Tossing Darwin out a window did him some good, he felt his flesh calm as the little bag scurried off with it's load. Reminiscing over the "old days" had done him much better though. He really did miss those old bastards, but he'd see them again when he returned to Hell. Well, maybe, it was a big place after all. But he was sure he could come up with some excuse to drop by and see them. That is, what was left of them.

He probably should've asked Darwin about why he couldn't find him for a few days, but he could guess at the answer after seeing him. Below the acrid and fleeting smokey odor of the Phosphagen, he detected the distinct wet aroma of Miasma. Not sure how he wound up covered in that, but now it made a bit more sense. His bond had been dulled, not cut.

To use the crude analogy of a schoolyard favorite, imagine two children with a string between them. Each of them is holding a end of it and can pull their end to make the other budge. A tug of war ensues, and a good time is had by all, at least until some other kid runs up and ties and ties the string to a stake and hammers it into the ground. Now neither end can pull on the other, but they remain connected, though unable to affect each other. Boring, very boring, No fun at all.

Though if Darwin was screwing with Miasma, that probably why he wanted those old books on spirits. Likely he was about to meet a member of the wandering dead, or some shambling piece of reanimate matter without a soul. It mattered little, live or dead there wasn't much he had to fear. Unless Darwin decided to get over himself and call on a professional to deal with the problem, but he knew the little bugger well enough from passing to guess when that would happen.

Trick question really.

In the meantime, he had other concerns. He needed a reliable cash flow and trades weren't exactly thrilling him with how much they were drawing in. Not to be greedy, but it would be nice to have a touch more to spend. Surviving and Comfort were to very different creatures, and besides, he still had Darwin's name to 'tarnish' as it were. It was about time he got a move on and put some more effort into things.

I suppose that meant signing some more paperwork and filing to take on the debts of a few more wayward souls. He would need somewhere to put them when this was all done, and more money to keep it up. Perhaps he'd open a poorhouse of some kind, wouldn't take much, just a rather large building and a few licenses. But what to do with them?

That was the real question, between the having and wanting was the Using. What could he Use them for?

He had to pause and think to himself for a moment and was glad to have a comfortable chair in his study to so with, thinking was much more difficult in a bad chair than a good chair.

At once his inhuman mind sprung to the idea of making furniture but discounted that notion on the cost of lumber required. Charcoal then? The magic required in powering such a large volume of real estate was beyond all but dedicated magicians, so that was out of the question and those sawmills needed to remove all that wood dust somehow, compressed briquettes were a wonderful fuel source for furnaces. Ah but who would buy them? most factories were powered by coal in this area as where the private homes. And having such fierce competition right out the gate seemed like a terrible idea for business. But he needed to make something, but what?

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An issue for tomorrow, he would as the phrase went, sleep on it. He'd had enough for one day and his body was starting to feel it. So, he began walking down the stairs to lock his front door. Not that he needed to concern himself with thieves, but if it inconvenienced them enough to discourage, that was fine by him. If not, well, he did have the body of a rather developed wizard waiting to be used. Had to flex the Pneuma now and again or he'd lose it, much like any skill.

He was passing through the kitchen when he saw something on the table, a newspaper. He didn't remember buying one, so he figured either Miss Kettlesworth bought it or it had come in the mail. Plastered across the top was some outrageous headline about a scandal in the courts, not that he gave a hoot, some small column about shortages in farm workers, and a larger panel advertisement titled "The Demons of the Bottle, Machine and Whore Den! Corruption, Impropriety and Death!" This did pique his interests as he kept reading.

"We of the Council for Virtuous Moderation call upon the citizens to reject the temptations and seductions of the bottle, the harlot and slavery to the factorial machine! Man is Gods creation and must guard itself from destruction by the advances of the City Dwelling Demons! Resist Industrialization, Fight for Man's proper place under God's command. Preserve our Homes and Wives from these machinations!"

After that was a line of verses that he was sure weren't properly cited. But as he put the paper down he was smiling, he now had his answer. He was going to make money and be hailed as a hero. There was an old trick that had returned to his immortal memory like an old friend.

" I wonder how much it costs to go the circus these days." he asked idly, not that he was planning to pay for it. Especially when he could get a show for free. He rushed back upstairs with paper in hand, his pneuma racing ahead to prepare a desk and ink for a letter. He was about to become very busy, busy indeed, he was going to become a saint.

Not an easy thing to do, but also hilariously simple. Surprised he hadn't thought of it before, this was going to be fun once the ball got rolling. He almost put pen to paper when he stopped himself.

This felt surprisingly like, Working, the pen hovered in the air above the page for a moment. He already knew what words to write, exactly what to say to make these moral crusaders dance his tune, how to milk them like the cattle all devils saw them as. But he was supposed to be on vacation, relaxing, getting cozy before the big finale.

Gritting his teeth he faced the decision, and let the pen touch paper, He'd only have a little fun with them. But once he got started, he knew there'd be now going back, all or nothing.

Hesitation over, he leapt headlong into crafting his introduction letter to Council for Virtuous Moderations, asking to become a member and explaining his own efforts in buying debts, but leaving out the part where he sent them to spy on other businesses immediately afterwards. It was a thing of poetry, beautiful and charming. Reeking of pompous humility and the kind of educated idiocy that made for the best quality of busy bodies. They'd see him as immaculate catch and try to reel him in, and then he'd be the one eating them.

And none would be the wiser, say for God and Devils. It was almost too easy.