The RAAAWWWR! lashes out to snatch everything into the title card! "Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" shrieks Raoul -- once again with delight, for The Kripkeeper's gone all Hitchcockian on our collective ass this season, what with the blurry black crows flapping away against a white background until the blood-red-on-black title card slams into place as ominous growlings grumble underneath. And, really, Raoul? You're not upset The Kripkeeper apparently scoffed at your idea for the exploding cadaver? "Not in the least!" Raoul replies. But why? "Oh, don't play coy with me, you silly little man! You and I both know we've already placed our blesséd eyes upon he whom those black wings represent!" Ah. Gotcha. Shall I move this along, then? "Absolutely!" Excellent.
A little later, Disheveled El Deano bow-leggedly wanders down a country lane, still wiping streaks of dirt from his pretty, pretty face with his hands until he happens upon an apparently deserted filling station. He raps at the front door's window, calling out, "Hello?" in that still-raspy outside voice of his before his inside voice says, "Fuck it!" and tells him to smash through one of the panes to break into the place. Once inside, he treats himself to some much-needed bottled water before checking the masthead on the latest copy of The Pontiac Daily Gazette, which helpfully lets him know he's arrived at Thursday, September 18, 2008. "September?" he squints, not quite believing his own eyes, though if you ask me, he should be way more interested in the fact that it's Thursday, if you understand what I'm saying. "Demian! Spoiler!" Oh, ooops! My bad! "Hee!" In any event, Dean heads over to the station's absolutely filthy sink to clean up a little bit, and after he's wiped some more of the grime from his pretty, pretty face, he pauses to examine himself in the mirror. Flashing back for a moment on the hellhounds' attack, he warily lifts his black t-shirt to find...absolutely nothing at all! No lingering gouges, no freshly healed scars, zip. However, there's apparently a lingering throbbing afflicting his left shoulder, so he hikes up the short sleeve to discover...someone's right handprint, seared into the very flesh of his upper arm! DUN! Pretty big hand, too, by the looks of things. If you know what I mean. Mrow. "I don't get it!" Oh, knock it off, Raoul. "No, really! I don't!" Oh, Jesus Christ. "Yes?" Dean answers, except for the part where he totally doesn't, choosing instead to fill a plastic carrier bag with all sorts of power bars and baked goods and bottled liquids and porn. You know, the usual stuff you need when you get back to earth after four months in Hell. The porn, incidentally, is the print edition of BustyAsianBeauties.com, and what's strange about that is not the fact that BustyAsianBeauties.com has expanded from the Internet to print when most of its sister (and brother) publications are pulling the reverse, but rather that the proprietor of this particular establishment apparently chooses to display Busty Asian Beauties on the same rack as Seventeen, CosmoGIRL!, and O.