Anyway, Bobby dumps the sack's contents into a disused washtub, then fires up a blowtorch, and this oughta be good. "I'm positively vibratory with anticipation!" As am I, my scaly friend. Though, you know, in a way that doesn't sound quite that disgusting. "Hey!" In any event, Sassy The Demonette taunts at Bobby some more, sneering, "It's not gonna work -- it's a myth!" "Then you got nothin' to worry about," Bobby shrugs. And then he torches the washtub. "FIRE! FIRE! BUUUUUUUUUUUUURN!" Miss Sassy immediately howls and screams and wails, and a series of lurid, steaming welts bubbles up from her neck to her shoulder. "I can't!" she protests, so Bobby torches the washtub again. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Missy Sassy, naturally, screams some more as those welts thicken and spread until the entire right half of her upper body is one huge, angry field of smoking, scorched flesh. "You don't know what he'll do to me!" she seethes. "Right now," Bobby coolly replies, "you better worry about me." And then he torches the washtub again. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" With the burns now spreading to her left side, Miss Sassy hisses, "You don't get it -- he's the king!" "I know, I know," Bobby eyerolls. "'King Of The Crossroads' -- I heard the speech." "No!" Miss Sassy spits. "King of Hell!" Dun-dun-DUN! Also: Ding-dong!
Bobby peeks through the peephole in his front door to find the carefully put-together M. WARD cooling her heels on his porch with a covered dish in her hands. He cups a palm to test his breath. Heh. Then he checks his zipper. Hee! Having thus reassured himself with regards to his personal hygiene and appearance, Bobby opens the door to greet "Marcy" with more than a hint of surprise in his voice. Marcy replies with a question: "How long have we been neighbors?" Not realizing that question is rhetorical, Bobby guesses, "Six months?" Marcy smiles at that and flirts, "Well, don't you think it's time you welcomed me to the neighborhood?" She passes him the covered dish, which actually contains her "famous ginger peach cobbler," which I did not know is an actual thing until this very evening, and which Bobby blushingly accepts like he's a sheepish schoolboy. Unfortunately for the nascent romance now budding before our very eyes, Miss Sassy chooses this moment to call out, "Help me! Somebody help me!" from the basement, so Bobby's forced to LIE, "It's, um, stupid horror flicks. Guilty pleasure." And wouldn't you know it? Marcy just loves scary movies. "What are the odds?!" shrieks Raoul. What are the odds, indeed. In any event, Marcy invites Bobby over to her place that Saturday evening for dinner and Drag Me To Hell, but Bobby plays hard to get, so Marcy herself LIES that her woodchipper's on the fritz, and would Bobby be a dear and take a look at it?