What has gone before: Tommy Champion, Nebraska farmboy, and all-round hellraiser turned superhero, arrived in Los Angeles to become the official superhero of Nike. His cocky attitude, foul mouth, and bad temper did not win him any friends, except for Michael Carleton, a Nike image consultant who gave him the superhero nom de guerre "Omega." This friendship has its downside, as Michael is a sorcerer with a dark past who has made a deal with the old rival superhero Halcyon to steal pieces of Tommy’s power and use them to restore Halcyon’s powers, which were nearly destroyed ten years by the villainous Black Priest.

Tommy and the young Canadian hero John Wolfe (better known as Permafrost) both won positions as Nike’s sponsored superheroes, and seemed destined for a typical superhero life -- except that Omega is more than a metahuman, he’s one of the Seven Chosen, a superbeing who's destined to fight an important battle against the forces of darkness.

Thanks to the villains  Hack and Orchid (whom Omega mistakenly calls Slash), Tommy has experienced a series of recent tragedies. Three Philadelphia murders have been linked to Omega, including that of MNN reporter Alan Dyment. Permafrost has been kidnapped, and is being transformed into a pawn by Black Priest. Because of the scandal, Omega has lost his endorsement job at Nike, but the tragedy that's made the greatest impact on him is the death of his former girlfriend,Rachel Wiebe, who has been brutally murdered by Orchid. Following her funeral, Tommy decided to return to Philadelphia and take the battle to the Priest and his cult. Unbenownst to Tommy, his friend Sarah Steiner, aka Knock-out (with whom he had a brief relationship) is also in Philadelphia, looking for Hack and Orchid. And events are in motion across the Atlantic that may change all their lives.

After the funeral, I have a few words with the press. I don’t say much, and I mention that the person who killed Rachel is obviously unstable, and the less we say about her, the better. As for the charges, I say what I think: "They’re a joke. A big, sick joke. And anyone who takes them seriously is a joke too."

Fuck, I still know how to endear myself with the press, don’t I? But they’ve come a long way to get their fifteen-second sound bite, so I shouldn’t disappoint them.

"There’s a long list of people who’ve insulted me worse than Alan Dyment. I didn’t kill them and I didn’t kill him."

More reaction. Scribbling and murmuring. There’s something so fucking addictive about being at the center of a crowd’s attention, you don’t even notice that you’re self-destructing while the eyes of the nation are on you.

"In my business, the failure to do legwork can lead to death. I hope you’ll hold your profession and the police to the same standard."

I suddenly find myself alone in a garden of frowning faces. For some reason that feels fucking good to me.

"Omega, what’s happening in Ireland?" a reporter asks me. I turn to him, and go:

"Huh?" I hadn’t heard Shit-One about this. "They let the leprechauns loose or something?"

"We’re getting reports of a massive communications breakdown. The BBC has reported that several massive explosions were spotted over Dublin by an airliner that was flying off the Irish Coast"

"What?"

"And the State Department refuses to comment"

Shit, I’ve got a real bad feeling about this. It knocks all the confidence out of me. I must be whiter than a fucking vampire victim right now.

"I haven’t heard a thing," I say. Is this the Priest’s doing, making his move on Ireland while I’m not around to stop him? One of his followers is an Irish warrior goddess -- maybe she offered him her services in exchange for an attack on the old homestead?

"I’d need the Philadelphia PD’s permission to leave the country to find out what’s going on. I’d suggest you contact the Protectorate. This sounds like a job for Avatar. If it’s a major situation, Omega will be ready to help, but my first priority is helping the people on the West Coast and finding Permafrost."

And that’s it, the party’s over. Most of them think that my intention of finding John is as genuine as O.J.’s quest to find his ex-wife’s "real killers." I’d fuck them up their goddamn backbiting little asses, except a dick of any decent size would impale these midget assholes like a harpoon slicing through a mackerel.

I’d have flown straight to Philadelphia, but I didn’t want to strand Michael in the middle of Nebraska, so I fly him at Mach 2 back to Los Angeles. It’s a little frustrating not to be able to reach my full flight speed, but if I went to Mach 4, the sheer velocity would make it impossible for him to breathe. So I travel at a lower speed while I use my powers to make a force field cushion around him. He doesn’t talk much. I guess I’d shut my fucking mouth too, if this were my first time traveling through the air at supersonic speeds.

As we pass over the Nevada border, after that long stretch of post-Rocky Mountains plains and desert, Michael starts to open up.

"I heard you attacked Halcyon again," Michael says.

"I wouldn’t call it an attack," I reply.

"Shit, farmboy, are you a goddamn glutton for punishment? That asshole already took you for six figures. Don’t give him the satisfaction of making it seven!" Michael scolds.

It’d be a good argument if it wasn’t so transparent -- if I hadn’t heard them talking. I’m tempted to drop Michael, but only for a moment; instead I tighten the grip. It’s interesting, the subtle play of shifts and grips that you can get when you’re holding and flying with someone: the Helen Keller approach to communication.

"Hey, I’m only the messenger," Michael says. What a fucking bullshitter.

"Maybe you’re right," I finally mutter. "It’s not like I really want to waste my time on that fossilized asshole."

I think I covered my ass. I consider asking Michael about his relationship with Michelle, and her claim that he was fucking his friend Matt. But I don’t say anything. Even though I know it’s none of my fucking business, I still want to know, and yet I don’t have the balls to ask about it. Shit, I guess I’m just a fucking coward. How the fuck does he do that to me? Nobody else does that, except for dad. But he helped save Kenny -- Kenny might be dead if he hadn’t dispelled Slash’s fucking mind warp. Why the fuck can’t I just be grateful for that and leave it right there?

Fuck, I can’t get back to Los Angeles fast enough. The smog actually feels good in my lungs. I slow down to just below Mach I as we cross over Riverside into the Los Angeles basin. Finally, I put Michael down on his fucking front porch, turn away, and start to head back to my place.

"Hey, farmboy, what’s the hurry?" Michael calls out. I guess he wants me to come in and talk.

"Do you really have to ask?" I reply, my back still turned.

He has no reply. I guess he figures my silent treatment is due to all the shit I’ve experienced in the last few days.

So I return home to find a surprise. Supervillains, even those who are the most fucked in the head, just have to get cute. Like most clever or egocentric people, when they get hurt, they overcompensate. Within ten minutes of my return, I receive a delivery. It’s a hundred white flowers. The card reads "100 ORCHIDS". The capitalization and the underlining’s deliberate. They were ordered from a florist in Philadelphia.

Obviously, the orchid has some meaning for that bitch, Slash, but I haven’t a fucking clue what it is. A flower of death? I track down the delivery, but I’m pretty sure it’s a dupe. Any halfway decent psionic could mentally dominate some peon into doing this sort of job for her and then forget her true appearance. Still, I gotta make the effort. So I spend about thirty minutes chasing down that blind alley.

