Speaking of consequences -- and yes, for Pete's sake, we get it already -- we cut to the Yoro Mountains, in Honduras. A certain Shaman, who would almost certainly be played by Graham Greene if he weren't too expensive and otherwise occupied, is throwing the bones, and he doesn't seem to like what he sees. He likes it even less when Darla strolls into his hut. I'm not going to mention that it's raining, because if I get into the dramatic flashes of lightning my computer will be so full of cheese that it'll turn CDs into Kraft singles. Darla asks whether the Shaman knows why she's there. He nods, and she says that he's her last hope. "I've tried everything and I can't get rid of it, so I ask you -- what is this thing growing inside of me, and how is it possible?" At least she's just as bewildered by this turn of events as the rest of us are. The Shaman asks, "The father is also a --" Darla interrupts: "Vampire? Yes. Though not a very good one." Heh. The Shaman needs blood. He pulls out a big knife and Darla obligingly stretches her hand out for him, but he starts shaking. Darla grumbles, "Men are such babies," takes the knife, and slashes her palm. Blood drips into the cup the Shaman holds. He does some Shamany stuff with herbs and insists that the resulting goo has never failed. He pours the goo onto his hands and then presses them onto Darla's belly. Inside her, a little baby monster thinks, "Not the daddy! Stop touching me!" After trembling for a minute, the Shaman flies across the room and says, "I cannot help you. No man can. This is not meant to be known." Darla sighs, "Yeah, yeah, like I haven't heard that before." She rubs her belly and simpers, "Time to go visit Daddy."
Next time, a fight breaks out at Caritas, and some muses check into the Hyperion. I sense wackiness.