3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 2

When SPYGOD and Doctor Krwi first met, all those years ago, they found themselves in circumstances much like these: severely outnumbered, sadly outgunned, and too deep underground to have a hope of retreating.

It was in the small village of Stubno, Poland, in the 60's. SPYGOD was just learning to wield the powers his new eye had granted him, but not fully cognizant of what he'd been given. Krwi was a younger man, with just enough combat magic to make him a dangerous opponent, but not having learned to put his spells and swords together enough to make him truly formidable, yet. And neither of them knew the other very well, or entirely trusted their strange, new ally against a mutual foe; indeed, divided by their political affiliations, insults were traded, harsh words were said, and the mission almost abandoned out of mistrust and exasperation.

(Standard operating procedure when two heroes meet for the first time, it would seem)

Yet there they were, that day, fighting back to back in a series of large, dank caverns under the village. Together, they faced off against mobs of pre-communist Russian vampires, as well small armies of their diseased revenants, swarms of scuttling, blood-fattened vermin, and hordes of their slimy, undead minions.

The duo's ammunition ran out by the second cavern, SPYGOD-vision seemed to have little effect on the undead, and Krwi was too spiritually and mentally exhausted to keep flinging spells by the third. According to the partial map they were following, there were ten more caverns to go, perhaps more, and they had no hope of going back the way they came.

The only way out was through.

So they looked at one another, in a slight lull in the onslaught, and simultaneously realized that all they could rely on after that point were fists and swords, and faith and fire, and the belief, born of shared enemies, that they had each others' backs.

Thankfully, that belief was not in error; they persevered, and the great vampire kingdom of the Carpathians was put to the torch. No longer would this nest of the hungry dead prey upon the people who lived in the mountains' shadow without fear, and SQUASH would no longer be able to use their younger, less degenerate members as nightmare troops against the free world.

The two men parted friends, and would call upon one another, now and again, when an item of mutual concern crossed their notice. Over those decades, Doctor Krwi would become more adept at his combat magic, eventually assuming the role of the world's preeminent destroyer of vampires. And SPYGOD -- as we all know -- continued to learn more of what the Chandra Eye had granted him, putting both his immortality and unearthly senses to work for his country, and the world.

But while Krwi became older and wiser, all too aware of his encroaching age and mortality, SPYGOD -- perhaps too assured by his apparent godhood -- became decadent and reckless. One unfortunate incident in the early part of the new century led the two to re-evaluate both their working relationship and friendship, and may have led to blows had the old man not chosen to leave without saying goodbye. Indeed, in an angry letter, penned some months after the event, Krwi went as far as to tell SPYGOD to never call him again, unless the world depended on it.

According to the secret communication he received from a disgraced and hunted SPYGOD, perhaps a week and a half ago, it did. Hence his presence here, this night -- back to back once more with the man he swore he'd never so much as set eyes on, again, lest they trade more than recriminations.

This time they have come prepared. SPYGOD has learned not to rely on guns, but on his fists, and that the sight of the Chandra Eye can work on the undead if used along a certain wavelength, and then only on younger ones, or their lesser creations. And Krwi has long since created the perfect fusion of sword and spell, using the latter to drive the enemy back, or bring them forward to take the edge of the former.

Still -- to borrow a phrase from this age's enfant terrible --  it's going to be a long, hard road out of Hell, tonight.

One large mob of vampires lies at their feet, turned to dust or rapidly-aging, twitching flesh and blood, peppered with the gristle and gore of untold legions of scabrous, overgrown spiders, bloodthirsty centipedes as long and thick as a man's arm, and cancerous rats the size of puppies. But another group, bolstered by rotting bodies animated by the blood, is about to charge past the columns and coffins that mark the boundary of this area and the start of the next. And their ultimate objective is quite some distance beyond that barrier.

Simply put: it would help immensely if their secret weapon would hurry the !@#$ up and do what he was supposed to do.

But the moment SPYGOD and Krwi hear the evil, otherworldly laughter behind him, they both know that it's time to duck and cover. The Doctor's seen the monster in action, once before, and barely held his mind together in its wake. And as for SPYGOD, he knows all too well that once the creature starts to kill, it's not going to stop.

Not even for him.

There are two coffins nearby, being used as furniture. SPYGOD rips them open, tosses out their mummified and violated occupants, and lets the old man jump in. Then he slams the lid shut, puts the other coffin on top of it, jumps in, and pulls the lid down shut on top of himself.