The Ireland situation is starting to make the news. It sounds pretty bad, but the reports are mixed. The most common theory, for the moment, is that the British Navy accidentally fired a nuke, and it detonated over Dublin. Shit, if that’s what happened oh, fucking hell. How many people are dead?

I don’t want to think about it right now. My first responsibility is to John. So I fly back to Philadelphia. It feels more like a commute than a flight. I long for a pair of morning DJs to blather on and drown my ears with endless repetitions of "More" or "With Your Arms Open" (or whatever that fucking piece of chick ballad shit is called). But I travel so fast when I go cross-country that the local FM stations pretty much drift in and out every few minutes or so.

So I land in Philadelphia, and head back to the Hyatt. For some reason, even though Nike’s officially disowned me, they’re still paying their favorite superhero whore -- they’re still picking up my bills. Fucking hypocrites. I guess I shouldn’t complain.

The big problem right now is Hack and Slash. If I get too fucking close to them, who knows what they’ll do? Yet they’ve gotta be expecting me to take a run at them. Fuck, I want to take a run at them. But if they feel seriously threatened, they’re gonna do something again.

My plan’s complicated, which means it will probably never work, but what the fuck does that matter. I’m gonna head to the seedy side of Philadelphia, act like a crazed vigilante, grab some scumbags, yell in their faces, commit some minor property damage, and drama queen it up so I look even more fucking nuts than I am. Hack and Slash don’t seem like the low-life bar type, so I shouldn’t get close to them, but it’ll keep up a presence. They’ll be sitting back in their HQ and laughing their asses off at me. Meanwhile, I’ll sneak around in off-hours and do some more useful investigation.

My first stop is a strip bar near Philadelphia airport. I scrutinize the patrons, look for somebody sleazy enough for me to roust. There are certainly plenty of losers in this audience of slack-jawed drooling dorks, but there’s no one who’s really screaming "I’m a criminal lowlife;" just trailer trash and deadbeat business travelers who don’t have the balls to openly cheat on their wives, and confuse their drool with their semen.

In other words, my first stop was a complete fucking waste of time, except for the nice tits on that one dancer, the one who took off the stewardess outfit. They were almost enough for me to wish I could stop and smell the y’know, the fucking coffee, minus the beverage.

My second stop is at a club in one of the seedy areas of town; of course, like most American metropolises (metropolii?), every big city has such a bloated seedy underbelly that it’s hard not to know what’s seedy and what’s merely rundown trendy.

And it’s rundown trendy. None of these plastered yuppies know anything. Good. I walk into the middle of the room and look unkindly on the assembled masses. "Where’s Hack!" I shout, and the room falls dead silent. A bouncer begins to move; I just look at him, shake my head, and he freezes. "Where’s Hack!" I repeat, putting my fist through an oak table.

A couple of people give me some "I’d kick your ass if I wasn’t so drunk" cheeseball stares, and other people are just pissing themselves. I figure I’ll find some loser and make weak threats toward him, but nobody fits the criteria. I pick a man at random. "You! Guy in a fucking hockey mask who goes around hacking people. Where is he?"

"Why don’t you calm down and have a drink, Omega?" he asks timidly.

"And if I calm down, and take time away from my patrol to drink, innocent people may die. You want that?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Good."

I go over to the bar, and pull out a wad of cash, teleported into my hand from the safety deposit box in the hotel. "Here’s for the table. And get that guy," I point to the person who told me to calm down, "whatever he fucking wants, okay?"

The bartender nods at me. The bouncer leans over toward me.

"You want a piece of me, asshole?" I say, arms folded. It wouldn’t be the first time some local musclehead tried to prove his manhood at my expense.

"Fuck no," the bouncer says. "I got some information on your friend Hack."

I look him in his eyes, and he’s not flinching. What the fuck? I wasn’t expecting this thug-life bullshit to actually pay off!

"This better not be bullshit," I warn him. He doesn’t flinch.

"Well, it could be, but it’s the best I can do," the bouncer replies.

I nod. "You want cash?" I ask.

"Fuck no," he repeats. "I got some respect."

We both smile. "Okay." I shrug, my hand going to his arm. "What you got?"

A friend of mine hangs around a bar in South Philly. A shithole called the Pig Pitt. He says Hack was seen there last night. Now, I don’t exactly trust the asshole, but like I said, it’s the best I can do."

"The Pig Pitt? Who the fuck would hang out there? Cops?"

"It used to be a cop bar in the 60s, but the area went downhill," the bouncer says. "It’s mostly bikers now. Not even the gangs hang out there."

"I thought bikers were gangs."

"Well, there's that," the bouncer acknowledges.

"Pig Pitt," I muse. "Thanks man. If it checks out, I owe you."

"And if it doesn’t?"

"I’ll do the same thing to you that I did to Alan Dyment," I say. The big man’s stone face expression finally cracks and I see a spasm of panic come over him. "Which is absolutely nothing. I’m fucking innocent, man."

"You shouldn’t bullshit about things like that," the bouncer says with a sigh.

"There’s a lot of fucking things I shouldn’t bullshit about," I admit. "But I fucking do it anyway. That’s why I’m America’s favorite bullshit whipping boy."

Jesus fucking Christ, have I ever whined harder than that? Well, maybe right after Barlow beat me.

I don’t go to the Pig Pitt, at least not tonight. I roust a few drunks, shout at them. They mostly yell back obscenities. I get a good look at the dirt, puke, and cigarette stains that are caked on their middle fingers. I suppose it’s not a good sign that I’ve seen enough of these broken down urban shitholes that these people are more funny than pathetic. Or maybe it’s just that Rachel’s death still has me fucking whacked.

In the meantime, I listen in on CNN and its metahuman cousin, MNN, from time to time. People are starting to panic about Ireland. The latest rumor is that the Protectorate’s gone bad, and has used Ireland as the beachhead for an alien invasion. That’s bullshit, complete bullshit. Although apparently a lot of the communications satellites hanging over the UK aren’t functioning, including the BBC’s, and there are a lot of problems making telephone calls to Europe right now. Shit, I don’t have time to cross the Atlantic right now, even if I didn’t have the police ordering me to keep my fucking ass in the USA.

I decide to ignore Ireland for now.

Having established myself wandering aimlessly through Philadelphia doing bullying, unproductive stupid bullshit, it’s time to do something useful. I contact the few people on the Philly PD who’ll actually talk to me, and find out where the famed mystic investigator Dr. Wight is staying. After about fifteen minutes of digging, a Detective Stamp, a woman who’s investigating one of the sorority murders, directs me to a brownstone near one of the Italian districts. It’s an old, well-kept apartment with beautiful, reddish-brown brickwork. I decide to enter through the walls.

