The Blazing Gun Saloon

[MWBailey]

Jack reawakened, and groaned to feel the wound still in his shoulder. He had hoped he had only dreamt or hallucinated that part. Where had Jasmine com --oh, yeah, the top of the cabin, he thought to himself. Huh, I didn't notice her there when I retook the ship. If it really is Jasmine... Wait, I told Brantley to tell Meta to come in before Jasmine got amorous... he sighed, mentally, trying to piece the Battle with the pirates back together in his hjead sepoarate it from the most recent events. That's Admiral Tzeda's orangutan fer sure, ain't it, he musied, fretfully. all that blood on the deck... and the burn marks...must be Tzeda's, since his revolver was in the scuppers. Dreyf musta fried 'im, like he done that loozyanna buswhacker back right after we got shut of the Marauders. He opened his eyes then, and noticed two pretty ladies fussing over him, and the wind-whipped clouds above, and the gas bag far, far, up, circling in the wind... there was something wrong with that, he realized, but he was apparently too much in shock to care enough to think about it. just thenJust lie back, and --

"OWWww!" Meta looked concerned for a couple of seconds, then for a few more, and then smiled, sort of. "That was Admiral Tzeda's ape, Meta, he said, absently. "You remember him? always feeding Jasmine them dang papayas. Said she wouldn't touch anything else. He's dead, Meta. Him and most of the old Marauders' Top Brass, the ones what said such mean things to you while you waited for me an' Dreyf that time, right after our first venture together... Ol' Dreyf, he's a commodore now, with th' Texas Airfleet, but lee-ay-sawned to the British Queen's Secret Service, him an' Jock, an' a girl he says is his "ward," name of Irene, and some cockney Capn, name of Ishmael... We killed 'em, Meta, all of the Pirates. The whole Marauder Top Brass, save for Ashcroft and some other feller who were just high-Echelon messenger boys, had all turned Pirate, and kidnapped a British Peer's son, holdin him fer ransom, and they stole Dreyf's ship when He first got to Shanghai to get the boy back. He trailed 'em, And I came along after, as him an' Irene commandeered the Beau, and then I retook command, he moved to his ship, killed all the pirates aboard her, rescued the boy, and then we fought the pirates ships til warn't nothin' left of 'em!"

His mood darkened, suddenly, as he realized what had been nagging at his mind; "Meta, Brantley, Where's Brantley--!?"  He tried to rise, but his shoulder panged horribly just then, and he laid back down, gasping. "Meta,why's the gas bag been cut loose?" It's not like I can't move her, but Beau's wheels need new tyres, and they're a cast-iron witch to put awn..."
-----
(OOC:I'll save the 13 silver medallions for later, and let Abileigh-- er, Meta...take care of the situation. But... be prepared for either Brantley or Jack to  take action at some point and beat the snot out of O'Callahan. I'm also keeping the idea of Brantley as a Paladin. Rather ridiculous to not have had it before, actually; and lets not forget the two extra gasbags that Jack always carries, and the emergency cargo of bottles and extraction equipment; the wheels make it easier to get to a source of water so that the extraction set can be applied. There are other reasons for the wheels(each of which must be assembled, along with the axles and the frame they're attached to, but lets leave that for another time).

[The Abiliegh]

She looked up, using the distraction to deftly snatch the gauze from Miss Turnblood, who was still quiet. Seeing the bag shooting about the sky like it had hit a ceiling disconcerted her.

"S'weird, Jack. I'll grant ya that." She started tending to him while he rambled about times long ago, taking mental notes. The bullet had gone clean through, which was a blessin', and looked, to her meager examination, to not have hit anything vital. That noted, however, she was certain he'd be cursin' about the discomfort of it for a while. She plugged the wound on both sides, and wrapped the reaming gauze around him, to hold the makeshift dressing in place.

"I don't know why it's been cut. I do believe, however, that I can find out." She checked his head while she mussed over him. Looked minor enough, bloody because head wounds were that sort, but not even showin' bone. "If I come back and you're bloodier still, I'll shoot you my damn self, ya hear, Jack?"