As he does, he catches the slightest glimpse of Crazyface as it surges from the dark hole that its owner/victim disappeared into, a few bloody moments ago. Its' true nature is difficult for him to process, given that the Chandra Eye allows him to see reality from so many different angles, but the dizzying, rushing spiral of trans-cosmic darkness that comes along with it almost causes him to vomit from motion sickness.

It is not mortal being, anymore; it is a plague of metal space-locusts in the shape of a man, given rough form by a body wracked by its dire proximity, and given hideous purpose by what little remains of it's host's mind.

As SPYGOD holds the lid down from the inside for dear life -- even for him -- he hears the horrible noises outside, as the angry, bloodthirsty shouts of the oncoming hordes of vampires and their slaves turn into screams of terror, and then agony, followed by mewling cries for pity in the face of the fanged maw of a creature called up from the limitless depths of an unknown and hostile universe.

And above the screams and cries, and the rending of limb and life -- or its pale, deathly shadow, at any rate -- the monstrous noise of a million buzzing, steel insects let loose upon the world.

* * *

The screams and cries get louder, almost drowning out the otherworldly drone of the spacegod they've let loose on the Vampires of Cuba. The coffins insulate them from having to see the full horror, but the terrible sounds -- and otherworldly vibrations -- churn their stomachs and make their minds reel. 

The old man's seen the being in action once, and only long enough to know that he needed to get away from it. He locked himself into the house's basement, and did not come out until well after the buzzing had stopped, and the immediate, almost-paralyzing horror of what he saw was gone from his mind. And when he opened the door again, there was just Gilligan, laughing and kicking a man's head around the dining room like a soccerball. 

As for SPYGOD, he's danced this tango before. He knows not to come out until well after the buzzing's stopped, just to make sure the cloud didn't hunker down to chortle over a fallen foe, or something. Haste makes blowback in cases like this. 

Carefully, and with all due consideration, he opens up the coffin lid, and looks around at the massacre that took place. Then he quietly climbs out, and with as much stealth as he can, takes his coffin off of the other, and lets Krwi out. He gestures to the old man that they should refrain from speaking, and need to go where the vampires were coming from. There lies their objective, apparently.

The catacombs have become a gruesome canvas for CRAZYFACE. The bodies of the undead are everywhere: spread across the walls and floors, smashed into the ceilings and columns, and arranged in grotesque, yet darkly amusing tableaux. There are neat pyramids of heads to sneak past, and knee-high mazes made of severed arms and legs. Some of the less-decayed dead have been stripped and turned into hideous pornography: their bodies roughly violated by centipede, rat, and spider. A ring of corpses are laid out on the floor in a strange, geometric pattern that reminds SPYGOD of a snowflake, or perhaps something he'd rather not remember, right now.

Chamber after chamber reveals even more disgusting and intricate blasphemies, especially when they get to the area where the vampires let their revenants attend to their meals. Innocent victims were locked up in iron cages suspended above the floor, waiting to be led to upright, metal coffins with retractable spikes lining their insides. Such doncellas sangrientas -- "bloody maidens" -- were used for torture, feeding, and amusement by the vampires of Iberia, and taken along with them to the New World to keep their sadistic traditions alive.

Crazyface has left nothing alive, here; Living prey and undead predator alike have been brutalized, killed, and used as toys. Indeed, the possibility of playing with living things, with all their squishy, wet insides and warm blood, brought out a crueler, even more depraved display from such a meaty palate.

The things on display in this room are truly warped, and the Doctor's fury at what he sees can only barely be restrained. But still SPYGOD motions for him to remain silent; They can argue about this later, he seems to say through sad eyes -- right now, they must be quiet, or they too may die.

Past the feeding and breeding pits for vermin, and the filthy, bone-strewn warrens where the monsters slept the sultry, Cuban days away, and the great meeting hall where they sat on thrones of skull and femur, ribcage and pelvis, and made merry, there is a final area. This great place, unholiest amongst unholy things, contains the greatest treasure of the Vampires of Cuba, and is sealed with an appropriately impressive barrier. It is an iron wall, engraved with the same angelic and demonic scenes as the door that led into the warren, itself, only with even greater detail, and certain parts engineered to swing inward when opened with the correct key.

It is a door that Crazyface's host was told to leave alone. From the looks of things, he obeyed that order, at least. 

SPYGOD looks to the Doctor, who, with red eyes brimming with tears, nods and makes a series of arcane gestures, muttering mystical words as he does. His hands begin to glow, and then he places them upon the moving parts, which also begin to glow. Krwi holds his hands there for a count of ten, and then takes them way, and as he does the door unlocks and swings inward. 

