S.A.M.L.A.R.B Spectral Aquisitons of Material Lands And Resources Bureau

> What'd you die from?

You ask the TV man how he died. He's odd looking to be sure, but you don't see anything overtly grotesque or deathy about his appearance. Your guess, before you begin speaking, is an illness of some kind. Though, another idea pops into your mind. You never see him from below the chest, what if he was horribly impaled and hides it? What if he was sliced in two and his legs are wandering around, tap-dancing all over people's paper work and he gets blamed for it despite him not being able to control his wandering limbs? WHAT KIND OF TAP-DANCING FOOL HAVE HIS LEGS BECO- “I was Forgotten, Mr Lar-lar-larbawitz.” You snap back from your internal revelry and listen to his response.

“You s-see, many a fiction-a-al character and creatio-on can and ha-a-a-ve ended up with Soul-l-l-l-l-ls of their ow-own. A mistake on the par-part of the living I'm afrai-i-aid. It only happens when too many people don't acknowledge the cre-a-a-a-ator, but only recognise the ar-art. I was a TV host from the ninteen eighties in England. My whole shti-ick was that I was a compu-computer gen-gen-gen-gen-gen-generated personal-it-y-y when in truth I was a ma-m-man in a lot of make up with a basic gree-gree-green screen effec-ect. I was bi-big once...” He seems to lose his compusre and starts ranting wilding. “--back in the eight-eighties I was bigger than big! Bigger-bigger than Che-ch-cher's implants! Now l-look at me! Cast adrift with all the o-other. Rrrrrrrelics!” You step up and give the TV a does of percussive maintenance. The TV man stutters and jitters...and eventually calms down. “Sor-sorry about tha-that. I g-get a bit emotion-al-al-al sometimes. But ye-yes. I'm a fictional charact-t-er who lost all popularit-ty suddenl-l-ly and so, I die-died, and my soul ended up he-here because I was so popular once, but no one remebered who playe-played me. Oddly, the man who play-played me is still al-al-li-ive. He'll be in for a sh-sh-shock.” He then laughs in his usual pompous stuttering and chipmunky way before glitching back to his standard position.

>Continue to be rebelliously petulant and ask the TV a number of insulting questions about his mother.

Now that you know how the TV man died, it's time to once again ASSERT YOUR DOMINANCE. Your mind and hand wander down to the zipper on your fly. John Thomas may be useful here, but you don't want to play your trump card in front of this many people...not again at any rate. You're not sure you could live with the shame, the burning, hateful, and entirely deserved, shame. Instead you decide to go the clever way, the smart way, the way that kings and prophets have used for generations before you. You made fun of his mother. You made fun of her weight, you made lewd references to her sexual history, orientation, and fondness for west highland terriers. You claimed that she was so fat that this, and so fat that that. A torrent of jests and japes and prods and stabs flew from your mouth, the strength of your grandiose wit showing stronger than ever before. Truly this was a once in a life-time opportunity, never again would you eviscerate the character of another man's mother more wholly and completely than you did today!

“Mr Larbawitz, did you for-forget our convers-sation? I'm fic-fic-fictional. I don't have a mo-mother.”

And with those simple words, hope turns to despair, to crushing despair. All that energy, all that potential, all that sheer GALL worked up for nothing! You want nothing more than to weep softly into the mucus laden cheap cotton of your pillow at home, waiting for the soft flemmy embrace of your hateful girlfriend's saliva when she wakes you up for work the next morning by spitting in your eye. Sadly, you have left that life behind, and must accept the consequences. You muster your courage, what little is left. You would muster your dignity but that horse bolted longer ago than you care to remember.

>Ask the TV creature how to become one of those Field Operative things. Maybe you could become a ghost James Bond or something.

You ask about the Field Operatives. That sounds like something that could be fun. An ectoplasmic super sleuth! Sneaking around graveyards stopping all the...evil...spy...ghosts...When you think it out, it sounds amazingly stupid. Who do ghosts have to spy on? Unless you're trying to steal the best burial sites from rival after-lives. Take that Heaven! The Pet Cemetery is ours! Screw you Hell, we've got the town Graveyard! Okay, you've convinced yourself, you're totally into it!
“Oh, you can't choose your own job Mr La-larbawitz. That way lies madness. No no no, you'll be assigned a job. You were a suicide weren't y-y-you? I imagine it'll be de-de-desk work for y-you, yes siree. A nice, easy, mind-le-less job for you to cruise along in for the rest of eternity.” He sighs, as if wishing for the job himself, though your own mind recoils in terror at the notion. Another office job...but this one can't even be escaped by suicide. How is this not Hell, exactly?

“Well, you seem to be done with your questions Mr La-larbawitz. It's time for me to set you up with one of the Afterlife Employment Associates to find your new position. Her name is Bellintina la Poer, but she pr-prefers to go by L-lady Bl-blaze. It'll be obvious why when you find her. Just go through the cubicles to the very north-end of the hall and you'll find your interview room. Room 3. Enter, and Lady Blaze will be with you shortly. Go-g-g-goodbye Mr. La-la-larbawitz.”

The TV suddenly shuts off. You're standing in a huge office complex just as beige as the last room. Endless sad-faced dead men and women sit hard at a deeply depressing form of work, tapping mindlessly at keyboards each of them trying to work around the grotesque remains of the ways in which most of them died. You notice that the majority of them seem to have committed suicide, if the number of slit wrists, throats, and nooses around necks are any indication. You can see a path through the cubicles to the north...and another one to the south marked with the words “Accountancy , this way” written in what you imagine to be strawberry jam. What do you do?

Inventory:

SpoilerShow

Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness

Nightmare Chest:

SpoilerShow

An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars
The Concept of Eternity in an Office Job