With that, she left the cabin, lowered the gangplank by memory, and decided that Brantley could answer to Pulsifer for himself.

She walked straight into the bar, pleased at how empty it had become, and moved with a confidence that no mere whore could muster. She knew the preacher would notice. He was the kind to.

"Father, I do believe you've some vandalism to answer for." She paused, hiding a smile at the absurdity of the statement. Sliding to sit across from him, she depressed a button on her palm, hidden by a lacy glove. Better safe than sorry, she always figured.

"Now, I've no mean to take it further than to inquire as to why you cut the riggin', but I hope you'll be a dear and oblige. Makes it easier for all of us, you'll agree."

[MWBailey]

"OK, Meta," he said to her departing back. He busied himself, as best he could, with crwaling through teh underdeck door in the front of the cabin, and getting the tightly-folded no. 1 spare gasbag, and with Brantley's help and that of a few townspeople, who were embarrassed that such a childish act of vandalism could be perpetrated by a priest, of all people, in their town... They got it spread out over the top of the Scow, retying the severed lines, replacing the ones that needed it (and didnt require much in the way of new line), and inspecting the mechanical winches (ultimately, powered by a dis-engageable flywheel extension of the the Scow's alcohol-fueled engine's crankshaft*) winches that controlled the tension between the ropes, the wrought-iron stanchion they were tied to, and the gasbag's retaining envelope.then, with brantley's help, he got one of teh guns pushed back from it's underdeck hold's gunport, opened teh port, and manhandled the emergency replacement gas  bottles out through it, then back up on deck, and began charging the gasbag, then cycling various amounts through the ascent/descent pumps and reservoirs.

"I wonder if it's worth it to try and retrieve the bag that's cut loose," Brantley wondered aloud.

Neither answered that question. They both knew the reason for their frenetic activity; To keep from storming into the saloon and beating that preacher to a pulp before Meta had a chance to take care of it. That she could do so was never doubted by either man, each for his own reasons...
Still, while Jack went inside the saloon, Brantley stayed outside and on board the blimp just in case anyone got any more ideas; Jack promised to relieve him after a bit.  There was not yet a system on board to keep the ship one phase away from the visible in the Town's realm, and using the chronohammer on board would require starting the vessel's alcohol engine, which Brantley did not want to do unless there was a source of usable fuel alcohol somewhere near.

(*this is a much earlier incarnation of the Beau Rosin than the one in the Extended Steam Salon, which used a diesel engine; this Beau Rosin, albeit the same ship apart from the engine, uses glow-plug sparking of alcohol fuel under pressure; it's a process started by an electric spark, and maintained by it until the engine has run for a few minutes, at which point the operator shuts it off, which was a viable and available source of power for small job and powered watercraft, as early as 1890 in our own  RL multiverse; reference Paige Detroit horseless carriages and Daimler's and Benz's experiments with IC engines.  It hasn't been formally suggested, yet, by any inventor or professional mechanic that an engine could be sparked solely from current produced by a generator on that same engine and connected to the engine's drivetrain. The Diesel, when it finally is installed in teh Beau Rosin will be a very similar engine to the alcohol example in at least its sparking  mechanism.

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

(OOC: But... be prepared for either Brantley or Jack to  take action at some point and beat the snot out of O'Callahan. )

(also OOC: Well, I'm sure they have ample reason to try...as with so much else, "easier said than done." Remember the smith?  )

