"Right?" He swiveled his chair toward James so he could face him, man to man. "Nobody goes to a dog pound expecting a purebred poodle or--what are they. Them little yappy purse dogs that cost nearly as much as that black van we can't get rid of. Every car's here's got stories, everything here's got stories."

The demon pouted.

"You know how I got into this business? I got lucky, real lucky one night playing poker. I won somebody's keys. It was great. I won another set. Soon, I had five sets of wheels I didn't know what to do with and sellin' 'em off was worth all the times I lost my shorts in those matches!"

Bla bla bla bla, Havoc relayed a couple of stories of what he considered 'his youth'. And that James, he listened. He was a good kid. He worked hard. He sucked at talking to people but by God he knew how to file.

"I feel shitty. You feel shitty? You've gotta feel shitty. You been stooped over them papers like a gargoyle for hours."