Unfortunately, the place stinks of black magic, which smells to me like a three day-old dead skunk. The stench is so strong I almost gag. There are some mystical wards placed around the building, but they’re easy to avoid by concentrating and becoming transparent to them. Shit, the spell is powerful enough to detect a major league sorcerer like Michael so just how strong am I?

It’s not a big place, and I quickly overhear the sound of someone mumbling in an adjacent room. I stride into what appears, and spot Sarah, topless on a bench, having her back painted by some short guy. Holy fuck, what’s she doing here?

Whoever’s doing the painting knows his runes and sigils. He’s a small man with almost ape-like features, in a costume that’s a cross between a doctor’s smock and a Nehru jacket. The caduceus on his arm completes the superhero motif, although he’s a little too prim for my profession; he looks more like an Austin Powers character. For some reason I instinctively know what the runes he’s painting represent: one wards away those with the eyes of a cat; a second wards against demons who hide in masks; a third keeps away unwanted lovers; a fourth prevents someone from spying on them when they pass over bridges

All it adds up to is a really cool set of would-be tattoos on Sarah’s naked back.

"You know, I don’t know if it’s art" I smile and announce my presence. "But goddamn it, what a canvass you’ve chosen."

Turning to look over her broad, tanned shoulder, Sarah's eyes widen. "T-tommy?" she sputters in surprise.

The dwarven Picasso stops painting for a second and turns to look at me. I’m expecting to get a lecture on trespassing, but unlike Sarah he doesn't look a bit surprised to see me. "I've been expecting you, Mr. Champion." His attention turns from me to Sarah. "Do you two know each other?"

"People magazine," I say. "You get out much, Doc? All the villains seem to have picked up the issue."

"Hmm, somehow I must have missed it," Dr. Wight replies. "But perhaps that's because most villains read the so-called rags and listen to journalistic tripe." It’s a slap in the face, but I fucking deserve it.

"Yeah, we know each other," Sarah says softly, ignoring the barbs. She's clutching her shirt or something to her chest and actually looks kind of vulnerable. It's a good look for her.

Wight lifts his furry eyebrows and says, "Excuse me as I finish placing this ward of protection on Ms. Steiner." Gently touching Sarah's shoulder, he turns her back around, wets his quill and starting doodling on her back again. "You can have a seat, Mr. Champion. Hold still, Sarah. This might tickle a little."

I drop down into a brightly colored wingback chair and take a minute to look around the room. Looks like the place is straight out of some Dragonlance novel; Rich Bradley used to bring stacks of them into Mr. Kennedy’s English class and get into dork nation arguments with anyone who’d listen to him that they were better works of literature than the Shakespeare we were studying. But this place goes way beyond anything Rich ever imagined -- tons of books, scrolls, bottles, jars and all sorts of other shit line the heavy shelves that sit against every wall. Fuck, this place would probably give Rich his first woody. Dr. Wight’s oblivious to me right now, not that I blame him. I briefly wonder if that paint he's using has eye-of-newt or some other Harry Potter shit in it.

"Tommy," Sarah says gently, not looking at me. "I've heard about everything that's happened to you. I'm so sorry... I can't imagine what it must be like. Getting framed for horrible murders, losing your job, having such a close friend killed by your enemies -- it must be like a nightmare."

"Well, I can’t believe anyone’s going to take the frames too seriously, and when that’s settled, I’ll get the job back. Nike’s just covering their ass. But people dying -- that’s way different. They’ve made it personal. And it’s not like I even did anything to these assholes, I live halfway across the country!"

"As one wise man once said," Dr. Wight remarks, making a deft stroke on Sarah’s back. "It’s a small world after all. Particularly when you’re dealing with mystical forces. And the popular media."

Fuck, I hate hearing that kind of shit, especially because it’s true.

"Well, they’re about to learn that it’s bad form to piss off the neighbors," I say. It’s just an idle piece of smack. (After all, I was a fucking terror to my neighbors, just ask Steve.) It’d be better to change the subject. "But how about you, Sarah? I was hoping to talk with you after I got back from the Protectorate satellite, but then Permafrost vanished, and things became a real mess. Are you okay?"

"I--"

But I interrupt her before she can complete her answer. "I heard there was another battle between you and the Royal Elite and" I close my eyes. Shit, have I had too much caffeine? I’ll shut up now. "Well, I’ve felt like a real asshole for not trying to get hold of you sooner." Fuck, Tommy, I told you to shut up!

Sarah turns her head so she can see me out of the corner of her eye. "It's okay. I'll admit that I was a little mad when you never returned my call, but when I found out everything that had been going on... well, I felt a little embarrassed for being pissed off. You've had more important stuff on your mind."

"Lean forward, child," Wight says to Sarah, apparently ignoring the conversation we're having. Sarah's wearing low-riding, hip-hugging jeans, and she looks bare-back fucking hot as she leans forward to let the little troll continue his work onto her lower back, just above the curves of her ass. I wonder if he's getting cheap thrills out of this. I know I am. Not that Sarah’s cheap -- even if I didn’t have feelings for her and just wanted to use her body, she’s still way better looking than any call girl that I ever met.

"So when were you up at the Monolith?" Sarah asks. "I actually just got back from there a few days ago, and none of them mentioned your having visited the station."

"A little while ago, right after I got your message. I thought I needed to have a little ‘chat’ with them about letting something good go to waste."

I can see her jaw tighten a little, and wish I could see the expression on her face.

"You... went to talk to the Protectorate about that?"

Fuck. She's not going to want to hear about my chest-beating bullshit. Not right now, anyway (even if it was a cool fight). "Yeah. I promised you I would, remember?"

Sarah seems to bristle even more. Shit. Time to remember a few basic rules of personal relayionships: Tactic One, when you offend someone, pretend it’s all a fucking joke. "Don’t worry, no permanent damage was done. As superhero ‘misunderstandings’ go, it was pretty minor league." There’s no change in Sarah’s posture -- she’s still pissed. Damn. Let’s try Tactic Two: change the subject. "But did I hear right? Did you fight some more Royal Elite assholes recently?"

"Uh, yeah. Two guys named Proctor and Rook."

"Sounds like they’re recruiting. This isn’t good." If I needed any evidence that the Protectorate needed to get off their asses and treat Sarah as an asset, this is it. But it’d probably sound arrogant if I mentioned that now.

"I know," Sarah says. "They were after another meta I know in New York -- a young guy named Alex." I see her cheeks flush slightly. Is Alex her boyfriend? Or just someone she’s interested in? The weird thing is that I’m very fucking glad, almost esctastic, to hear the news; it’d be really cool if she’s happy. I want to ask a little more about him. What’s he like, what are his powers, the whole third degree.

But she deftly sidesteps the subject. "The thing I've been working on mostly lately is this pair of serial killers on the loose."

