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"TheHounds are quite overwhelming in their first onslaught, but they tire soon,and their magic quickly dissipates. In fact, they should be running out ofsteam right about now. Of course a few minor covens are a real loss . . . butwe'll rebuild." About an hour later, there was another news flash: the Hounds had enteredthe City. Everyone was silent for a while. Another hour, and the next bulletin came on. The pretty newsreader was thesame as all the times before, but she looked different: tired and afraid. "It'sworse than we thought," she said. "Hounds are attacking everywhere. We havereports from . . . ." Suddenly there was a loud crash. The newsreader screamedand jumped up. "What's that?" she said. A confused jumble of female voicescould be heard in the background. "What's that?" she said again. "Anybody know. . . ?" Then she looked to her side and screamed once more. "No!" she cried. "No!It can't be . . . !" Something big and black seized her and forced her ontoher desk. With a. Being there also gave him time to run the Master PC program over me to restore me to good health. To my shock, it also cured a sun-caused melanoma that had flared terribly, a blossoming case of diabetes and gout in my right big toe.How did I not run the health check on myself? I gave myself a bigger dick but didn’t cure my own cancer. I was relieved, frustrated, angry and confused all at once.“I could have sworn I cured myself when we first started this party,” I told Doc as I rested comfortably in a Bakersfield Memorial Hospital private room. I was there for insurance reasons, not because I needed a reason to stay.“Nah. You gave yourself a bigger dick, a tan and lost 20 pounds,” Doc said, checking a printout of Master PC activity. “That made you healthier, not well.”“But now?” I asked. A nagging thought persisted, but I was in no mood to argue.“But now, you’ll live forever, like the rest of us on The Pact,” Doc said. “You were being too unselfish about your good fortune – something.
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