“It’s all right for you, you’re dead. You don't have to worry about these things.” “You’re dead, too, love.”… — Neil Gaiman
“It’s all right for you, you’re dead. You don't have to worry about these things.”
“You’re dead, too, love.”
“That is quite beside the point,” she said.
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More from this book
Nothing good lasts forever, after all. Sooner or later, as Grahame Coats himself would have delighted in assuring you, even if your goose habitually lays golden eggs, it will still be cooked.
“You, Charles. The police suspect you.”
“Yes,” said Fat Charlie. “Of course they do. It’s been that sort of a day.”
Like all sentient beings, Fat Charlie had a weirdness quotient. For some days the needle had been over in the red, occasionally banging jerkily against the pin. Now the meter broke. From this moment on, he suspected, nothing would surprise him. He could no longer be outweirded. He was done.
He was wrong, of course.