At the tannery, Jed Gunn salutes the leatherworker. "Hola, amigo! Como estas?" Gonzales looks up from his work bench, and smiles a big smile of very large, very white, and very crooked teeth. "Bien, Senor, bien."
Unlike his spoken English, which is pure "hillbilly Virginian," Jed's Spanish is surprisingly good. The tanner continues the conversation in English, though, so Jed follows suit. "We speaka Heenglish, eh? I need the practice...thees territorio is Estadas Unitas now, eh? I have leeve here all my life, but..." the tanner shrugs, " Gonzales, he no crossa the border..the border, she crossa Gonzales, eh?" He flashes the beaming smile again. "Wha' can I do for you this day, my frien'?" asks Gonzales. Jed answers, "I needs ta get these hyar boots fixed, Gonzales, they got a mite fried down to ther smithy, and I reckon they's a-gonna fall ter pieces iff'n I don't get 'im resoled." He takes the LeMat from the holster, and holds it out towards the tanner, " An' I needs ta get ya ter fix me up a holster what fits this hogleg..this'uns too tight on hit."
Gonzales looks up from the saddle he is making, and with a thick, calloused hand brushes his glossy black hair back away from his face. "Ahhh, Si,si...muy bueno..thees we can do." He rises from the workbench, and goes to another table, where he takes a 1/4 inch thick piece of leather about two feet square, and drops it into a basin full of water. "We let heem soak un momento, and look to your boots, eh?" Jed removes his boots, and passes them to the tanner, who takes them over and puts one upside down over a tall iron last. Not surprisingly, the Mexican tanner is also an excellent cobbler. "Muy caliente, eh, Senor Yed?" Gonzales grins again. "Ayup...plenty hot fer sure. Are they ruint, Gonzales?" "Ah, no, no, Senor Yed, we can fix...no problemo." The swarthy tanner quickly and expertly strips the sole from the boot, and getting another piece of hard leather from the table, cuts a new sole. "Thees we fix immediamente..eh..right now, si?...an' the holster, we have heem ready manana, hokay?" "Thet'll be jus' fine, Gonzales...I don't reckon' I'm a-goin' anywhurs afore tomorrow, anyhow." The swarthy tanner resoles both boots in short order, and Jed pulls them back on, and paces a few steps back and forth. "Well, thet's just nigh onto perfect, Gonzales, they feels better than before they was burnt." Gonzales nods enthusiastically, then says, "Geeve me la pistola, por favor, Senor Yed." Jed passes over the LeMat, and Gonzales takes it to his workbench. He takes the soaked piece of leather from the basin,wrings the excess water from it, and folds it around the big handgun. Using wooden tools, he quickly shapes it to the gun, then goes to his woodstove, and fills a small pan with glowing coals. He fits the small pan to the bottom of a bellows of metal and leather, and then begins to operate the bellows, blowing hot air onto the leather wrapped pistol, pausing now and again to press the leather tighter to the shape of the gun. "Careful, thar, Gonzales..thet thar iron is loaded.." says Jed, a look of concern on his face. "Ah...no to worry, Senor..she no geet so hot...jus' eh...warm, eh? Is my own..eh, ...invention." Shortly, the outside of the leather begins to dry, and Gonzales removes the LeMat, and hands it back to Sarge...as promised, it is warm to the touch, and slightly damp, but not hot. The folded leather retains the shape of the big pistol. "Now, we let her feenish to dry, and by manana we make the holster, si? Muy bien, she fit perfecto, then." Gonzales hands Jed a piece of soft cotton rag, with which he dries off the LeMat, and re-holsters it. "Waal, then, what do I owe ye, Senor?" asks Jed. Gonzales waves a hand, "Manana, Senor, manana...you can pay me then, is hokay, si? Bueno!" "Manana, then," says Jed. "Hasta luego, amigo." Jed exits the tannery just in time to see the blimp down the street rising into the air, and a shadowy figure furtively flowing over the side of the scow and into the saloon. "Dang thet O'Callahan!" he exclaims, squinting upward, "Waal, this is sure as shootin' one mess he's made thet I cain't fix!" He watches as the blimp halts its climb, and begins to circle. "Reckon' I'd best ta git on back down thar to th' saloon...I reckon thangs are a-gonna be heatin' up round hyere right quick!"

