Michael's response was to let his fork full of macaroni fall into his lap, and stare.
Djadjamonkh sighed.
"Very well, Mr. Taylor." He snapped his fingers, and like maniacal Oompah Loompah's commanded by a militarist Willy Wonka, the short men began rummaging through his closets, tossing out shoes and removing their bottoms with plier like instruments. One of them approached Michael and removed his shoes, then took the bottom layer off with one quick stroke.
Djadjamonkh faced Michael. "Are these all of your shoes, Mr. Taylor?"
"Wha... what are you people doing??" he stammered.
Djadjamonkh's eyes focused sharply on Michael. "Why, collecting our souls, Mr. Taylor. I assure you that they are legally our property.
Michael wrinkled his brow. "You have got to be kidding."
Djadjamonkh folded his arms serenely. "On the
contrary, the Collections Department is extremely
serious when it comes to our investments. Now, if you would please sign line five, we will be on our way," he said, holding out a clipboard and pen.
Michael cautiously looked at the paper. It was a receipt for the souls of his shoes. "Why should I sign it?" he asked.
Djadjamonkh picked up the magic set and placed it under his arm. "Because," he said, bringing his face close to Michael's. "We cannot leave until you do." Djadjamonkh's breath smelled like moldy liver.
Michael carefully took the pen and signed the receipt. The small scab on his arm from the Queen's attack opened when his arm brushed the clipboard, coloring his receipt with little dots of red.
"Oh, Mr. Taylor." Djadjamonkh said, taking the receipt. "I am so very pleased. Especially now that I have your final signature." The tall man smiled broadly.
Michael Taylor, feeling a little weak, couldn't help but notice that for the size of Djadjamonkh's mouth, there were way, way too many teeth.