Unfortunately, I'm the one who pays the gastrointestinal tab. Once, I allowed a tub-of-lard ex-bookie named Harlan to take control of my body. He promptly stuffed it with three Gino Giants, two cans of Campbell's baked beans (with bacon strips), six large Grade-A scrambled eggs, a half a loaf of Stroehmann's bread, two cans of B&M chili con carne, and an entire New York-style cheesecake. I had been resting in my Brain Hotel office, and hadn't noticed until it was too late. I spent nearly three hours in the men's room of the nearest motel, rotating my rear end and head into the business end of a white porcelain toilet.

As punishment, I made that fat bastard move into the dungeon with the houndstooth couch for a month.

It is necessary to stress that the entire Brain Hotel-from the interrogation rooms to the restaurant to the Olympic-sized swimming pool to the Irish-themed pub-exists for a single purpose: to the destroy The Association. It had been my mission for quite some time, and it even predates my current occupation of this body and management of the Brain Hotel.

The details aren't too important, but regarding my previous life: I was an investigative reporter during the late 1960s. It was a great time to be a reporter; people still took you for an authority figure. My most prized possessions were my Underwood portable typewriter and General Electric tape recorder with detachable interview microphone. Pens and paper you could find anywhere, but a reporter without his typewriter and recorder was truly lost.

I had been checking into a case of election fraud, which I was sure was linked to earlier incidences of bribery, extortion, drug dealing and DJ payola. A single name kept popping up-a mysterious “J.P. Bafoures"-as well as the same methods. Even to a wet-behind-the-ears kid like me, it sounded like a crime syndicate. I nicknamed it “The Association,” and I was sure one of these days I'd find the link that tied it all together. It would be my way out of the desert and into a real newspaper.

But before I had a chance to break the election story in The Henderson Bulletin, I had a run-in with members of what I could only assume was The Association, sent by this “J.P. Bafoures.” Even though I'd been writing about their activities for more than two years, it was my first physical encounter with any bona fide member of the organization. And my last.

They had picked me up as I was leaving a bar. Three of them. “Farmer?"

“Yeah?"

A quick punch to the gut; they grabbed my car keys. A few more shots to my kidneys and head. I was shoved into my own backseat. One of them started driving. Another went to his own car and followed us.

“Wh-Where we headed, guys?” I was trying to sound nonchalant, but it's awfully hard to sound nonchalant when you're sniffing blood up your nose.

The one to my left said, “For a drink."

Which, for some reason, terrified the shit out of me. My imagination started running away with me. Were they going to drown me? Force booze on me and send me driving off a cliff? Cut my wrists and make me drink my own blood?

Not quite.

When we reached a seemingly random destination in the desert, they threw me out of the car and served me my cocktail in a rusty gasoline canister. “Bottoms up, college boy,” someone said, forcing the plastic siphon to my lips.

A shot of fuel rushed past my mouth and down my throat. I vomited it back up two seconds later. While I was on my knees, retching, they poured gasoline over my head and back. I reached out to steady myself; one of them snapped two of my fingers back, breaking them. I bawled like a baby and was force-fed more gas. Again I fell to my knees, puking. I received another shower and a few kicks to my ribs. I hadn't had that much fun drinking since my freshman year of college.

Soon, I was back in my car, behind the wheel. I couldn't see anything-my eyes were burning too much to register images-but I knew what they were going to do. I imagined them fumbling for the matches, and pouring a thin trail of gasoline far enough away to be safe. I remembering hoping my dentist kept good records. I didn't want to be forgotten, my work to go unnoticed forever.

Mercifully, before I could feel myself burn alive, I vomited one final time-blood, I think-and my head hit the steering wheel and I died. Possibly from the beating, maybe from gasoline poisoning, but most likely from sheer terror.

Not long after, my soul was collected.

One moment, I was trapped in a useless, burnt pile of flesh. The next, I was looking back down at it, full of pity. Was that me? That broken, pathetic skeleton-man at the wheel of a baked Chevy Nova? It's quite amazing what a change of perspective can do for you. You feel it in tiny ways. When you look at photograph of yourself, for instance. Distance gives you power. Or at least it allows you to place yourself in the past, where you didn't know any better.

I heard a voice in my head, and that's when I realized I was in someone else's body.

Relax, Del Farmer, the voice said. You're gone, but not forgotten.

An odd thing to say, don't you think? But to this day, I can't think of anything more appropriate. So that's what I say whenever I collect a new soul.

Later, after I'd had a chance to settle down, my collector introduced himself. His name was Robert. He too was interested in the criminal organization I called “The Association,” and had collected my soul (after trying in vain to save my life, of course) to see if I would be willing to help him.

Are you kidding? Me, a kid raised on Shock Suspense-Stories and Vault of Horror comics, turn down a chance to avenge myself beyond the grave? Please. I was happy to tell him all that I knew, even to the point of re-typing some of my stories on a Brain Underwood he'd provided. In time I came to be much more than a source; I became a vital part of Robert's investigation. For three years, Robert showed me the ropes-how to collect a soul, how to build additional rooms in the Brain Hotel, and much more.

Eventually, Robert allowed me to assume control, before he left the hotel for the nicer neighborhood of the Great Beyond. He didn't explain why, or give me any kind of warning. All I found was a note taped to the door of my Brain room:

Del:

Took a bunch of the souls on to a better place. It was time. But not for all of us.

Keep up the good work, will ya?

Yours,

Robert

I understood that Robert was leaving me with a mission: to continue soul-collecting until I had enough information to stop “J.P. Bafoures” and his Association, once and for all. And after two years of dogged investigation, I thought I had finally collected the right soul for the job: Brad Larsen.

Robert would have been proud.