[Miles (a sailor)Martin]

as Miles comes around the corner of the barn he sees the blimp rising above the saloon, thinks thats odd, and continues across second street to the alley that comes out next to the Blazing Gun. Looking out he observes the action for a moment then pulling the wheel barrow along behind him,he gets the contraption up onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon and parks it next to the door. going inside he steps aside of the door quickly  and waits for his eyes to adjust ( also to listen for a moment ) as he removes and cleans the lenses of his goggles, he notices the young woman talking to a fellow dressed as a preacher.
  Noting their location then goes to the bar and asks for a double shot of whiskey and a beer, then asks about getting a supply of water so he can refill the Areon.
Noticing a new person come in, he watches the preacher in the mirror behind the bar to see what he is going to do, while cautiusly  checking the fit of the Arkansaw toothpick in his left boot,  covering the motion by unlacing the right knee of his bellbottom blue trousers to show the brass and steel brace,pouring  the whiskey over the brace  thereby washing out the accumulated grit, he then wipes it down and re-oils the hinge points.
"Now where did that Brantley fella go ? I still owe him a drink for helping get them parts for my repairs," Miles says to the room at large.

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

The lady seats herself across from O'Callahan. He shifts slightly so as to be able to continue to watch the door. She politely makes her inquiry, and he replies. "Vandalism? Hardly, my dear. I merely took the easiest logical action to prevent the escape of a known felon, and to keep an obviously corrupt lawman, that so-called "Customs Agent" Brantley, from aiding and abetting him. Certainly not the first Customs man to ever take a pay-off, I'm sure. A delaying tactic, at best...but I also had to see whether egress from this benighted hamlet was possible by air, as it is plainly not possible to leave by land, nor, I suspect, by way of the river. Since the blimp did not rise out of sight, but instead is circling above us like a lost puppy, I must conclude that whatever boundary holds us here is operative in the aether also. I proceed logically, Madame, one logical step following another...although I'll have to admit that there is so much illogical activity going on around here, from boundaries which cannot be crossed, to infernal devices, to orange apes, that I am hard pressed to discern what the next logical move may be. We appear to be in a stalemate situation, albeit one in which there is no way to even quit the board." Signaling the barkeep, he asks, "May I buy you a drink, Ma'am? I believe I am ready for another, myself."

[The Abiliegh]

She accepts the drink, using the time it takes the preacher to order to digest what he told her. She didn't like to look suprised, if she could avoid it.

No way to leave... she thought. Well, isn't that just... predictable.

When the man and the drinks had returned, she thanked him and took a delicate sip. She enjoyed a good whiskey, but she rarely let herself get intoxicated. Bad for business, that.

"Preacher, tell me a few things, if ya will. I respect your concern for laws and the like, but it seems a bit out of character for a shepard such as yourself to go about takin' it into your own hands. Ain't no one in the world who wouldn't say that the boys on that ship ain't done more than their fair share of stupid, but, even with your way about ya, something's not adding up. To top it, there's always a way out. We can't be truly stuck here, but we may need t'work together to straighten out this mess we're all seemin' partners in."

She paused, gauging his reaction a bit before continuing. "And that said, well, I don't want to have to be the one to clean up the mess should any of y'all decide this has to come t'blows. You seem a fine sort, sir, and capable, but so are the fellas outside." Her voice wasn't threatening, just matter of fact. She really was concerned that this more-than-just-a-preacher and Mad Jack would go all half-cocked on her.

