A demonic bouncer eases open the Manor door for the Colethazor, who enters with a mix of wariness and delighted anticipation on his face. The foyer antiques are gone, replaced by a couple of mellow-looking henchdemons and a truly appalling reproduction of what I believe is the Apollo Belvedere. I'm not as up on my statuary as I should be, but this thing is wretched. It looks like they swiped it from the hostess station in a strip-mall Olive Garden. Cole loves it, though, and I'd make a crack about his questionable taste, but he's been chasing after The Knockered Nitwit for two and a half years, so I think we can all agree that Cole has no taste whatsoever. Cole turns to enter the front parlor, which has been similarly stripped of furniture and now contains little more than a five-foot-tall Balinese idol glaring at a billiards table. He appreciatively regards it all before sliding open the doors to the back parlor, whereupon a pre-stomach-bypass Al Roker leads a clamorous throng of short-skirted twentysomethings in cheering, "Surprise!" You think I'm kidding? It's a bunch of skinny little women with a big, fat, bald, bespectacled black guy over in the corner. I can't make this stuff up, people. Cole beams and turns around as another crowd of happily demonic partygoers materialize in the front parlor behind him. None of them looks particularly demonic, mind you, and it in fact seems as if they pulled a horde of interns and production assistants out of their carrels, slapped some glasses of fake wine into their hands, and ordered them to scream a lot while remaining on their marks, but Cole's thrilled, so what can you do aside from constructing a lengthy and awkward run-on sentence to describe the whole thing?
Cole dives into the bubbly throng to receive numerous enthusiastic congratulations as a portly gent who is not the Al-Alike rolls a three-tiered birthday cake in from the dining room. The icing's black with little red flowers and flourishes, by the way, and a festive "Happy 100th Birthday!" crowns the uppermost tier. The assembled production assistants chant, "Speech! Speech! Speech!" so Cole obliges them with a few stammered remarks expressing his surprise before he admires the cake. The portly gent clasps his hands over his heart and brightly replies, "Thank you, my liege. But I must admit I thought you were one hundred and seventeen!" A hundred and eighteen, but who's counting? Besides me, I mean. And everybody on the forums. A shocked silence greets the portly gent's remark, because the production assistants can correctly subtract 1885 from 2003, too. After a moment, the portly gent erupts into flame and presently disappears in a veil sparks and smoke. The gathered production assistants part, and -- hooray! Slinking to the center of the frame with a flaming index finger raised before her face is Miss. Debbi. Morgan!