Meanwhile, at The Pit of Hell:
"Good evening and thank you for calling, The Pit of Hell! My name is Neffydd, How may I disservice you?" The spiel is so ingrained in Neffydd's head that she doesn't even have to think about the words...
"Do ya hash a fishes?"
"Pardon? We have what?"
"Should ew hatz a issues??"
"Issues? I don't understand..."
"TRASHER ME DO AMID DANCE!!!!"
"OH! Sure! I can transfer you to Admitting. Have a nice night!" Click-click-click-click-tap.
Never mind that there are no fishes in Admitting; plenty of issues, but no fish.
Andur the Gnome was working in the next seat over... Andur has verbal diarrhea most nights and had already gone through the nights events once before Neffydd had shown him that there was a new flash game that he could access on The Pit's Aether-com. He was now clicking happily & would only be spouting out gems like: "Deader than a door mouse..." and "Soon business will pick up!"
Maybe it will when the Zombies get their godsdam act together...
But for now Neffydd sits in a particularly uncomfortable chair every night waiting to leave while occasionally doing what she's being paid obscene amounts of mullah to do, drinking copious amounts of thick, bitter, stimulating beverages and reading other people's blogs.