“I’ve found you, White Devil!” said the Shaman on the doorstep, shooting a poison blow dart into Chinch Moran’s neck.
Chinch fell to the ground, immobilized but very conscious – as the Shaman began dancing, shaking a ritualistic rattle over him, “You stole the souls of my village with your picture box! You escaped in your metal bird, but I have found you! And now, YOUR soul will live FOREVER in my medicine rattle! What say you, White Devil?”
Chinch rasped, barely audibly.
“What?” said the Shaman.
Chinch rasped again.
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Chinch re-rasped emphatically.
“Oh. I see,” said the Shaman. “TAXI!”
A cab squealed to the curb and honked as the Shaman sheepishly placed the rattle on Chinch’s chest. “Here is your soul… uh… keep it in a dry, cool place.”
