This, and subsequent narrative chapters from this author is a deliberate effort to break up the constant rhyming of the other chapters. Hopefully, this story will enjoy a long life, so the narrative chapters will serve as sort of a half -time show to bring readers up to speed on what's going on - a breather, sort of.
An old woman wearing a long black hooded robe shuffles into a huge cavernous room. The damp limestone walls holds a number of rusted iron sconce rings that hold burning pitch torches. They light the room badly, and the woman stumbles over several piles of ancient books and papyrus scrolls lying about on the floor.
"@#$%!" She swears as she kicks them aside angrily, which produces a cloud of dust.
"Aaaaachoooo! This is ridiculous. Look at this dump. It's the twenty first century! Would it hurt the boss to come through with one measly little computer? Noooooo it wouldn't, but he keeps punishing me for the spell I put on that politician. How was I supposed to know he was going to go good on me? I can't help it if he quit politics and became a televangelist. It's not my fault he mounted a global war on evil!"
Long strings of greasy grey hair escapes her hood as she attempts to protect her mouth and nose from the dust. She seats herself on a low stool in the centre of a small clearing, surrounded by piles of scrolls.
"Hall of records indeed, Pah!"
She spits on the stone floor to rid her mouth of dust, then pulls a small battery operated camping lamp from among her robes. She looks around fearfully, hoping the boss can't tell the difference between dim torch light, and dim lamp light.
I can't understand the boss's hatred of electricity. I know this is Hell and all, but it doesn't have to be so ... Hellish." she grumbles to herself.
She continues to mumble as she paws through the pile of scrolls with one hand, while she holds the lamp aloft with the other.
"Contracts, contracts, let me see now. Where did I put that last one? Oh ... here it is."
She pulls up a pair of reading glasses on a chain, that were resting on her flat chest. She chooses a scroll, and sets the lamp down on a nearby pile of ancient leather bound tomes. She unrolls it, and reads from it.
"C.T. Head. Does something to piss off God enough to withdraw protection. The boss zooms right in and takes advantage. Full body infection. Hmmm, he ends up with a toothless one eyed bald head with no body. Poor bugger. I know I'm not supposed to have any good personal emotions like empathy, but it really sucks to be him."
She puts down the scroll and rubs her eyes. She picks it back up, and continues to read.
"The boss offers a choice ... a new fabulous body, or it's head soup for him. He takes the new body choice, big surprise."
She cackles sarcastically, as she unrolls a second page to the scroll. She pulls it out to its full length and peers at the picture on it, squinting in the poor light.
"Not bad, not bad at all. Okay now, the new body has taken on all the worldly possessions, including the name, of one Christopher Thomas Howell. Oh ... there's a twist here. The original C.T. Thomas is an NBA rookie, who's due home any minute. The door bangs open, and who's standing there? It's Head's old body, face and head. Who is he? Did the boss put the real C.T. Howell into Head's old body, or is he the real Head, restored to his old body? If C.T. Head in his new body kills the old body, do they both die? Hahahahha. This poor schmuck really is between the Devil and the deep blue sea."