Motel Hell. The hellhound on Doctor Sylvia's trail finally tracked her down, and is now snarling and hurling itself at her room's futilely barricaded door. By the way, they never really focus in on the door's fire escape card long enough for me to confirm this, but I'm almost positive this establishment's name is "The Baskerville Motel." Get it? No, seriously, do you get it? Because if you don't, you need to turn off the television set and push yourself away from the fan fiction on Live Journal and read a fucking book already. "Just not that one!" Raoul hastens to caution. "Arthur Conan Doyle makes for a terribly dry slog nowadays." In any event, at least now the room's crimson bordello furnishings make some sort of sense. Now, where was I? Oh, yes: Doctor Doomed busies herself by peeing her pants in the tiny little alcove in which she's hidden herself for the initial phase of the hellhound's attack, and just as suddenly as that attack began, it ends. Doctor Doomed tentatively pushes herself to her feet and hesitantly edges towards the center of the room. Just then, she spins around for whatever reason to scream as the window explodes inward, hurling her onto her back on the carpet as glass shards cascade to the floor around her. The camera scuttles over to take in her panicked form from beneath the shattered window, giving us a hellhound's-eye view of what follows as Doctor Doomed scrambles backwards to wedge herself against the night stand between the two beds, caterwauling all the way. The camera-slash-hellhound lunges forward to dig its invisible claws into her leg, shredding her pants and gouging deep, gory lines in the flesh beneath. Doomed Doctor Sylvia snatches frantically at the crimson bedsheet, which gets dragged away with her flailing body across the motel room's now-bloodstained carpeting into the METAL TEETH CHOMP!