The large chamber beyond reminds SPYGOD of ancient, Spanish cathedrals, only without the joy or hope. Stone ribs are its ceiling, with columns like great femurs holding them up. Iron chains dangle from those ribs and columns, with skulls filled with the red, pulsing, light-giving substance at their ends.

In the center of the room is a great pit, and the smell that comes from it is truly obscene. Before the pit is a stone lectern festooned with bones and skulls. Beyond the pit are stone beds, each containing a supine figure, covered with a red, moldering silk sheet.

As they come closer, they can see that the pit is filled with the dried, exsanguinated bodies that the vampires are done with. Slowly crawling amongst those bodies are the most ancient of vampires -- the elders who were quite august when they boarded ships for the New World, and who simply cannot consume the massive amounts of blood needed to maintain their youth and vigor. Fully awake and aware, but barely able to move, they lounge like dying cats, whispering delicious memories to one another, or remembering times gone by as they wait for the forever sleep to take them.

And in the center of that pit, luxuriating in such rotten filth, is a massively bloated thing that looks as though someone had taken a healthy, pink-skinned child, amputated his arms and legs at the torso, and then blown his stomach out to immensely gargantuan proportions -- a ball of skin some ten feet in diameter. The child's eyes are sewn shut, and his mouth held open by a large, iron funnel. The belly is supported by a lattice of iron and bone, which creaks under the heavy weight of the blood.

Inside the stretched, taut skin of the boy is nothing but blood, and in that pool of blood languidly swims a young, slim figure. He sings to himself a truly old song, apparently unaware that his inner sanctum has been invaded, and his kingdom all but dead. 

And this, then, is the King of the Vampires of Cuba: the most ancient of them all, and given all the blood he needs to retain his youth and vigor. This is done so he will not succumb to the ravages of age that have taken his fellows, who slowly slink below him, waiting for a Sunday feeding, or to lap up the occasional spill of their master's blood. 

SPYGOD nods to Krwi, and waves a hand at the monstrosity. This is what he's promised the old man for his participation in this venture, and this is what he's earned. He doesn't really want to see it, though. He's got other, more important things to do.

He walks past the pit over to the stone tables, where the figures lay. He finds the one that's still breathing, and pulls the sheet off it to reveal none other than Fidel Castro, himself.

"(Who...?)" the dictator asks, his eyes fluttering open. He looks younger than he has in years -- almost as he did back in the Revolution -- but his eyes are still an old man's eyes, full of burst blood vessels and set within wrinkled lids.

"Heya, !@#$beard," he says, putting a foot down on the man's chest before he can get up, and turning his button off so the man knows who he is: "You really do know the best spots in Havana."

"You?" the young old man stammers.

"Me," SPYGOD says: "Let's talk, shall we?"

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, album version) and drinking momentary triumph)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 1

La Casa de La Sangre is a large, red brick building, nestled amongst several other large, red brick buildings in southern Havana.

While it looks relatively ordinary, something about the building radiates a high degree of malevolence to the trained eye, or sensitive soul. But it's the ear that truly gives away how profane the edifice is, for no matter what time of day one stands in its many, long shadows, one will never hear anything while engulfed in them.

No cats hissing at one another in the alleys. No dogs barking at noises, or each other. No birds chirping, no children playing, no cars or buses or bicycles.

Not even an insect -- not even a !@#$ing fly -- dares buzz in the immediate locale of La Casa, as though what lurked inside it was too terrible, even for such vermin.

It's as if there's a giant, cartoon sign on the building, shouting GO AWAY to all passersby. During the day, at least.

At night? It's a different story. What was eerie and repulsive during in the light of day becomes mysteriously enticing when the Sun goes down.  The silence is no longer total, for it is filled with other sounds -- deeper rhythms and enticing calls, slowly persuading the confused, the lost, and the seeking to enter the red brick warren and find its secret.

Unfortunately, the secret has fangs, and a grotesque appetite.

* * *

Into the warren walk four figures, one after the other. 

In the front is the old man, Dr. Krwi, who proceeds with his hands bound and a dejected look on his face. 

After him is Gilligan, sweating profusely in the tropical night, and likewise bound. He seems to be darkly amused by something, but doesn't care to share.

Bringing up the rear is a tall, carefully nondescript character, walking alongside Ernest, but not too much alongside. It seems clear that he's the writer's ally, based on body language and how he speaks to him.

