Popcorn 9: Page 3 else's share of alcohol, and the soul had suf-fered through many a dehydrated morning - after with its host, as hangovers do not confine themselves to meat and bones. In addition Michael, not unlike the man who had killed him moments before, had had a sweet tooth for speed and, to a lesser degree, various other drugs. The soul took some offense at this incessant meddling with booze and various chemicals. "Wasn't I good enough?" it had huffed in rather childish transcendental piques.     The answer, of course, was "No."     Preoccupied with constantly getting high and coming down, both being pastimes that, one way or another, end up consuming a great deal of time, energy, and money, Michael had not devoted much of himself to honing, or even identifying, empathy. He was, to quote many of the people who knew him, "a real fucker." He mocked the lame and kicked kittens, cut in lines and spat on beggars. Only his vanity proved huge enough to rival his casual malice, and they wreaked havoc in tandem, two Japanese movie monsters with one common enemy - humanity.     Michael had a head of unruly blond curls. He crowed over his own supple waist. Michael had, in fact, a sassy rump. He examined himself in the mirror, naked, at least several times a day. He monitored his ear, nose, and throat hairs, im-mediately clipping those that even dared point toward the outside world. He shaved his chest and exfoliated his scrotum. A local electrolysis boutique rid him of the soft, pale hairs that ran down his spine. He inspected his own perfect manicure so often an observer would have thought that tiny television screens embedded in each fingernail all played videos of Michael.     As during the moments prior to his death, he had always been at his happiest when he had successfully screwed someone else for his own