Wight raises an eyebrow as he paints some kind of diamond-shaped symbol in the little hollow just between and above Sarah's ass cheeks. "The same pair that have been giving you so much trouble, Mr. Champion," he says.

"Wait a minute!" I exclaim. I move to face the gnome-like detective a bit closer. "Are you saying that Hack and Slash have been bugging Sarah?" I ask.

"Indeed, that’s exactly what I’m saying," Dr. Wight answers.

Sarah turns around further. "Jesus -- are these two the ones who are screwing with Tommy, who killed his friend in Nebraska?"

"The same," Wight repeats.

This isn't cool. Shit, this really fucking sucks. I wanted to keep Sarah far away from those goddamn horror show rejects as I could. I guess that hope just got fucked up the ass.

Still as long as Sarah’s involved, I may as well take advantage of the few allies I have. I take note the sigils; I got a rough impression, from my magically honed instincts, what each individual symbol meant, but I wasn’t quite sure about their overall intent. "So what are the symbols for?" I ask, faking a bit of ignorance. It wouldn’t hurt to hold back a few of my capabilities from Dr. Wight, jolly little soul he might be.

Wight finishes a long, scrawling line that goes straight up Sarah's spine. "Hack seems to be able to detect Sarah somehow -- he's been stalking her these past few days and nights. This is a spell of protection, to keep her out of harm's way while I'm tied up with other matters." The dwarf turns and looks at me meaningfully. "Which we should discuss, Mr. Champion, now that I've finished. Sarah, please sit still until the ink has dried. We'll be back in a few moments."

Sarah nods, holding what I can now see is a black t-shirt closer to her chest. She's looking wide-eyed and a little scared. Jesus, her eyes are blue. They're practically glowing in the firelight. "I'll wait here," she says simply, then hesitantly adds, "Tommy -- are you taking off right away after talking with the professor?"

I get to my feet and smile. My hand drifts to her shoulder. "Let’s see. I could go back to the hotel and watch cable, or I could hang around with you. Given those two choices, I don’t think even a good Scorsese flick could keep my ass in that hotel room." My grin’s pretty wicked. "Let’s do dinner and get caught up."

She beams a smile at me as Wight opens a door to an adjoining study and motions me through. "Okay," she says happily.

Good. It’s fucking good to see a familiar face, a friendly face at that. But business is business.

We settle back into a pair of thick leather chairs. Dr. Wight’s legs dangle comically. I half expect him to pull out a pipe and start smoking. "I know you came to me for a good reason," Dr. Wight says in a voice that’s a slight rumble. "Tell me your story."

"Well you know about Hack and Slash..." That’s the cue to tell him a lot about shit that he already knows, how Hack and his partner ambushed John, how they framed me, how they tried to set me up at the alley. He listens patiently, occasionally bemused, occasionally sad, at what I have to say. I tell him what she did to Kenny and Rachel; the press had already leaked what had happened at the funeral.

"And when I returned to Los Angeles, I found a hundred white orchids waiting for me. Delivered from Philadelphia."

"Orchids?" The dwarf wonders aloud.

"Like, why not black roses?" I ask. "Beauty and death combined. Wouldn’t that be a better floral arrangement for a black magic woman to choose?"

"Not particularly," Wight insists. "Orchids grow in fantastic shapes and bloom brilliant colors, and so its pretty like a rose. But orchids are more mythic, being associated with seduction, deception and magic. The Romans called the orchid 'satyrion.' Some legends claim that it grew from the semen spilled on the ground by copulating satyrs. Other stories detail the flower's birth sprouting from the scattered pieces of a satyr's son named Orchis, who was sacrificially killed and dismembered. Because of its special history, parts of the orchid plant were -- and still are --common ingredients in potions."

"So Slash does practice black magic," I say. "Or perhaps, she is black magic."

"Or she co-exists with it," Wight responds to my speculation by proving just how much out of my fucking league I am. "Orchids aren't parasites; they’re actually epiphytes -- plants that cling to trees and bushes as a growth habit, but which take nothing from the host plant and do not injure it in any way."

"Sounds like a possession." I answer, trying to make sense of the message. Maybe we’re reading too fucking much into it. I really should keep my mouth shut -- I don’t know anything about this shit.

"Indeed, it does," Wight insists. "In the language of flowers, when an orchid is given to someone as a gift it expresses an intention to control." The cryptic, little doctor ponders for a moment, scratching his chin. "What else do you know about her?" he asks.

I shrug, and mull listlessly for a few seconds. Wight’s concerned, but doesn’t say anything. "I suppose you’ve seen all the footage."

"No I haven’t. Show it to me."

I teleport one of the video tapes of Hack and Slash at the fashion show out of the hotel safe, and put it into Dr. Wight’s hands. Then I decide to get cute; I take the telepathic memories I got from Kenny of Slash’s attacks, and see if I can construct a tape of them. We then sit down to watch. The next five minutes make for some fucking miserable viewing -- it’s even worse because enough time has passed that it reopens the wounds -- but it’s necessary.

"Michael a friend with some mystical background thought that she was a vampire," I say.

"Close, but not in the gold," Dr. Wight muses. "I’d say the odds are strong that we’re dealing with a succubus, and a powerful one at that. And if that’s true, then our friend Mr. Hack is most likely an incubus."

Incubus? "I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have turned down all of Rich Bradley’s invitations to play Dungeons & Dragons," I mutter.

"I imagine that pastime is a little too occult-centric for Nebraska tastes."

"Nah, it was way too geek-centric for Tommy Champion tastes," I reply with a smile. "But I think Hack and Slash or Orchid, if that’s what she’s trying to call herself Oh shit!" A horrible realization came over me.

"What is it?"

"You don’t suppose she murdered Rachel because I got her fucking name wrong?" I spit.

"I’m afraid that’s always a possibility. Names are particularly important in the mystical world, Mr. Champion," Dr. Wight answers. "And if the demon has possessed a particularly unstable individual, challenging her self-image may be enough to set her over the edge."

"I guess I shouldn’t have called her a bitch, either," I add. "But it does correspond with what she told me in this weird dream" And I begin to describe my dream, including a guest-starring appearance by everyone’s least favorite chaosmonger-fucking asshole-satanic demon dicklicker. Man, does Wight’s face ever twitch when I mention the Priestie Boy.

"I had heard about your initial encounter with that gentleman," Dr. Wight says.

I laugh out loud. "Shit, you’ve gotta respect somebody who’s manners are so refined that you’d call that fucking monster a 'gentleman.' He’s brought pain and misery and suffering to thousands of people. And he enjoys twisting the knife in person. Even his own children can’t stand him."

"I wasn’t aware that the Priest had children," Dr. Wight says.

