"Oh my god, he's dead!" I cried out, on seeing my client's pentacle-decorated body on the floor.
Spore sat bolt upright. "Dead? I'm not dead. I always sleep like this." He shook himself awake.
"What's with the satanic cross?" I asked suspiciously. I already knew Spore was barking, and that was before I saw a five-point star on his nightshirt.
"You ought to know that symbol is no more evil in origin than the swastika," he declared. He still had me confused with the professor of Religious Symbology at Harvard.
"Look Spore, I'll come to the point." I didn't want to waste any more time with this nutjob. "I need an advance." I explained about the theft of my computer and how I'd been led astray by a wild woman.
"You disappoint me, dear boy," he replied, his fingers making a revolting waxy sound in connection with his ear. "Let me introduce you to somebody who might be able to help."
He donned his familiar gabardine and we set out towards the shopping precinct. Finally we reached what used to be Geiger's bookstore. A sign now said ‘Internet Café.'
Spore pointed to a short stocky man with a balding pate. "Meet the Admiral," he said.