Quiet. Wait. Do you hear that? Ephraim, close the shutters. Elodie, douse that candle. Quickly, my children, quickly. Come here, gather up your rosaries, and pray with me.
Hush, child. Stop your crying. Listen, and be afeared.
There. The thunder. It is the crashing of his bricks.
He comes. Like a broad-shouldered shadow, he falls upon the land. His hunger is endless, so that no amount of good Christian souls and their still-steaming bowls of French onion soup are safe from his grasp. He, the Verotik One. He of the Vinyl Gloves, the Avatar of Whoa.
Can you not sense his coming? See you not the sexy devil girls slinking around corners, their latex lingerie squeaking and crinkling loudly? Can you not smell him, somewhere between patchouli, Drakkar Noir, and corn-syrup blood?
Do not let his narrowed eyes fall upon you. If so, he may choose you, and bring you up with him, to follow in his wake. Behind him, you can see them, an army of the thralls he has summoned and conscripted to walk the night with him. They wear their bandana headbands and wraparound shades and fishnets in devotion. Their soul patches bristle as they seek but a moment of his attention. Eye-nippled virgins giving birth to spider demons, vampire cowboys who were once esteemed directors — they all claw at his heels in supplication.
But if he takes you, my sweet one, it will not be without trial. First, you must bench. You must shoulder-press. You must display just how much you can deadlift, that you are brolic enough to enter into his Coven of Muscularity. Only your ability to crush out five reps of ten in under twenty minutes will make you worthy of his company. And should you fail, then you will fall before him, and be trampled.
Quiet, now. Not a breath. He comes. I see…
Wait. There, at his side. I see them. The spiked jacket. The looming monolith. And…and Dave Lombardo.
He is here with the Original Misfits.
Come, child. This changes things. We must see.
We must see if there are tickets left.