Casey Jones Narration
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North American (General)Transcript
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somebody to hang out with boozers, Mosher said. Manny, the great, lumbering pile of bones is only too happy to follow the nice girl with a shovel who taken the trouble to wake him up. Even now, the shovel scraped through the grass, chilling behind her right hand. The dead were pretty happy folks. They left their cares behind and anything new on their to do list beat lying around in a box. Hands down. Manny's Day was looking up. You literally couldn't wipe the smile from his face. Constants remained silent. It wasn't out of any gravitas. She just couldn't think of anything to say and thought that playing stoic would be more impressive if someone were watching. If someone had been watching, they would have run away screaming by now. As it was, they had the graveyard to themselves. The so polluted those. The girl was lonely. It wasn't a crime. Constance was pale and had poor circulation, so she was always cold to the touch. That didn't help. Tragically, her mother had tripped over a cliche and drowned in 600 gallons of strawberry preserves. Her father, owner of the self same fruit preserves factory, died from shame. Not long after between the insurance policies and the already massive palm gobbles fortune, Constance was set for life, and Uncle arrived to look after her until she was old enough to inherit, said Uncle Missed his brother or sister terribly. It was never explained which side of the family tree he was on, and his lugubrious weeping over the wedding photo did nothing to clear things up. Constance had no friends. No one wanted to spend time with the cold, pale fruit preserves heiress. She had no one to talk to, so she didn't process the loss, said she didn't process the loss. All she wanted to talk about was her dead parents. They got her coming and going. She was lovely in her way, lovely and bright. She'd seen her life twist off one road and turned down another. That was dark, McCobb and morbidly amusing. What should crave now more than anything, was little attention. And if her lot in life was to be the misunderstood, creepy girl, constants would play to the hilt. Necromancy was the obvious choice. Manny was the ultimate low maintenance companion. He didn't need food or clothes. He was the willing servant of she who had raised him and would listen for days on end to whatever she had to say. If only she could think of something to talk about, show Many had been trying to mention the snakes. For the last half hour, however, Constance had mastered the withering glare trademark and Chapter two of raising the dead. For beginners, a good, withering glare was crucial if you were going to resurrect the dead, it stopped people asking why £20 worth of snakes, no more, no less writhed and slithered about in Manny's chest cavity. The spell book had insisted the pet store clerk didn't even bother to raise an eyebrow when Constance Palm Gobbles had materialized that morning and requested £20 worth of snakes trying to get a little attention in this town was driving her up the wall. So, yeah, the town outcast was now making her way back home leading along a seven foot tall cadaver with snakes in. If her uncle wasn't too bleary eyed on a fruit preserves sugar high, this would knock him right out of his socks. And if it didn't work, she had another book on summoning demons. Constance is going to raise some **** one way or another