I blink, and try to remember where I had heard about the Black Priest’s kids. Nothing comes to mind. "I guess someone who’s lived a thousand years has had quite a few kids, unless he sold his dick as well as his soul to Satan. But that’s beside the point. It’s about time someone deals with that asshole once and for all and sends him on an express train to fucking Hell."

Dr. Wight is silent. "There is a saying," he begins.

"When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back at you," I say. "Nietzsche. The old Nazi bastard."

"Friedrich Nietzsche was a philosopher, not a political dignitary," Wight replies, and then he sighs. "Omega, your goal is extremely dangerous. You will probably fail. Even if you succeed, most of the people you love will be dead or damned by the end of the process. Is this what you really want?"

"No, it’s not, but I don’t have a fucking choice," I say. "I’m the Chosen, not the Chooser. Getting the world ready for the good guys to win at Armageddon seems to be my job, so I better stop whining about it and just do it." I pause and look at Dr. Wight, who seems lost in thought. "What’s the matter, Doc? You think I got delusions of grandeur or something?"

"I wish I did," the dwarf superhero replies. "Good lord, do I ever wish that."

"You willing to help me?" I ask. He’s silent for a long time.

"What’s your plan?" Dr. Wight finally asks.

"I figured I’d start with the Black Mass. His support group. Let’s punish the shitheads who are stupid enough to join that asshole’s congregation. Let’s remove some of the Priest’s infrastructure. I’m sure it’ll have to weaken him." I take a deep breath. "And they might know where John is. As important as Hack and Orchid might be, they’re just a dangerous pair of losers. John isn’t. I’m not abandoning him."

"Are you prepared to enter the gates of Hell?" Dr. Wight asks.

"I’ve already been there," I smile, and I transform the top of my costume into a "Hell: An Eternity You’ll Never Forget" T-shirt. "How’d you like to go there with me on my return visit?"

"Hell's no latitude for making mirth," Wight quips. "At least that's what Ambrose Bierce once said."

"He's probably right, Doc," I retort. "But just think how the devil and his demons would react if we heckled their asses."

And like that, the doctor's tight-lipped face smiles slightly. "Bierce was a satirist, and so he would have most likely agreed with you," he replies. "Although as sardonic as he was, I do not think he would use your vernacular." Wight nods agreeingly. "Of course I’m in. You’re not the only one without a choice, boy"

I head out of the munchkin’s study and spot Sarah, who's now fully clothed. "I shall leave the two of you in each other’s care, dubious though that may be. And if you're willing to take an adult’s advice -- go for all the joy you can get. It’s fleeting."

I watch as Dr. Wight retires into his study and locks the door. I guess that’s what he did -- "retire" is the polite word for it, I suppose. "Dad would probably tell us the same thing," I tell Sarah. "Though not so fatalistically."

"Mom might too," Sarah says. "She’s been a lot better lately, actually."

We look at each other, realize that we’re alone, and get into a really tight embrace. I give her a gentle kiss on those big hard lips. She doesn’t resist, but she doesn’t amp the voltage either.

"I’m sorry," Sarah says, rubbing my back.

"For what?" I wonder aloud in a low purr.

"Everything you’ve been through," Sarah answers. "I don’t know what I’d do if my enemies started killing my friends."

"Y’know, I could have worn a mask," I say. "But no, I just had to be big, bad, no bullshit boy. I had to be completely honest with everybody fuck, what a joke that turned out to be, a big fucking joke." Sarah sighs. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to start going Turrette’s on you like that."

"That’s fine, Tommy. You can’t hold everything in."

"There’s not much to hold in, not anymore," I say. "Including my appetite. Let’s grab some dinner while there are places still open"

We end up getting Chinese, and it's surprisingly good. After all the shit I've been through lately, it's really weird to sit down and take the time to actually talk to someone about everything that's been going on. Weird, but good. Really good. Sarah and I kind of understand one another; we can cut through all the bullshit to get to the stuff that matters. I don't know why she brings out my Bridges-of-Madison-County-pussy-whipped side, but I don't care as long as Michael isn’t here to give me shit about it.

"So... yeah," Sarah begins, touching her lips with her napkin, "after spending some time up at the Monolith, I'm really not too upset about being turned down by them. It wasn't really my idea to apply in any case -- I have mom to thank for that one." Pretending she's on the phone, she makes a funny voice and adds, "Yeah, hello, Protectorate? I know you're the most famous and powerful heroes in the world and everything, but like, will you hire me? I saved a cat from a tree once..."

I start to say, "Bullshit -- Sarah, it's their loss," when she shushes me and smiles crookedly.

"No, Tommy, I mean it. Those guys don't have lives of their own. They live that stuff. That week I spent up there, man, my head was spinning. You should see all the crises they deal with, big and small. Right now, there's something huge going down in Ireland. And they think they've discovered proof of vampires in New Orleans..."

Hmm, I wonder luring the vamps into a small space, redirecting a satellite mirror and reflecting sunlight down onto the vamps would solve that problem But I just sit back and listen to Sarah. Hell, I hate people who space out when they listen to me, so I shouldn’t do it to Sarah.

"Add to that battles with the Royal Elite in India, uprisings and social unrest in Indonesia and Thailand, trouble at a power plant in Salt Lake City"

"I heard there was a cat stuck in a tree somewhere on the outskirts of Cleveland," I tease. She gives me a dirty look. "Okay!" I smile. "I’ll concede that you have a point."

"And when they're not teleporting around the world, they're all glued to their computers and scanners, looking for trouble. So, really, I don't mind being turned down. Maybe I'll be ready for that kind of thing eventually, but I'm too young right now. There's still to much normal stuff I haven't seen or experienced."

"Well normal can be underrated," I say. "I wish I’d gotten my powers after the State wrestling championships in senior year. I had pretty much geared my entire life to that event, and when I got my powers, I couldn’t compete. You can feel cheated."

"So tell me," Sarah says with a raised eyebrow, "when you tangled with the Protectorate, did you happen to embarrass or humiliate Lioness? She was really hard on me while I trained with her, and may have grumbled about you a time or two. She berated me for being clumsy; she berated me for being in it for the money; she berated me for being too concerned with my looks; she berated me for being immature, you name it, she berated me for it."

"She berated you for being gorgeous?" Sarah doesn’t seem to be in a mood to appreciate a joke, she needs a listener.

"She really tried to do a hatchet-job on my self-esteem. Luckily I'm pretty good at shrugging off super-critical crap like that after dealing with mom for so long. If mom knew I was with you right now she'd freak, by the way. She's better, but she's still a huge pain in the ass."

"Good. And I’m sorry if Miss Kitty was having a hissy fit just because she couldn’t watch her head on the ceiling." I concentrate, and the fight in the Protectorate satellite appears as an image in the center of the table. The sound of Lioness’s noggin makes an almost comical ring as it connects with the satellite’s alien-steel ceiling. "She was easy. Paragon and the Outsider, on the other hand, weren’t."

