"Here," said Jasfoup, handing Harold a large box. "It's a birthday present."
"Really? Thanks." Harold frowned. "It's not my birthday, though."
"That's all right," said the demon. "It wasn't for you. It was for that kid on Wellington Terrace. The one who plays air guitar every night with the curtains open?"
"I know the one." Harold ran his fingers along the parcel, the familiar scent of rubber gum and brown tape conjuring happy childhood memories of the postman delivering packages ordered with cereal box tops and postal orders for sixpence. "So why hasn't it been delivered to him?"
"He died this morning," Jasfoup said. "I was just collecting his soul when the postman arrived. I signed for it so I got to keep it."
"He died on his birthday?" Harold shook his head. "Poor kid. What did he die of?"
"He hung himself because no-one loved him enough to send him a present." The demon grinned. "I know. Ironic or what? You'd have though he'd at least wait until the post had been, right/?"
"So what is it?" Harold slit open the package and peeled away the cardboard. "It's empty."
"You can't see that?" Jasfoup reached past him and pulled something out. "Man, you need your Sight checked. This is the most blinged-up air guitar I have ever seen. Just look at it glittering."
"There's nothing there, Jasfoup." Harold was beginning to sound petulant.
Jasfoup strummed the air and the room filled with the sweetest chord. "Of course not, Harold."
Image: Air Guitar