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

O'Callahan takes a generous sip of his whiskey. "Good," he thinks, "the barkeep didn't have to be reminded to make it the better brand." He considers her questions, and wonders why he is even allowing himself to bother to answer her. It is uncharacteristic of him...he is a man of few-often very few-words. Often enough a month might elapse without him speaking, save for a cluck or command to his horses. He is a tracker, used to being alone, on his own and at home in rough country. On the other hand, he is obviously going nowhere soon, and he may be able to cultivate her as an ally, now that it is obvious that Brantley will not be. He takes another sip before he speaks. His voice, when it comes, is whispery, and his accent is Irish.
"Shepherd? Hmmm. Perhaps a shepherd of the dead, but my mission is not to minister to the saved, but to find and redeem the damned. My respect for "laws" is absolute when it comes to God's Law, and I follow the ordinances and customs of the Church, but my regard for the "laws" of man is more along the lines of a parallel...they are useful, up to point, and are largely responsible for financing my mission, but I do not believe that they are infallible. Different "laws" from different areas contradict each other-not so long ago, what was a "law" in Missouri was illegal in Kansas, for instance. It is...convenient...for me to do my work while staying on the putative "side of the law" in the area where I am operating. All the men I hunt have a price on their head, but more than that, the "law" is just as happy to have them dead as not.
That man Pulcifer, for instance...he has more Wants and Warrants against him than any other man on Earth, at least as far as I know, and some of them go back thirty years. There is an Arabian Sheik who has a standing offer of a diamond the size of a pigeon's egg to any man who brings him Jonathan Pulcifer's head. If I can apprehend him, I shall never again have to consider the amount of the bounty on a man before I hunt him...bringing in Pulcifer's body will pay for my work for the rest of my life. My work, by the way, my Holy Mission, is to find these men, and offer them one last chance at redemption before I dispatch them to the Great Beyond." He takes another drink, and continues, "I was an orphan, raised in a Catholic orphanage in Ireland. I entered the priesthood because I had no other place to go. It became obvious to my superiors, though, that there was something...different...about me. I am a born killer, Ma'am, no two ways about it. Two hundred years ago, the Inquisition could have used a man like myself, but in this "enlightened age" of the late nineteenth century, the Vatican was hard pressed to know what to do with me...so they sent me here, to the Wild American West. Here, I am useful. Here, I can seek out the sheep who are truly lost, and redeem those who would otherwise be irredeemable." He shrugs. "I am doing God's work, in the only way a man such as myself can...He shall judge me, some day, and it is my hope that He will understand, and say "Well done."

[MWBailey]

Jack Pulsifer stops at the boarded-up window, supposedly temporarily "fixed" after a recent barfight, and listens, hearing O'Callahan's prideful account of cutting the gasbag free, and his hypocritical musing about God telling him "well done."  He turns around and skips over to the Beau Rosin and says, "just a few minutes, MW, I need to check the head..." he goes inside the cabin, and it is a moment before Brantley remembers that the "head," as Jack euphemistically refers to it, is a bucket with a drainpipe welded to the bottom, that exits to a trap-bottomed cistern which dumps the contents out when at high altitude. It is another several whiles, long after Jack has exited the glorified underdeck privy, and left the ship, that Brantley remembers that Jack always used to keep a cache of explosives in the underdeck hold...

Jack had heard from Brantley that O'Callahan had come into town at the helm of a hearse pu;lled by four beautiful Black horses. he briefly considered, while brantley was talking about the hearse, hamstringing the animals, but realized their screaming would be impossible to cover up, and that there was probably not enough laudanum in the whole town to dose all four horses. He thus decides to settle for a less destructive form of retaliation.

After a time, jack returned up the street , pushing a barrow on which were stacked four wagon wheels, two large, two smaller, but still sizeable, with rubber-strip tyres melt-welded to the iron strap tyres common to all wagon wheels of the period on all four; in short, precisely the sort of wheels commonly used on horse-drawn hearses of the day. Jack pushes the barrow up to the door of the saloon and walks inside, yells at the preacher, "here's yer wheels, preacher!" and turns around, juggle-tossing his own wain-wrench, and saunters back out of the door, and back on board the Beau Rosin, where once he is aboard, he cranks out the guns and raises the Gatling Gun up from its well in the deck, and waits for the inevitable storm...

[The Abiliegh]

She was intrigued by this unguessed conundrum. She was, firstly, mildly shocked that he was so forthcoming about his life. Furthermore, she was carefully putting the pieces together to make this as smooth as possible. The question she truly wanted to ask was like to make him angry, and she was certain that wouldn't help was was like to turn into a delicate situation. At the same time, however, asking might just be the diffusion she needed.