I watch Sarah’s face as she looks at the "footage." She watches with interest and a slight smile as I tangle with the Outsider. "Of course, she may have a good reason for testing you. Maybe she wanted to see how you respond under pressure. I’ll bet in six months you’ll be pretty good friends." There’s a look of disbelief on Sarah’s face. "And your mom’s still mad with me?"

"Oh, you know. The whole murder suspect thing." Sarah smiles. Leaning forward, she adds, "But mostly because of the rumors going around that we slept together on the People magazine shoot. Hey, what did you think of the issue, by the way? I thought we looked pretty hot."

"Yeah, we looked good all right," I say. "Mind you, I think a photo spread with you and John Goodman would still look incredible."

Sarah brushes some hair behind one of her ears and shrugs. Shit, she looks good right now. That tight black t-shirt really shows off her big tits, a glass of wine has colored her cheeks, and I'm starting to pick up that vibe off of her. The same one as before, the one I wasn't getting back at Wight's. There’s nothing like raw sexual attraction and an incredibly beautiful woman to clear one’s head.

"So how long are you going to be in town?" she asks suddenly. "It'd be nice to, you know, hang out a little..."

"Definitely. It’d be nice." I have to stop myself from openly licking my chops. "But what about Alex?"

Shit, why didn’t I just throw a pitcher of fucking ice water on the two of us? What the fuck am I thinking?

She looks a little surprised, but not uncomfortable with the question. "Alex? We're just friends -- for now. He's a very cool guy, though, and I'll probably be seeing more of him. What made you ask that?"

Complete brain death, I tell myself, but I don’t say it. "I guess I’ve got a weird perspective right now," I do say. "I can’t take anything for granted anymore. Cherish the friends you’ve got, Sarah. Rachel and I weren’t exactly close at the end, but I’d have given my right arm to save her. And I can’t tell you how sick I am about John." I swallow hard. "It’s driving me nuts. Nothing’s sane anymore. I didn’t do anything to set off these assholes. John didn’t do anything It’s just senseless. I’ve done enough shit in my life that I deserve getting nailed for it. If Bandita were to hire people to kill me I’d understand. Even the Chain attacking me in my sleep I kinda understand -- at least that was personal. But this?"

Sarah takes one of my hands in hers across the table. "I know. It's crazy -- I can't pretend to understand everything you've gone through, but to be targeted for no reason like this is just horrible. That part of being a 'hero' sucks. We shouldn't have to worry about people going after our friends and relatives, but I guess we do. So let's just do the best we can. It wasn't your fault about Rachel. And if something happens to someone else, that won't be your fault either. You're human, Tommy, you have to remember that. You can fly, you can bounce rockets off your chest -- you can even stop time, for God's sake -- but you can't be everywhere at once, being a guardian angel for every person you've ever cared about." She pauses for a second, her eyes wide and vivid. "But I know it hurts. And I know me telling you it's not your fault doesn't make it any better."

Fucking right it still fucking hurts. But having Sarah look at me this way is helping. "Maybe a little better," I joke.

She offers up another one of those killer crooked smiles. "Liar," she says.

Before I can answer, the waitress comes over and cleans the table. She's one of those small, super-efficient middle-aged Chinese women who can balance twenty-some plates on her arms, refill our water glasses, and put down the check all at the same time. I wonder if that's some kind of super-power that's just never been officially recognized.

"Thanks for dinner, Tommy, it was pretty yummy," Sarah says, stretching her arms above her head.

I nod, and then decide to finally get what I know we're both thinking about out into the open.

"By the way, in case you were wondering, last time we met" Shit, am I awkward. Why am I acting like such a fucking dork? I manage to smile weakly. "What happened between us last time, it was really special. And, if you’re up to it, I’d like you to come up to my room, and you know do it again." Fuck, is that ever romantic.

Sarah laughs out loud. "Tommy Champion, you're a smoooooth operator. First you bring up Alex, and now you sling me a line like that? Man! It's no wonder you don't have a girlfriend." Sarah stops chuckling, then looks at me sideways. "You don't have a girlfriend, right?"

"Nope," I answer, a little embarrassed at her reaction. "But if you--"

"Shh," she whispers, touching my lips with her finger. "Tell me what did you have in mind. Better yet, show me..."

It turns into a long, wild night. When we get back to the room, we kiss and slide against one another like a couple of high-school kids. Sarah is so sturdy that she gives Dodge trucks "toughness envy," and that’s a good thing, since by the time we’re naked and on the bed, I’m hornier than hell, and not particularly in control of what my body wants to do to her. And it’s just as good for me as it was last time, and unless she's going for an Oscar, she fucking loves it too. Fuck, do I ever need this. I’d forgotten how good this feels.

It’s a long, slow, exhilarating ride, somehow tender and hard at the same time. Finally, I uncork my body’s champagne, let it flow, and then collapse beside her, realizing just how fucking exhausted I am, from everything. I let myself go human so I can take advantage of the sleep. It's not long before we're both asleep, and it's a good, deep, dreamless sleep. No sign of the fucking Priest.

We're out maybe three hours when she wakes me up for round two. I’m definitely in the mood, but for some incredibly stupid reason, I didn’t unplug the hotel phone. Who the fuck is phoning me at two in the morning? Fuck, am I ever acting like an idiot tonight! Groggily, I stagger out of bed and pick it up.

"This better be good," I say, not caring who’s on the other end.

"I have news for you, Omega." Dr. Wight replies, not at all apologetic.

"Hack and Orchid?"

"Actually, it’s about the other matter we discussed. Can you come?"

I give Sarah a pained look. "It’s Dr. Wight. There’s something he needs to discuss urgently."

"Can’t it wait?"

"Apparently not." I sigh. "You stay here and rest. If anything serious goes down tonight -- or if Hack and Slash are involved, I’ll give you a call."

Sarah doesn’t look too happy. I can’t blame her -- I don’t want her involved in any Priest business, but she can’t help but feel neglected.

I put the phone down and give her a long look. The street light shoots through the blinds in one bright yellow shaft, a glaring imitation of moonlight on her hair. She still looks like a million bucks. "What the fuck!" I snap, and I crawl back into bed with her and start nuzzling her.

"What about Dr. Wight?" Sarah asks.

"Well, I’m powerful, but even I don’t think I can cure dwarfism." I smile.

"Won’t he be annoyed if you don’t show up?"

"Don’t worry, I won’t leave him waiting," I say, fingering her hair and sniffing deeply. "But what’s the point of being able to stop time dead in its tracks if you can’t have fun with it?"

