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face.
    I got to work.
    I closed my eyes and visualized a control panel. Robert had taught me it really doesn't matter what I look at--the panel was a symbol. It had a miniature screen, with two buttons on each side. The screen was divided into four perfect squares; each button corresponded to a square.
    I opened my eyes and looked at the photo of Brad Larsen. Then I closed my eyes and imagined it appearing on the miniature screen. Opened my eyes, studied the photo, closed my eyes, visualized it on the screen. I repeated this process for a good twenty minutes. To an observer, it probably looked like I was playing a marathon game of "Peek-a-Boo" with an imaginary friend.
    Finally, after endless opening and shutting of my eyes, I had a sharp picture of Brad Larsen on my mental control panel. The image had burned itself into my mind, and divided into four quadrants.
    Yep, there it was. Ready to go.
    Yessir.
    Oh, shit.
    It was time to push the first button. The lower left button, which corresponded to the lower left face of Brad Larsen.
    Did I mention I really hate this part of the job?
    Mentally, I pushed the lower left button, and an astounding, hideous pain seized the lower right portion of my face.
    Ever have a blind pimple burrowed beneath your skin? Okay. Now amplify that by about a thousand, then imagine squeezing a fat thumb on the sucker. Hideous pain, let me tell you. Dr. Jekyll-turning-into-Mr.-Hyde kind of pain. The kind that makes you want to swear never, ever to touch your face again.
    On screen, the lower left quadrant vibrated slightly, like a television image struggling for proper reception. I hardly saw it, though, because sheer agony was blinding me.
    The worst part: This was but one of the 40 pushes required to mimic one quadrant of Brad's face. And there were three other quadrants to go.
    Robert had explained it to me this way: Each mental-push of button sends a complex message to my brain to electrically jolt the nerves in the corresponding area of the face. The jolt forces the flesh and bone to react. After enough pushes, that part of the face is more or less reshaped.
    "Great," I'd said. "How about the button that supplies the novocaine?"
    Robert smiled. "If only the afterlife were that simple, my friend."
    Still, I've gotta think there's a way to apply some mental painkiller to this process. If I can drink a Brain scotch, then why can't I concoct some superdrug to numb my physical body? If I could, I'd be invincible, and would be able to swap faces at will. I'd be the unstoppable detective. The ultimate mystery man. I'd uncover and crush the Association in a matter of days--nay, hours--then move on to wipe out all evil from the face of the earth.
    I pushed the button again, and whined like a whipped dog.
    A few minutes later, I pushed it again. And again. And again.
    Soon I settled into a horrific rhythm, pressing the other buttons of the other quadrants of my face in a slow sequence. It always progressed this way. It reminded me of the times my father punished me when I was a child. Dad was a card-carrying member of the Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child Social Club. The Rod in his case was a thick brown leather belt he wore. Wore, that is, until I came home with a bad grade, or stayed out past curfew, or committed some other terrible childhood crime. Then the belt would be released from its loops, folded in half, and smacked across my ass cheeks. The first was always the worst. After a while, I would start to float above the pain. Still feeling it, to be sure, but also outside of it. In a roundabout way, Dad and his belt did prepare me for my future. Just like he always said.
    About a half-hour later I reached the final punches of the button. My face was alive and on fire. At some fundamental level, my own cells and nerves asked: What the fuck are you doing?
    A few more pushes and it was over. I passed out.
    In my dreams, a pointy-detailed demon with oversized mitts kept punching me in the face. It wore the