"For the last time, I am not finding you the bones of Hatsune Miku!" Clyde slammed the phone down, satisfactorily noting its loud metallic smack as it shook the holder. "Idiots!" he hollered. "For the love of God, the next person who asks me to recover the tibia of Harry Potter or some other nonexistent nonsense is going to get hunted down themselves! Then I'll make a club for idiots out of their skull!"

"Just get an iPhone for the office already," his partner Whistler chided. "I don't know how many times I tell you about Caller ID."

"But it isn't the same! No one wants to click a button to end a prank call. They want to make some noise! Hit something against... Something else!"

Whistler rolled his eyes. He turned back to his laptop, arching back in his office chair like a cat blinking its eyes open after a long nap. "You've been in the office too long. Why don't you go out into the field for awhile? And I'll keep researching the legitimacy of sweet Joan's phalanges before we forge it. But the real question is, was she schizophrenic or really hearing the voice of God? All this reading is getting me wondering."

"She's dead, Whistler. What's it matter?" Clyde stood up, rolling his cigarrette between his hands. "Unless... You don't think that would give one the power to talk to God, would you?"

Whistler bugged his eyes and spun his chair into rapid circles. "Now that's a real question!" he said.

The phone rang. Whistler slowed himself down and reached for it, his body bobbing in circles and his hand groping for it like he had just ridden the Formula Rossa at Ferrari World.

*Chuck Norris