(That's what those observing should see, and think, anyway.)

Ernest seems a little pale and jittery, as though he's low on blood and expecting something bad to happen. Every so often he regains his composure, and jabs the old man in the neck with a careful finger, as if to dissuade him from doing anything stupid.

And every so often, the old man lets him.

Eventually, the procession goes around an almost-hidden bend that leads to an ominous passage between two buildings, which terminates in a large, iron door. Falling angels decorate it at the top, laughing devils await below.

"Self-aggrandize much?" Gilligan snorts: "It's all downhill from here."

"Shut up," Ernest hisses. He starts to move towards that door, and then stops. Then his "ally" looks at him, expectantly, and he continues in his motion -- knocking on the door, using a combination of long bangs and short raps. 

There's a short wait that feels like forever, and then the door is slowly unlocked from the other side. A series of metal-on-metal slides, clicks, and pops can be heard, and then the creak of the door on its hinges as something unseen, in the shadows beyond the door, opens it up.

A leering, pale face looms out of the darkness, looking at Ernest with what might be a smile, a challenge, or both. The teeth are truly hideous: broken, sharp, picket-fence posts slid out of wrinkled, rotten gums.

The eyes are worse. A pair of black, runny spots in yellow and red fields, they seem like tumors, starting from the skull, as the face's owner appraises the foursome on his doorstep.

The two beings don't talk -- at least not in a way that could be recognized as speaking. They look at each other and move their heads and bodies as though they were speaking, but no audible words are uttered. 

Finally, the shadow retakes its face,  and the door is opened the rest of the way. The two prisoners are shoved through, first, followed by Ernest and his "ally," and they walk into a short and dark hallway lit by strange, glowing, dark red spots on the walls and ceiling. Ernest and the thing that let him in seem to have no problems dealing with this, and neither does the ally, but the prisoners are having to walk carefully to avoid tripping over the gruesome things littering the floor -- exsanguinated rats, small human skulls in various stages of decay, dead spiders the size of two men's hands.

Past the hallway is another, iron door. This is also guarded, only by two persons, this time. They take charge of the prisoners, Ernest, and his assumed ally, from the doorman, and then open the inner door to take the party further in.

As soon as the door is opened, the smell hits: damp rot, sour earth, and blood. The old man wrinkles his nose in disgust but does not seem surprised. Gilligan smiles, almost ear-to-ear, either because he loves the odor, or it's proof that something good is about to happen. Ernest seems a little more nervous, perhaps because this is now the point of no return for him, on several levels.

The strange man betrays nothing, and gently -- but forcefully -- urges the others on.

* * *

Past the inner door is an open, spiral walkway that goes downward and inward, hugging stone walls as it goes, and lit by a large, dark red spot, hanging down on chains from the ceiling. The light is angled down so that little is visible behind it, but the shadows above seem pregnant with a roiling motion, and it's not hard to imagine that they play host to many unclean things.

The rhythm of the walls is frequently punctuated by doors: strong, iron ones, perhaps denoting rooms, and barred metal, which can only be cells. Piteous noises come from the cells, and the occasional scream slips out from behind the stronger doors, followed by laughter or Spanish curses. One door lies slightly ajar, and what's happening in that room is so debased that it's all Doctor Krwi can do to not burst in there and stop it.

But that would ruin the plan, and he's come too far to do that, now.

The floor of the spiral is black and slick with blood, ichor, and less readily identifiable secretions, most of which are leaking out from under the doors and cells. A dried up, almost mummified body lies halfway down the spiral, hanging over the edge in such a way that they pass it twice: once to step over its legs, and then to walk past its head and arms. From the looks of things, it was someone important, but why it's been left here for the rats is unknown. 

At the bottom of the spiral, set into the last rise at a strange angle, is another strong, iron door. Ernest reaches down and pulls on a stone, set into the wall. It slides forward, and then back into place, and then the door pivots inwards, allowing another miasma of stinking, heavy air to assault their senses. 

The way beyond is black as pitch; even the red light from this chamber will not enter there. 

Ernest looks at the indescribable ally, possibly pleading for sense, or a chance to escape. The man looks back, stern as stone. Gilligan starts humming what might be "twinkle, twinkle, little star." Another scream erupts from behind a door -- a child's at a guess.

The party goes forward into the gloom, relying on a vampire to show them the way.