So I surround the bed in a small time warp, and we continue where we left off. The second time always seems to be the best for us. We don’t hold anything back, not even when the bed makes three loud cracks and finally collapses and falls to the floor with a thud. When we finally finish, Sarah drops down on top of me and I fix the broken bed with a thought. The weight of her body feels good on my chest, and I breathe deep when I catch the scent of her hair. She purrs lightly and lifts her head slightly to look at me after she catches her breath.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," she says with a grin, her hair tousled sexily. "I just hope we don't get kicked out..."

"Well, if we do, we’ll find a hotel with sturdier beds and better soundproofing. And then we’ll do an endorsement." I smile. "I gotta go. Keep the phone line open; if tonight involves anything worse than rousting cultists, I’ll need you."

"Cultists?" Sarah asks, rolling onto her stomach on the bed. Fuck, those tattoos on her back are cool. Very sexy. Propping her chin up in her hands, she adds, "I guess I won't ask. Just be careful, and call me if you need me."

I kiss her and tickle her with a tingling force-field for a few seconds (again, using a mild spermicide to avoid unwanted complications). It’s not a long flight from the hotel to Wight’s brownstone, but it sure as hell feels like hours, compared to what I left behind. I’m in the dirty afterglow of sex; I can clean some of it away with a thought, but an aftertaste remains, deep in the pores of my skin, like a good fight. My mind is full of Sarah, her body, her kiss, her smell, her laughter, and everything else about her too -- it’s all there. But whatever the desires of my heart and crotch, to mangle Robert Frost, I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I fuck again.

And so I arrive at Dr. Wight’s. He’s smoking a pipe and lounging in a leather chair with an oversized leather tome on his lap, scrutinizing it through a pair of reading glasses. For some reason, I could see him wearing a monocle and playing the part of Sergeant Schultz in a revival of Hogan’s Heroes. I’m in that sort of mood.

"Let me guess the title, Lap Dances of the Virgins of Hell." I smile, referring to the book.

"There are no virgins in Hell," Dr. Wight answers. "Virginity is as much a possession as it is a physical state. In Hell, as in hellish places on Earth, all peoples are dispossessed, and envy spreads like contagion."

"Wow, you’re a dwarf in body, but a giant in the mind," I say. It’s meant to mock him, but as I speak the words, I recognize the truth in them, and I put the air brakes on the sarcasm. "So you got a Priest sighting to report?"

"I know where his cult can be found tonight," Dr. Wight says. "I must again reiterate, is this what you want?"

"I want John," I say. "I want to hear him laugh, and make bad jokes, and wince when I threaten him after he makes them. I want good things to happen to good people. I want the good guys to win, and it’s not going to happen if I sit on my ass."

"Perhaps you should be more selective about your attacks. Choose a better target than these cultists."

"Well, I will find them, with you -- or without you" I turn to leave.

"Alone, you have no chance," Wight insists in a clear, calm voice. "And I do mean no chance at all."

"Bullshit," I answer. "Just tell me where they are." No long harangues, no arguments, no cryptic warnings. Right now, I want these assholes as much as I want Sarah.

"A farm outside Allentown," Dr. Wight answers curtly. He’s pissed, but I don’t give a shit.

"They’re plotting the destruction of modern society," I spit.

"And getting royally drunk," a voice says from behind me. "These little cults are as much a social club as they are a religion."

It’s Avery Stone.

"It’s two o’clock in the morning," Wight says, annoyed but still maintaining a modicum of restraint. "I thought you government sorcerers 'punched a time clock.'"

"I’m on double overtime, doctor," Avery replies, not smiling at his joke. "I came to discuss the situation in New Orleans."

I start to protest that I don’t know a fucking thing about what’s happening in Louisiana -- but I’m not the person Stone came to see. Dr. Wight rises from his chair and hands Stone a dossier. "I don’t suppose I could persuade you to leave me alone until, say, the Apocalypse?" he sighs.

"Possibly," Stone says. "With young Thomas on the premises, the apocalypse may already be on your doorstep."

"I hate it when people fucking say that," I moan. Wight looks at me and actually gives me a brief, sympathetic nod.

"By the way, Stone, what’s happening in Ireland?

"Chaos," Stone answers. "But no details. Even I’m not cleared for that briefing."

I give Dr. Wight a worried glance. When I turn back to look at Stone, he’s gone.

"I knew he’d do that." Wight almost manages a smile. "Have you ever had the misfortune of knowing him long?"

"Aside from being all cryptic and bullshit, he hasn’t done me any wrong."

And Dr. Wight fills the room with a loud, booming laugh that lasts for at least twenty seconds.

"Okay, now that you’ve thoroughly creeped me out, let’s bust some fucking cultist’s heads." I say.

Wight decides to drive me to Allentown, in his vintage 1953 Studebaker station wagon. Wight boasts how he’s found a way to transform ethyl alcohol into a fuel that’ll run ten times more efficiently than gasoline; I nod stupidly and let him ramble on about his alchemy experiments. I do wonder if Middle America was ready to start practicing sorcery just to increase their gas mileage.

Finally, we arrive at the scene. A low gibbous moon is rising over the countryside, providing faint illumination and really fucking long shadows. It’s weird seeing a barn surrounded by so many trees, given that where I come from, it’s pretty flat and featureless. In Nebraska, the vegetation takes a back seat to the vastness of the land, the wide open sky, and the sense of boundless freedom that the landscape imprints on your soul. Geography is genetics, we just don’t fucking realize it most of the time.

The interior of the barn is lit by torches, held by about forty dupes. The place has been refurbished into a sanctorum, another lie, another insult. Not that the cultists are really dressed for the farm: under their dorky robes, they look like professionals, suit and tie wearing prissy little pissy office-workers, lawyers, doctors, police officers, blue-collar workers, and even other religious ministers are part of the sect. Assholes, shitheads, and worse. Eager eyes who watch the high priest that stands before the cult with a glazed expression; couch potatoes of the fucking damned. An eerie silence is their hymnal, and the priest ascends to a makeshift pew with a slow, ceremonial step.

It’s a Priest, not the Priest. Though he’s dressed in black, and his face looks like a cat after it’s tasted sour milk, and he stinks of necromancy. He raises his arms, the folds of his saffron robe fall back. A gesture of power.

"Attend our lord, our dark minister -- the Black Priest," he speaks.

"We attend," the acolytes say in unison.

"In the beginning, there was nothingness. The universe was but a void of blackness and unknown. Of chaos..."

What a fucking load of pigshit. His demented ramblings make the Dictator sound good, he talks about the natural role of anarchy, the strong crushing the weak, the center cannot hold, there goes the neighborhood, et cetera fucking et cetera. Shit, he’s a long-winded prick.

He starts casting a spell, or farting, or both, and an image materializes in front of the congregation. It’s a series of images, actually, all of them really gruesome, scenes of war, brutality, poverty, anarchy, and suffering. I half-expect Sally Struthers to appear and start asking for money to save the kiddies. Still, it’s playing well in Peoria; the audience here is eating it up.

