke choking on something, while Goshman's laughter rang in his
ears. His mouth had been filled with one inch red
sponge balls. All told, he'd had a total of fifty-six of them packed into his mouth. It took Michael two days to get the taste of sponge off his tongue.
Goshman's was the first voice Michael had heard
when the Collections Department of Souls
Incorporated had started tormenting him.
Introducing himself (and giving Michael a heart attack in the process), Goshman began singing dirty limericks composed about Michael's mother, each verse worse than the last. That had been the same day the "Chinese Linking Rings" had gotten his cat. Michael picked up one of the rings and bent it with his foot. He hated Goshman.

Michael was sitting on his front room sofa eating
the last of the macaroni and cheese when his front
door blew in, clean off the hinges. A tall, eloquently
dressed man walked into Michael's home, followed
by several very short assistants, all wearing coveralls. "Mr. Michael Taylor? I am Djadjamonkh, from Collections. Your account is
extremely past due. Shall we settle things, or must I take further action?"