There are several close-ups of a guy who looks to be the mob leader. He looks like he just ate about twenty quail, and damn you if you try to get in the way of his delicious dessert: burning French ladies. WitchLana gives him a dirty look, but he's not worried. He's not the one about to be tied to a stake. Mmmm...stake. WitchLana playfully asks the quail-snarfing magistrate Wilkins if he's come to admire his handiwork. He rears back and smacks her right in the face: "Bitch! Don't be talkin' 'bout my handiwork!" It doesn't sound like a smack, though. It sounds like an orange hitting the floor. The dude -- who's trying to sound like Vin Diesel -- talks about the three stones of power. Mick Jagger. Keith Richards. Ron Wood. Sorry, Charlie Watts. The magistrate tells WitchLana that she may still escape the flames. With her ratty but perfectly stage-managed tousled hair, WitchLana asks for her book. She says there's a page marked. It's chapter four of The Seven Hexes of Highly Successful Witches. The magistrate just happens to have the book handy, the NecroLameicon, and has it opened to a page. "What means this?" he asks of a page with the tattoo symbol from Lana Lang's back, and illustrations of what looks like a barmaid dancing. This be the centerfold. Try not to get it dirty, because my roommate Steve totally wants to hang it up in his dorm room later. The magistrate insists that he only reads the NecroLameicon for the articles! No, really! "It means that the stones of power shall be mine," says WitchLana. So it's a leather-bound ancient Amazon.com wish list, then? WitchLana tells a clearly pants-pissing magistrate that once she possesses the stones, he'll tremble at her feet, and her "kind" will no longer be persecuted. Yeah, except you're about to be burned at the stake, so...I'm thinking that's a "No" on your power stones. Just when I start to think this witch may be a tiny bit sexy, WitchLana spits blood right onto the page of the book. Aw, man! That was a first edition! Couldn't you have just spit on the book jacket? Man, lady, you are evil!
"Animam remito!" says WitchLana. It may be that she's talking about my cousin, Anibal Benito. We pan from the page of the now-soiled book to the small of WitchLana's back, where the familiar tattoo we've come to grow weary of recently is suddenly burned into her back. Sybolism! Literally. "Demon!" the magistrate says. WitchLana just starts cackling. It's not a bad cackle as cackles go. It's actually pretty cacktacular. WitchLana's homegirls aren't cackling. They're thinking about what it'll be like to smell like mesquite-smoked barbecue in about five minutes. The two of them are whining and begging for their lives. The magistrate calls each of them by name, and I forget them as soon as they're out of his mouth, except for Countess Theroux. He says the three of them are accused of practicing the darkest arts. Producing The Swan? "Witchcraft." Oh. He says it's an affront to God, and that they're condemned to burn in the fires of Hell. It's nice of Satan to rent out his fires to France. You really don't want to skimp when you're subcontracted fires of Hell. There's a guy in Budapest, but what you get in discounts you lose in quality brimstone. "...of which you so eagerly seek communion," the magistrate finishes. Like John Kerry at the churches in Florida? WitchLana smiles her witchy smile.