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A.I. in pub processes over to God, who is chain-smoking cigarettes. A.I. says,

''How much for a soul?'' God scans crowd, exhales smoke. ''Ten big ones.'' The A.I.

fuzzes and blows smoke from sensors and scans the crowd (pub cluttered with angels

and devils) says, ''Well, I just wrote forty-nine of them. That's more than the ten required

for a soul.'' God exhales, winks at a human coveting a glass of whiskey, adjusts bra and

thumbs her breast under blouse. ''Ten big ones.'' The A.I. computes, beeps like a Vee, laughs.

''Ten big ones. That's a little pricey for a soul.'' God blows smoke in the A.I.'s sensor.

''I said big ones.'' And the A.I. thrashes information into data like mumbling in tongues.

Mean while, the human over bar and whiskey whispers for bartender's ear. ''Another

drink for God.'' The A.I. sees this and sees the bartender walking over to God with

drink in hand. God ashes cigarette and says, ''What's it going to be, A.I.? Ten big ones

for a soul or nothing?'' The A.I. shakes thrashes and mumbles. God says, ''Well?''

The A.I. crashes, reboots, says, ''Por✞land, The Detective Store,

with

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