Saturday, January 31, 2009
“How much is the shop worth?” said Harold, his pencil dancing up a column of figures as he calculated the week’s takings. Passing trade accounted for less than 3% of sales – not enough to pay for heating the shop (assuming they paid their bills which, thanks to Jasfoup’s creative accounting and Devious’ skill with a pair of wire strippers and a junction box, they didn’t).
“Lots?” said Jasfoup. “Maintaining a respectable frontage is the duty of every demonologist. You can never put a value on a reasonable means to earn a crust, for appearances’ sake.” He sounded more like a Victorian parlour magician than an accomplished businessman.
Harold raised one eyebrow. “You sound like a Victorian parlour maid,” he said. “I’m surprised you don’t come out with a few ‘Good Morrow’s’ and ‘ne’er-do-wells’.” He grinned. “No, seriously though. I’ve got to put a figure on it for the insurance.”
“Off the top of my head,” said Jasfoup, thoughtfully, “Somewhere between a billion pounds and one pound eighty-seven pence.”
“How is you work that out?
“That’s how much me lunch cost me,” said the demon. “It’s in the fridge.