In a small flat in Islington, Chiles lay alone on his couch, engorged with tea and scones, too bloated to move, and too deeply engrossed in "The Idiot's Guide to Esoteric Necromantic Transmogrifications for Festive Apocalyptic Occasions" to fall asleep. Despite his decommissioning by the Voyeur's Council for "acts unbefitting a pompous and sadistic buffoon" (his objection to Puffy's "rite of excruciation for the sake of satisfying the Schadenfreude of stuffy cretins" -- as the "cruciamentum" was officially defined, both in the Voyeur's Handbook and in the DSM IV -- had been only the first of these insufferable provocations), and despite his strategic retreat to a point GPS-identifiable as 5,503 miles distant from Meshuggadale, Chiles still maintained a scholarly interest in what academicians technically describe as "recondite crap."
It was at this point that his (satellite-enabled) cell phone rang, cheerily blasting The Funeral March of the Marionettes through its tinny speakers. This could only betoken a call from Meshuggadale... either the Scoobies, or Nick's Deli, still trying to collect on an old bet Chiles had made on a Laker's game, or on the date and time of The Apocalypse (rev. 4.0). Chiles valued his knees, not that they'd ever been much to look at, and so he hoped it was the former. Nick's knee-breakers belonged to an international federation the national chapter of which in the UK was in the midst of contract disputes (disputing who had and had not been killed by contract) with headquarters in the US, so Islington was currently experiencing a dearth of hobbled citizens, and Chiles decided that, under the circumstances, it might not be unreasonable to answer the phone.
Heaving himself unsteadily off the couch, setting off an uncertain chemical interaction of 39 scones and 4 gallons of Chamomille, Chiles sloshed across the room to his cell, still shrilling its tribute to Gounod, and arrived just in time to intercept Puffy's call.
"Chiles? I'm here at The Iron with Pander, and we need your help. Pillow has found an error in Andrew Wiles' proof of Fermat's Last Theorem, Pander's seriously confused about the greenness of the eggs in this book he's attempting to read, and this really annoying vamp with seven chins has just eluded us for the third time and fled through a portal to the Hellmouth, where he's probably assembling an army of demons for yet another apocalyptic invasion of Meshuggadale. Or else playing Monopoly with Satan and Dick Cheney. But in any case, we thought you might want to fly down here and relieve us of doing anything whatsoever. Would that be OK? ...Chiles?"
"This is Rubeus Chiles'...um, voicemail. Si quieres hablar con una representante en español, oprima el numero uno. If you would like to make abstruse comments on obscure logical defects in the proof of Fermat's Last Theorem, please say or press two. If you would like to order a copy of my autobiography in Ancient Sumerian, please say or press three. If you would like to piss off, please press say or press four. If you are a Slayer and are seeking assistance, please hang up and call 911."
End of Chapter 10