“Paul even gave himself a new last name,” said Brad. “Bafoures became After."

“Understand, Collective?” Fieldman asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Wizard,” I said. The ghost never gave up. “If he's a separate “psyche,” why can't he leap to my defense right now?"

“Simple,” Brad said. “I erased him."

“You erased him?” I didn't know whether to believe him or not, but at that point, it didn't seem to matter. The Ghost of Fieldman walked up to me, and softly applied his hand to my cheek. “You've had enough suffering for one lifetime. It is time to rest."

“How can you ‘erase’ a soul?"

Fieldman held his gizmo up to my face and tapped it with his index finger. “Interesting you should ask, Collective."

And then it was over.

I spent an agonizing length of time between planes of reality. (Only later did I realize I'd traveled in a fraction of a second, and had spent 20 hours trying to piece my mind back together.) I didn't appreciate what I'd had until it was rudely snatched away from me. For years, I had the companionship of other souls, whenever I wanted it. I had a building full of unique individuals, each with stories to tell, emotions to vent. And, during those same years, I had souls to reach out to.

Now, all that was gone. The only physical sensation left was tumbling: endless, nauseating tumbling. No sense of up, down, left or right; no depth. It was like being jettisoned into outer space, only without the blessed quick death of decompression and body implosion. This tumbling went on forever. Every time I tried to figure out how they did it, how they wrenched my soul from its home inside my brain, I'd start to spin more violently, unable to think on an intellectual level any longer. I would have vomited, but I feared I'd spend eternity spinning in an ocean of my own bile and whatever my last meal happened to have been-probably fast food of some kind and a gallon of tequila. No… must stop riffing on food and drink, I thought to myself. Me? Who was me, anyway?

And then, as quickly as my spinning hell began, it ground to a halt.

A sturdy, white porcelain halt.

My God, I realized after a few moments. My name is Del Farmer, and my soul is trapped in a toilet.

I knew I was a toilet just as you, sitting there, know you are a human being. There is an undeniable, irrefutable awareness of self.

Frankly, I was amazed how fast my soul adapted to its new prison. And what is flesh-and-blood body but a prison? I was aware of my functional parts just as a human being is aware of his arms and legs. The core of my being was a wide, deep bowl, but I could feel extensions reaching deep into the floor, down into the great and ancient sewer system of Philadelphia itself. Somewhere along the way, my Self faded. What used to be my left arm was now the flushing mechanism. It made perfect sense; I'd always been left-handed. I didn't seem to have a right arm or hand equivalent, but my sense of “face” sure had found a new home. It was the seat and lid. Those diabolical bastards.

Sure, I'd always joked about sending uppity souls to a city trash can, or a public toilet. But that had been tough-guy hyperbole. I'd never considered doing something as downright evil as ejecting a unique, feeling life-force into something so dead and repellent. However, it seemed Brad Larsen had no such reservations. Because here I was. A toilet.

As much as I hated to admit it, my current situation lent a great deal of credence to the Ghost of Fieldman's spaced-out dialogues. Here I was, a living entity, contained in an artificial environment. At least it explained the “poltergeist” phenomena folks have been reporting for years. The most I could hope for was that this apartment would go un-rented for a few months, during which time I could possibly find a way to kill myself. Maybe, eventually, some compassionate soul would clog me full of toilet paper, and let me choke in peace.

Don't misunderstand. I wasn't feeling suicidal. But this was the first time in my entire life-from womb to death to soul absorption to current status-I'd felt completely and irrevocably lost. And then a thought occurred to me.

Was I completely powerless? Or did the abilities I'd been given transfer to my mind, and not the architecture of my physical reality? Could I still absorb-and transfer-a soul?

If the Ghost of Fieldman were to be believed, the powers lay within my physical Brain. Which he called a computer of sorts. I refused to accept that model of my brain, of course. Anybody would. It reduced my core being to a machine.

But if I were to be believed, my powers still remained within me. Which would mean I could still shuttle souls-including my own-back and forth between objects as easily as a four-year-old arranges alphabet blocks. My mind possessed those powers-not my physical brain.

The only problem: I only knew one way to transfer a soul, and that way required direct eye contact. Nothing in my bathroom had eyes: not my toothbrush, razor, washrag, bar of Ivory soap… not a damn thing. Come to think of it, if you had to be any object in a modern bathroom, the toilet's pretty much King Daddy. The bathtub is important, of course, but with public baths and YMCA pools, you could technically live without one. Let's face it: the toilet was essential to 20th century life.

God-what was I doing? Already rationalizing my new state of existence?

At any rate, I realized I had to transfer into something alive. And having bumped into some of the sad-sack residents of this apartment complex in the past couple of weeks, finding a living being was not going to be easy.

Then I remembered: Buddy.

Sweet, lovable, adorable, fur-ridden Buddy. Gift from Amy, Eater of Shoelaces, Ripper of Couches, Fearful of Own Shadow, Savior from Heaven. But how could I call him? I couldn't very well do that pss-wss-wss-wss thing as a toilet. No lips. No access to Cat Chow to temp him, either. I had to use a distracting noise, something to stir the bugger's innate curiosity. Then, lure him close enough to look into the bowl itself, the core of my being, where I could summon the powers of vision and lock eyes with him.

I realized what I could do. I started to shake my arm-now, the toilet handle. C'mon Buddy. Come out and be a cat.

I jiggled the handle again. C'mon.

Jiggled it again. And again.

Finally, I could sense tiny pawsteps skittering across the bathroom tile. Right on! I felt padded, furry feet against my bowl. I saw the feline head peek over the water, up at the handle. Good boy, good boy! I wanted to shout.

Then I heard a key fumble in the apartment door. Buddy turned his head, interested in the new sound. I was curious, too, but no matter now. I jiggled the handle more furiously. Buddy looked at it, then spun his head around again.

I jiggled the handle that was my hand with all of my porcelain might. Look at it, you stupid fur-brained… The apartment door opened, full of ear-splitting, rusty squeaks and wood groans… Look! Look!

And then the handle came loose, dropped on to the rim, and flipped over into the bowl. Buddy followed it with his green feline eyes. Through rings of concentric, watery circles, I looked into them.

“Del? You home?"

Well, sort of. It was a terribly strange adjustment. And I thought the toilet was bad. At least it had been a porcelain constant; the brain of a cat was something wholly different. I locked onto its primitive brain structure easily, and established myself as the commander-in-chief, but I still had to surrender myself to cat logic.