* * *

How long do they walk through that darkness, pawed at by unseen things and assaulted by rank smells that get worse as they go ever forward? And what secret defenses do they walk past, allowed through only because of their escort? Time stretches and loses all meaning, there in the black, and its many dangers remain blissfully unseen, but they all know enough to know -- or at least guess -- that if they didn't have Ernest along, they'd probably be mad or dead at this point.

(Some of them, anyway.)

When they reach their destination, there is no door to open, and no guarded portal to cross. There is simply the sudden, disconcerting realization that they are not alone, followed by the almost-immediate lifting of the gloom, and the revelation of the red-lit, stone chamber beyond. Scores of beings, all dressed in the decaying finery of another age, long gone by, turn to stare at the living amongst them, and their yellow, tumorous eyes seem insatiable with hunger.

This, then, would be the fabled Catacombs of Havana: a seemingly-endless landscape of half-toppled stone walls and high, gloomy ceilings, all held up by processions of ancient pillars and makeshift stacks of crumbled, brittle rock, and lit by large, writhing globules of red, glowing matter. The walls are festooned with webbed-over tapestries, home to massive colonies of beetling and squamous spiders, and numerous old, wooden coffins have been put to use as decorations, storage, and furniture. Everywhere are human bones: lying about the floor in piles, lashed together to make chairs, tables, thrones, and perverse chandeliers for the red light, and roughly reassembled into skeletons for decoration or amusement.

And these, then, would be the dreaded Vampires of Cuba: the pitiful and stagnant -- but still incredibly dangerous -- remnants of Iberia's once-numerous vampire population. All but annihilated as a side effect of the Spanish Inquisition, they fled the fire and holy power by either burrowing deep into the dirt, hoping to sleep out the inferno, or fleeing in boats to whatever new shores they could reach.

Many of the emigres arrived here, in Cuba, amidst the later waves of Spanish conquest. Divested of their ancient treasures and great holdings, they created a new home amongst the natives, choosing this time to hide rather than flaunt their power. Eventually they invited their sleeping brothers and sisters to join them in this damp, fruitful hell, but the fresh infusion of wealth and allies did little to change their new way of life. 

In the dirt they started over, and in the dirt they remain -- until the Revolution gave them an opportunity to influence things above their heads, once more. Now they own more than the night, but still cling to their cautious ways, lest another Inquisition erupt around them.

Singly and in groups, the sere vampires of Cuba descend to greet their wayward son, Ernest, and see what he's brought them.

"(Ernesto, my child,)" one of them -- the best dressed amongst the throng -- slops out of a mouth that seems more tongue than tooth, addressing him in Spanish that's more than a few centuries old: "(What delicious things have you brought us?)"

"(These are not dinner, at least not yet, Your Eminence,)" he says, pushing the Doctor forward: "(This is an old enemy of our people. He is called Doctor Blood. I believe you may have heard of him...?)"

The effect is instantaneous: half the vampires hiss and scuttle away, while the others pull out sharp, filthy blades and rush forward to try and hack him to pieces. The old man doesn't so much as budge, staring at the vampire who spoke with a special hatred: if only his looks could kill, the upier would be dead a thousand times over.

"(Wait,)" the leader commands, and the swords are retracted and lowered, if only for a moment: "(Ernest, this is a surprise, and not an entirely good one. Why have you brought this person here, to us?)"

"(Are you seeking a stronger connection with us, at last?)" another one asks, slinking forward: "(Are you ready to give up the lands above? Is this your prize, to pay your way into our world?)"

"(Jasparo, be silent,)" the Eminence says, waving him back: "(He does ask a good question, my Ernesto. Why have you brought our enemy into our lair, when he could be questioned and dealt with somewhere else? And who is this other with you?")

"(And who is the other captive?)" Jasparo asks, not quite neutered by his master's rebuke.

"(This is an ally of Doctor Blood, your Eminence,") Ernest explains, pushing Gilligan forward. The man grins and does a small tap-dance, taking a bow at the end. Some of the vampires laugh. Doctor Krwi rolls his eyes.

"Just so you all know, He's going to !@#$ing kill everyone in this room," he announces as he gets back up.

"Him?" Jasparo asks in tortured English: "Who is... him? Your Doctor Blood?"

"No. Him. Me Him. Him not me Him."

"(He's not quite sane,)" Ernest tries to explain: "(But no matter. Neither he nor the Doctor can get free. Their bonds are mystically sealed, so that even they cannot escape them. And this one, here, is an ally of mine. He can be trusted with our secrets. He has certain ties-)"

"(They are mystically sealed?)" Jasparo asks, walking closer and looking at the Doctor's bonds: "(Ernesto, I did not know that you practiced our magic. You said it was foolishness to learn, if I do remember correctly?)"

