"Oh, good." Skulduggery's tone was completely flat, level, and monotone. His face almost matched, apart from the small crease in his brow. "Oh, goodie. What is it going to do if I refuse to wear it? Leap up and strangle me?"

"I wouldn't wait to find out," said Erskine, narrowly managing to restrain his own laughter. Dexter losing control really wasn't helping. "It might spray more confetti."

"Never mind the strangling concern?"

"You're a skeleton, Skulduggery. Play dead. I just don't want to give John Doe any more work than absolutely necessary. And yes, that is really his name."

Skulduggery fisted one hand and put it inside the wig, negating whatever magical consequence might have arisen from doing nothing, but putting off the moment he'd have to actually put it on. The detective's fist became the pike the wig was rotating on, and he held it out away from him like he was trying to observe it in greater detail. Erskine watched with unfettered glee, remembering the last time he saw Skulduggery in a wig like this. With make-up on his skull, a painted face mask, wearing expensive clothes with ruffles. Saracen Rue had made every single member of the Dead Men into the butt of many a joke at some point or another. "Remember when you last wore something like that, Skul?"

"Yes. I do. And I'd like to continue remembering it as the last time, if everyone would be so kind. I'm not a judge. I punch criminals. I don't decide their punishments. And I certainly wouldn't do it... pompously."

"Oh, never," Valkyrie agreed in a wonderfully patronising manner. "You're never pompous when you arrest anyone. Ever."