...The Samalike's near-freakish Cro-Magnon-esque skull, braced with a leather strap across its forehead against a table. As The Samalike's eyes flutter open, a quick cut over to the flashy, newfangled heart monitor he's fastened around his wrist that says he's down to seventy-some beats a minute from his jogging peak of 126. Just so you know. Because when The Samalike rises into a sludgy semi-consciousness and begins to strain against the leather straps binding his wrists, that admirably low heart rate immediately jumps up into the nineties, and is soon zipping up the scale to settle in at a racing 140 or so. Meanwhile, the shirtless and sweaty Samalike rolls his head around as best he can, his slowly focusing eyes landing on oil lamps and candles and such until they reach...an enormous Mason jar filled with maggots! "Whee!" shrieks Raoul, clapping his perfectly manicured paws together with glee now that we've finally reached the good bits of this evening's presentation. "They look simply delicious!" Raoul enthuses, smacking his -- let's face it -- somewhat drooly lips together. "They are a bit on the scrawny side, I must note!" Raoul allows. "But I'm certain this delightful young physician I've been hearing so much about will soon take care of that!" Young? Careful, my scaly friend. We wouldn't want you to...overshare, now would we? "I-I-I-I simply have no idea what you could possibly be talking about, I'm sure! Now, do continue with your captivating little story!" As you wish, my scaly -- and aggravatingly youthful -- friend. "Oh, you are a dear soul!" Don't mention it. "Thanks! I won't! Ever again!"
Now that that particular disaster's been averted, where was I? Oh, yeah: The disaster on the television screen. Any sense of horror The Samalike might be experiencing at the moment due to those maggots instantaneously ratchets up about fiftyfold when Frankendoc looms into view, snapping open and shut one of those antediluvian bone scissors I'm sure I last saw in From Hell a few years back. "Excellent film!" I knew you were going to say that. "You must be psychic!" SO, Frankendoc -- who's got piebald patches of human skin not his own stitched into a crazy pattern across his skull beneath that soiled O.R. mask of his -- sets the bone scissors aside for a moment to retrieve a rusty scalpel, with which he opens a thin, bloody line down The Samalike's heaving chest, and Raoul's already hurling himself into a tizzy of massive proportions over there on his overstuffed armchair in anticipation of what's to come. In any event, Frankendoc then -- just out of our view beneath the bottom of the screen, of course -- clutches those bone scissors and snap!, snap!, SNAP!s his way up through the incredibly still-conscious Samalike's sternum before...CRRRRACK! The Samalike's heart monitor leaps up into a pizzicato of pain as Frankendoc splits open his ribcage with an antiquated spreader, and just when we think we'll be getting little more than those few spritzes of blood on Frankendoc's mask, the camera hops around as Frankendoc actually and on screen yanks The Samalike's squishy and still-beating heart from his chest! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Well, I guess that was worth the wait, wasn't it, my scaly and aggravatingly youthful friend? "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Careful -- you're going to strain your vocal cords again. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" You're not going to stop shrieking for hours, are you? "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Oy. So, as Frankendoc lifts the bloody organ out of The Samalike's now-gaping chest cavity, the flashy little heart monitor on the fresh corpse's wrist flatlines straight into the METAL TEETH CHOMP! "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!"