creating evil bob

“Oh,” Butters said again. Then he asked, “How do I . . . make sure not to set him on black hat?”
“You can’t,” Bob said. “Harry ordered me to forget that part of me and never to bring it out again. So I lopped it off.”
It was my turn to blink. “You what?”
“Hey,” Bob said, “you told me never to bring it out again. You said never. As long as I was with you, that wouldn’t be an issue—but the next guy could order me to do it and it would still happen. So I made sure it couldn’t happen again. No big whoop, Dresden. Oy, but you are such a little girl sometimes.”
I blinked several more times. “Oy?”
“My mother calls me twice a week,” Butters explained. “He listens in.”
“She’s right, you know, sahib,” Bob said brightly. “If you’d just do something with your hair and wear nicer clothes, you’d find a woman. You’re a doctor, after all. What woman doesn’t want to marry a doctor?”
“Did he just get a little Yiddish accent?” I asked Butters.
“I get it twice a week already, Bob,” Butters growled. “I don’t need it from you, too.”
“Well, you need it from somewhere,” Bob said. “I mean, look at your hair.”
Butters ground his teeth.
“Anyway, Harry,” Bob began.
“I know,” I said. “The thing I saw with the Grey Ghost must be the piece that you cut off.”
“Right,” he said. “Got it in one.”
“Your offspring, one might say.”
The skull shuddered, which added a lot of motion to the bobblehead thing. “If one was coming from a dementedly limited mortal viewpoint, I guess.”


Ghost Story Chapter 17, Page 194-195