For such Important Assets, the employees of Gerry's sure had a blizzard of paperwork to fill out regarding such things as citizenship and felonious histories. They were each called into Richard's office individually, where he smiled his big precise smile and assured them that all the names, addresses, tax forms, social security numbers and signatures were mere formalities.
     As luck would have it, it was the Demon who got called in to take care of Violet's allotment of paperwork.
     "Violet Tanglewood. So you're the cook I've heard so much about," Richard said grandly to the Demon, who shifted uncomfortably in the doorway of what had once been Gerry's office.
     "Maybe. Unless you heard something bad. Then it would be one of the other cooks."
     Richard guffawed as if this were the funniest joke ever, which instantly set the Demon's Suspicion Gland to tingling. While his experience with human interaction was brief, he had learned enough to associate insincere merriment with impending sales pitches. Stapled clumps of paper lay fanned across the desk. "Great, now if we can just get you to fill these out..."
     The Violet-Demon reached out to scoop them up. "Okee-dokee. I'll take these home and write on them tonight."
     "Sorry, no can do," Richard informed her, flattening his hand gently over the flabellate array. "Our policy is that all paperwork remains in the office. For your own privacy, of course."
     "Oh." Worry bloomed in the Demon's gut. After an incident where he almost unwittingly purchased three years of pricey cell phone service, he was under strict orders to sign nothing except for his time card. "I was just thinking, maybe I should run these past my attorneys. I mean, this one looks awful official." He plucked the most ominous document from the arrangement and brandished it.
     Richard gave him that odd look that usually preceded someone's asking Violet if she was okay. "That's a W-2 form."
     The Demon looked down at it. "Oh. So it is." He had never heard of a W-2 form, but it sounded like it probably had something to do with robots.     
     "These will just take a minute."
     Feeling the beginnings of a blush, the Demon sat down and tapped his pen a couple of times. Well, the first one, Violet's name, was easy enough. He wrote it out, self-conscious about his big, primitive scrawl.
     He knew her phone number, too, but came to a screeching halt at the address line.
     "Shit," he murmured aloud.
     Richard fairly dripped ersatz avuncular concern. "You don't know your own address?"
     "I'm not a moron. Of course I know my address. It used to be Kailo Street... but the new place... I think it starts with a three."
     "The address would be on your driver's license, wouldn't it?"
     "My driver's who? Oh. Haven't got one. I mean I own one, but it's at home, hidden under my socks."
     "How do you get—?"
     "I walk. How do you get to work?"
     "I drive my car."
     "Right, right. Those things. I've been meaning to get one, but then I looked at the price tags, and whoo! Maybe if I rob a bank."
     Richard appeared to have started perspiring.
     With an unseemly amount of coaching, enough to make the Demon uncomfortably aware the he was being elevated to Anecdote status, he and Richard managed to muddle through most of the forms. It took a good three hours, because the Demon insisted on reading every last word on every page. Violet was going to be plenty pissy that he had done all of this writing without her supervision (where was she, anyhow?) and he planned to be well-versed when it came time to explain.
     "Now, if you could just sign here..." They were nearing the end of the load.
     "What's this?"
     "It's just a standard rider about the restaurant's code of conduct."
     The Demon studied it carefully. It was a murky block of language, requiring several readings to digest completely, at which point he pushed the sheet away. "I think I'll pass. Did you know that one says you get to fire me for no reason?" Violet would surely be pleased at his shrewdness.
     Richard smiled and tried his hardest not to look like a man who was seriously considering resorting to forgery. "Purely a formality. It's our way of encouraging everyone to behave in a way that benefits the entire team."
     "Okay. That makes good sense."
     Her new boss looked relieved.
     "And I'd sign it if that was what it said. But this just says you get to can me whenever you feel like it. Can't you already do that? Why do I need to sign a paper saying so?"
     "Tell you what. I'll just hang on to this one for now." He slid the form off to some netherworld on the other side of his desk. "Just one more quick signature, here, and we're finished."
     The Demon subjected the final form to the same level of scrutiny as the others. "Intellectual property?"
     "Think of it as... an insurance policy on the cuisine that makes Gerry's so popular. Again, for your protection. You wouldn't want some disgruntled ex-employee to go off and use your recipes at another restaurant, would you?"
     "Recipes?"
     "You know, like a notebook—"
     "Oh, I haven't used recipes since..." Since what? Since he hijacked a human corpse and started coming to work in it? Since Violet drowned in a smelly lake and woke up in the morgue? "Since ever, really."
     "You don't use recipes."
     "Nah. I just go by smell. That way nothing ever turns out the same way twice, and it doesn't bore everyone to death."
     Richard looked at Violet like she had just hopped up on the desk and crapped a bushel of live puppies.