"And now for what the evening news dares not show you," the dark pastor says with a smile.

I see images of the Royal Elite, in Dublin, in Ireland, ravaging parcels of land and ransacking cities. Fuck. The sky is filled with mutants, metahumans I’ve never seen before. Then, with an especially mad look of glee on his face, Pastor Disaster changes the image to show some bodybuilder donned in a black chestplate, black helmet, and black banded skirt. Shit, I think it's Avatar! He's one of the bad guys now, fighting with the Royal Elite, battling the Irish army, and showing them even less fucking mercy than the British or the Ulster militia do.

"See, the natural state of the universe cannot be bridled," he says.

"That’s it," I growl. Only Dr. Wight can hear or see me in our hiding place; and he seems worried by the look on my face.

"Tommy"

I ignore the warning. Suddenly the image alters, and Avatar rips off the black armor, and throws up his hands and surrenders. Brave soldiers, deepening their resolve, band together and throw back the invaders. Avatar, having shrugged off his enemy’s mental domination, joins forces with the so-called "common people," the millions of people who haven’t given up hope, even in the face of more adversity than these fucking cultists will ever fucking know, and help them rebuild their cities. Families bury their dead, they grieve, but they do not give up; they lick their wounds and rebuild their lives, they take hope to their fucking bosoms and allow it to restore them. That’s the natural state of man, to fight and to endure, and to draw strength from the struggle, even though weaklings like the cult of the Black Priest may surrender. Despair may win the war of the futures, but not without a fight.

"No!" Pastor Disaster screams. "This isn’t how it’s supposed to be! Who did this!"

"Quickly, Tommy," Dr. Wight says in a harsh whisper. "Deal with the high priest. I will what I must to fend off the cult." He pulls a small pouch from his belt, which contains something that smells like St. John’s Wort, and readies it. I nod and step out.

"I did, asshole. Wanna make something of it?" I smirk.

Pastor Disaster has a shocked look on his face. "This is a great tourist spot!" I say. "There’s only one thing wrong with it." I have everyone’s attention -- they haven’t bolted yet. "The people who are standing in it are a complete pack of morons."

I take a deep breath. "You see, this is a barn. It’s where farmers work. And work. And work. And work -- fuck, do they ever work. I should know, because I’ve fucking lived the lifestyle. I’ve seen men break themselves on the soil, but what I haven’t seen is for the so-called 'simple farmer' that is the butt of all your snide jokes about sheep-fucking and inbreeding, to turn into a bitter little loser asshole like yourselves who whine about how fucking tough life is, and then turn around and join some goddamn cult because it tells you that you can place all the blame for your divorces, your addictions, and the drop in your quarterly fucking profits on everything but your goddamn stupid selves, when it’s all your fucking fault that your egos have blocked the flow of blood to your brains, so they’ve shriveled up smaller than your goddamn balls. Life doesn’t suck -- you do."

Man, that was a mouthful. But I ain’t finished.

"You know, this place is truly desecrated by your presence, and it ain’t even a church. Barns represent a place of labor, sweat, and hope; sometimes dashed, sometimes crushed, but rarely ever fucking lost. You stand in the middle of the greatest and richest civilization ever built, and all you can do is whine and whine and whine like complete assholes and cheer when the bogeyman tries to make everyone else as miserable as you are. You don’t deserve one fucking moment of happiness, and I’m going to make sure your little cult doesn’t get it."

That’s when people start to bolt, but Dr. Wight is ready. "Lovely speech, boy," he whispers, throwing the pouch to the ground, causing it to burst open and release a growing blue cloud that mushrooms outwards, overwhelming the stirring robed cult members.

That’s my cue. I slowly rise into the air, fly like a god in a standing posture over the huddled masses, and make a beeline for Pastor Disaster. I expect that he’ll try to turn me into a newt, but he does nothing except smile. I grab him, make a hole in the roof and fly out with him.

"Where’s Permafrost?" I snarl.

"I am prepared," he says.

"Don’t give me that bullshit," I say, and I stare into his eyes, and with every bit of will and mojo that I have, I work to shake his confidence. "Where’s Permafrost!" I repeat.

"I-I don’t know!" he stammers.

"Liar!" I shout. "You fucking liar! Where is he! Where is he!" I shake him hard. "Answer me, asshole! Answer me!"

He takes a deep breath to compose himself. "Kill me now, Omega," he intones.

I backhand him hard enough to bust his lip and crack a tooth. Shit, that felt good. Too good. I shake him again. He’s alternating between fear and an insane, adrenaline kicked, resolve.

"You’ll get no answers from me, Omega," he says with a smile. "There are no answers, you know. Everything is chaos."

Shit, what a fucking loony tune. I look directly into his mind with my mojo; I’m not a major mentalist by any stretch, but this guy’s will is like butter. He doesn’t know. In fact, he hasn’t even seen the Priest in three years; he’s been happy to be the star of his own little production. "Where’s the Priest!" I snarl, even though I know he doesn’t know. "Where is he!"

He laughs. I backhand him again, but he keeps laughing through his bloodied, broken teeth. Finally he tells me, "He is everywhere, you poor, poor child. Everywhere."

The police come by and make arrests. Dr. Wight produces a small camcorder (a really weird little mechanical bird that he says is a camcorder) that he had used to tape evidence of the gathering, so the police will probably be forced to press conspiracy charges against the congregation.

"It’s nice to see a camcorder used for good, instead of evil," I quip, remembering all the bogus evidence that Hack and Orchid had used against me.

The police aren’t happy, though -- they’ve already identified about a dozen lawyers in the crowd, and that’s a lot of lawsuits coming their way.

"So you’ve grabbed the chalice and found it empty," Dr. Wight says.

"Yeah, I guess so. Do all your cases suck this bad?" I ask.

"When they involve major arcana, they usually end up worse," Dr. Wight answers. "Much worse. Nobody died tonight."

"But with these assholes, how would that have been a problem?" I ask.

"But I did get to listen to a stirring speech about those who work the land" Wight’s observation is meant as a compliment.

"The address? Nah, that was pure bullshit," I say. "Trust me, nobody whines harder than farmers. Nobody. And maybe we don’t join apocalyptic cults, but fuck, can we ever obsess over the book of Revelations. I hate to admit it, but my folks ain’t that different from these shitheads. But I believed what I was saying at the time."

"Well, we’re still no closer to finding the Priest or Permafrost," Dr. Wight says. "Have you any other ideas, Omega?"

"Hack and Slash-Orchid is our only hope of finding John right now. We’ve got to take them both out and force them to give us the answer." I pause. "Well, we’ve visited a bar, I think a pig pen -- or a Pigg Pitt -- has gotta be the next logical stop."
 

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