Throw that in with her new-found desire to not be stuck in this tiny little carriage-trap, and she found that she must proceed very, very carefully.

Turns out, no careful words were needed, as Jack took matters into his own hand. She muttered under her breath, something which wasn't so much cursing with words as with intonation. Sobering, she looked to catch the Irishman's eye. "Ayin tahat ayin." Her words were Hebrew, and she wished she could translate better to Latin under pressure. He was a catholic man, however, and like to be well educated.  "Leviticus, Exodus, Deuteronomy. Please... please lets just leave this as even."

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

"Hmmm....first time I've ever laid eyes on the man. Doesn't really look quite like the "criminal mastermind" I'd envisioned him to be." O'Callahan sips his drink, calmly. "Fear not, madame...anger is a luxury ill afforded by a thinking man. Cold and calculating is more my style. Took my wheels off, did he? I wonder what he hoped to accomplish by that? It's not as if we're going anywhere, anyway. Depending on how much damage he did to the rest of the coach, it will be a small matter to remount the wheels..at least he didn't break them. I suppose I'd best go down to the livery, and make sure he did no harm to the stableman...I can't suppose that worthy just stood there and watched while Pulcifer disassembled my hearse. I find it somewhat amusing," and the corner of his thin-lipped mouth twitches slightly, " that they think me a vandal for loosing a balloon, whilst Brantley blows half the wall off of the Mercantile shooting that blaster of his at a monkey, -private property, mind you- and probably damaged to the tune of hundreds of dollars, and he thinks nothing of that." He rises. "Your pardon, Ma'am, I believe I shall slip out the back...I am not ready to engage those buffoons in a gunfight just yet...we may need each other to escape this town...time enough later to settle up." Outside, the wind howls, and the thunder booms, every eight seconds, like clockwork.

(OOC- BTW, careful reading would have revealed that the priest had only "a pair" of horses, but since Bailey has given him a "four-in-hand," I went back and edited that in, and changed it to four. Thanks! First time anyone ever gave me two free horses!  )

[The Abiliegh]

He had a real good point about the buliding. She also noted that the orang was still armed with her revolver, which was a might bit annoying, but still an idle thought.

"Before ya go, Preacher." She extended her hand in his direction (not the one with the button). "Through all our talkin', we never did get to th'pleasantries. I'm Meta. Meta McKinnley."

[[OOC: sorry for any typos on this. Trying out the forum from my phone. Bit difficult, but good in a pinch!]]

[MWBailey]

(OOC: I noticed the two extra horses the moment it was up, and tried to fix it-- but I was unable to re-access the posting part of the site from my end(most of houston, in fact; I tried at libraries, Apple Mall stores, friends houses... in short , everywhere I went to log on and edit that part, but this is teh first tim ethat I have had both computer and site on at the same time! . Well, whatever works,I guess. I actually thought that I had posted an even milder post, but realized which version I had pasted in just after I clicked the "save" link.).

Spoiler: ShowHide

(sorry about making you think he was going to blow the hearse up, but I put that in there just for the fear factor, nyuk nyuk). He's crazy only in an antisocial and wildly-radical battle tactics sort of way, and extreme paranoia arising from regular experience of the worst-possible happenstance, which tends to cause him to figure, "the worst is going to happen anyway, so what the hell?" which causes and has caused many of the circumstances that plague and follow him wherever he goes; he's very much a "damage control" type of personality, which is why he's so dangerous

That's actually a rather heinously dangerous frame of mind, but to understand why it is so, you have to think on it a bit; for example, what would Lincoln have done if he were of the same mindset? In the case of, say, the emancipation proclamation?  Large-scale "preventive lynching" of both white southerners involved in the trade and arrest and confinement (maybe even "preventive execution") of black "agitators", perhaps? Just because they might retaliate against the slaves or slavers and create a problem? Now you know what makes jack's brain go *BONK,BONK,BONK...* O'Callahan has to put the wheels back on in order to haul anybody out in the hearse, you see, so...

