“You’re dead, Mad Sweeney,” said Shadow. “You take what you’re given when you’re dead.”

“Aye, that I shall,” sighed the dead man sitting in the back of the hearse. The junkie whine had vanished from his voice now, replaced with a resigned flatness, as if the words were being broadcast from a long, long way away, dead words being sent out on a dead frequency.

Tinny eucalyptus and elemi against a flat black backdrop of opoponax.