"(My ally sealed them,)" Ernest says, trying to roll with it. His "ally" rolls his eyes, getting the feeling the !@#$ is about to go right down the !@#$ing toilet.

"(These do not look properly sealed, your Eminence,") Jasparo announces, stepping forward to inspect Gilligan's: "(I think we should take them from here, and quickly. This American fool may have put us in danger.)"

"(All creatures such as yourself are in danger, so long as a few good people are willing to do what's needed,)" Doctor Kwri announces: "(And my partner is incorrect. I will kill you, first.)"

"Yo Quiero Taco Bell," Gilligan snickers.  The vampires laugh at this, too, but the Eminence isn't joining in:

"(You are quite correct, Jasparo. Ernesto, we must speak at some length regarding your carelessness here, tonight. But we shall remove these dangers from our midst, first...)"

The Eminence waves his claws, and several of the vampires who drew their swords come down to take charge of Gilligan and the Doctor. It's obvious they mean to take them back up to the spiral walkway, and one of the horrible cells, there.

The Doctor looks to Ernest's ally, who -- listening for something, and finally hearing it -- nods. Without further warning, he leaps headlong into the throng of vampires, screaming as he rips them apart with his bare hands. Ichor, limbs, and heads fly out of the pile as he tears a hole for the others to follow.

Several things happen in swift succession. Ernest runs back the way they came, no longer necessary to this deadly equation. Gilligan snaps his bindings with a devil's strength, and follows quickly after, intent on his own part of the plan.

Dr. Krwi makes an arcane gesture, and within seconds his bonds are entirely gone, and changed back into his sword. He then uses that weapon to slice another path through the vermin that would bring him down, cursing them for ever existing and shouting aloud the name of Christ, the savior, while occasionally throwing a deadly combat spell with the flick of a wrist.

Before long, he and Ernest's ally are all but swamped by vampires, who have swarmed from the seemingly-endless catacombs in order to defend their home. Both fight expertly, with the skill and determination that comes from ages of battling -- and fiercely hating -- the undead, but against so many, what can they hope to achieve except their own deaths?

"Now would be a good !@#$ing time, Gilligan!" the ally shouts back to the mysterious, black hole they came from, and the other two escaped into.

* * *

In the darkness, Ernest weeps. He has just seen the end of his meal ticket. No more blood, no more immortality, no more eternal youth. And any vampire who escapes here today will mark him as a traitor, which will make his nights rather dangerous from here on out.

"Why are you crying?" Gilligan asks, alongside him in the blackness.

"I just lost everything," Ernest whimpers: "That dirty... that son of a !@#$ just destroyed my life. And for what? What's so !@#$ important that we had to come here and do this?"

"You know, I used to read your books, before," Gilligan replies, and for some reason Ernest can now see him -- eerily lit up in the gloom by a mysterious, as-yet-unseen light source: "You always struck me as a phony. All macho and manly-man, but deep down just a little boy in a big man's body."

"!@#$ you, you !@#$ing freak!" Ernest shouts, baring his fangs and claws: "What the !@#$ do you know about getting old? Seeing your friends die? Looking in the mirror and realizing that you're not who you were, anymore?"

Gilligan just laughs. It becomes apparent that the light is coming from the object he's had stashed in his pants the entire time: the silver mask is glowing from inside, and he has it cupped in his hands, ready to wear.

"Maybe you can ask Him about how I feel about that last one, writer-boy," Gilligan says, moving to put it on: "Better yet, maybe you can ask yourself how you feel once He tells you what He thinks of your novels."

Ernest could say something, then. He could say a !@#$ing lot of things. But the moment Gilligan puts the mask on his face, and the glow subsides to a bright light at its edges, and then a bright, blinding shine from the eyes and mouth of the smiley face, he finds himself at a once-in-a-lifetime moment for him.

A total, complete loss of words. 

I aM tHe DevIL, Crazyface announces, his voice grating metal from the space between worlds: And I am ComE to DO tHe DeviL'S WorK.

Ernest tries to run -- give him that much credit, at least. He tries, but before he gets more than three steps back the way they came, scrambling through the dark, something hot and sharp has lashed out and not quite fractionated his midsection.

Ernest Hemingway explodes. Crazyface laughs. 

La Casa de La Sangre, and everyone inside of it, is doomed.

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, Hacienda Version) and drinking... something, somewhere)