AS SIMON WRAPS UP STRANGLING AN ELF-VAMPIRE-FOX-DRAGON-MICROWAVE HYBRID ABOMINATION TO DEATH, HE IS SUBDUED BY A DUO OF MEN CLAD IN RAMSHACKLE ARMOR. HE IS PULLED BY HIS ARMS INTO POSITION IN FRONT OF A TABLE, ON TOP OF WHICH STANDS A SHIRTLESS MAN WEARING LIT CRIMSON GOGGLES.

“YOU WILL KNOW MY WRATH, DECIDUOUS MONSIGNOR.” SAYS THE FIEND, TAKING A STANCE AS HIS MEN HOLD SIMON IN PLACE. HE PROCEEDS TO LEAP OFF OF THE TABLE, HIS ELBOW POINTED OUTWARD IN AN ATTEMPT TO DETONATE THE BARTENDER’S SKULL WITH A SINGLE, PERFECT STRIKE.

HE IS, HOWEVER, INTERRUPTED BY AN ARTILLERY STRIKE, WHICH SENDS HIM CAREENING INTO THE THICK OF THE CROWD.

SIMON’S CAPTORS ARE BOTH RIPPED FROM HIM, ONE BY A GHASTLY WRAITH WHICH DEVOURS HIS SOUL, AND THE OTHER BY A MAN WITH BEARS FOR HANDS.

NOT ‘BEAR HANDS’. NOT JUST BEAR HEADS, EITHER. TWO FULLY GROWN BROWN BEARS, FUSED WITH THE MAN’S WRISTS AT THEIR NON-EXISTENT SPHINCTERS. THE MAN LOOKS COMPLACENT, ALMOST SAD REALLY, AS THE BEARS DRAG HIM, AND THEIR NEW MEAL, AWAY.

SIMON PAUSES FOR A MOMENT, BEFORE PICKING UP A SPLINTERED CHAIR LEG, AND LUNGING AT WHO HE ASSUMED WAS ZEUS, OR A ZEUS-LIKE FIGURE.