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     "...No, something more. A fixed love or a poignant truth... a dedication. An inner strength," the voice continues, "...like Van Gough, who traded an ear for his failing eyesight so he might heighten at least his sensitivity to colors... what will you sacrifice, O Little One?" "What are your black/white options," asks the cat. "I just wanna unclog the drain on my Winnebago." "Say no more," someone pushes the Muse aside. "I got exactly what you want. Danker than the hairy pits of a lesbian revolution. Grimier than the mop after a Black Sabbath orgy. Darker than—" "Whoa there, Devil. How about something that costs less than my soul. Like Mid-Boss music or something catchy like the FFVII battle theme. Because people shed some tears after Big Boss music but then move on after beating the game, whereas a good battle theme is endless and I'm trying to squeeze juice out of lemons." "Without your soul, the best I can offer is elevator-music." "...I wish Merlin were still here." Disheartened, the cat wanders to a quaint little farm. "Anybody home?" he knocks at the toolshed, seeking refuge. "Who calls me from my slumber," bellows the caveman spirit dwelling in the bucket. The cat explains his love for a Saturday morning cartoon about a robot-cat from the future living in modern Japan who pulls gadgets out an interdimensional pocket. "Except all I have are these things lying around the toolshed. Can you help me." "You've come to the right spirit," the ghost approves. "The trick is imagining what sounds things make when you beat them with a stick," says the spook, sagely.