You mother-f–” “Yes, actually, I am. All part of the job.

Superhero Meda establishing gender-equality one almost-kiss at a time!

Ah well, no rest for the wicked and all that. I’ll just have to kill him myself.

They studied the phenomenon at Harvard.” “They studied soul-stealing at Harvard?” “What else do you think they do in business school? In any case, it’s called the Ikea effect.” “As in furniture?

And, like Christmas, Armand has brought gifts. But he is no fat, sweet Santa Claus who rewards the nice; he is the Lord of Misrule, the Abbot of Unreason in charge of scandalous fun.

While I’m all delighted joy, she’s angry revenge, which is pretty adorable on a six year-old, even a dead one – like a wet kitten.

And since when does Hell have royalty? I thought they were all bureaucrats.” “Oh, sweetie,” he says, patronizing. “That’s cute.” “What’s cute?” “That you think celebrity children of powerful people aren’t royalty.” “Are you accusing me of being a Hilton?” I sputter. “Or a, a–” my head might explode, “Kardashian?” “The Hellish equivalent.

He either had a great deal of faith in my ability to escape (fair enough, I do rock), or he’s full of shit – sadly, that’s the more likely option.

And, lastly, there’s a small pack of wide-eyed innocents in awe of my Beacon-ness who follow me around expecting me to perform a miracle any minute. Sometimes I screw up my face like I’m trying. Or constipated.

There’s this guy I came across, not far from here. I thought we could, you know,” he makes a short slashing motion across his neck. “He seems like the kinda guy you’d go for. In a homicidal way, I mean.” “You arranged a murder?” Awww, that’s so sweet.