As Jack explained his actions to Brantley (who was of a mind to remove the dimensional override stabilizer, thus leaving Jack stranded in the current multiverse and unable to move forward or back more than a week or less) he knew that someone as single-rail-minded as O'Callahan would have to work out 'the Wheel thing' one thought at a time over several days.  "That should slow him down from making any rash decisions, like killing anybody just because he can," he told the younger customs agent. "That's why I didnt just hamstring the horses and blow up the  hearse. honestly, though , to think I'd do somethin' like that. It's as if you don't know me at all, MW."

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

He takes the proffered hand-even through her glove, she is aware that his hand is as cold as ice. "O'Callahan, ma'am...my given name is Kevin, although no one has called me that since childhood. These days, many address me as "Preacher," unless they are Catholic, and they usually call me "Father." At least,"  the grim flicker of a smile reappears, "to my face. I am more than well aware that Catholic, Protestant, and Pagan alike all refer to me as "Killer O'Callahan"....just not to my face." He picks up the long rifle with the telescopic sight. "I am pleased to meet you...I bid you "Adieu" for now." In the curious, smoothly flowing way he has of moving, he is out the back and gone. In his wake, he leaves only a faint smell of...brimstone.
Jed pushes in through the batwing doors.."O'Callahan, you done stepped in hit, now, you crazy sumbitch..thet feller outside's got a Gatling trained on th'...." He stops, looks briefly perplexed, and addresses Meta, "Howdy, Ma'am..." He touches the brim of his battered hat, and thinks to himself, "My, ain't she purty?" Pretty women make him nervous- he doesn't know how to act when one is around. He looks at his boots, then looks back at her, then looks at the ceiling, and continues, " Uhhh..'scuse me, Ma'am, but did ya happen ter see a feller in hyere with a priest's dog collar on 'im? I coulda swore I saw 'im come inter hyere..thar's a feller outside thets ready ta hang a wooden suit on 'im, fer shore."

(OOC-Four horses is fine- more "apocalyptic"   ...although I suppose in that vein one should be white, one red, one black, and one "pale" (? grey? *shrugs*) Four black horses thundering along pulling a hearse makes a pretty good picture, though, so I think I'll just leave them ebon. )

[The Abiliegh]

She looks to the new man, eyes checking for the sign of coin. "He went out, darlin'" She paused a moment, hands absently moving to check her hair. "But I'm certain he'll be back. Might as well get yourself a drink and let him tend to his business." Not knowing why he was looking for O'Callahan, she thought it best to keep all these men on their own for a bit. Let 'em all cool off and set their minds straight, and whatnot. Standing, she finished her whiskey, and set the glass on the bar, upside down with an audible chink.

"But, dear, you'll have t'excuse me a moment. Seems if there is a Gatling trained on the door of this place, I've got some business to tend to for myself." She curtsied a bit, always polite, and moved towards the entrance of the building.

[[OOC: I'm going to have the damndest time not spelling that "O'Callaghan, lol, wot that being a last name in my lineage and all. Did you purposely take a last name that has it roots in the Gaelic word for "strife"?]]

[MWBailey]

(OOC:speaking of strife, I'm thinking of having Jack stand down and play The Last of Callahan on his banjo just out of - his own - bloody-mindedness ...No, Really, it's an actual oldtime tune; my fave rendition was recorded by the Fuzzy Mountain String Band).

Leaving the Gatling trained on the front of the Saloon, Jack ducked into the cabin, and grabbed his tackheaded, fretless minstrel banjo, and an old oak folding deck chair, and went out, sat down next to thegatling and started to play. He played
Hi, Ho, the boatman
McCleod's Reel
LLudd Gals (an extremely Bawdy version)
Whiskey in the Corps
Whiskey in the Jar, and
Whiskey before Breakfast

and was playing the old Appalachian/Irish Immigrant ditty, The Last of Callahan, when he saw Meta exit the saloon and come sallying over in apparently full sail...

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Irene was fuming, about ready to whip out one of her colts and start shooting things, anything, just to avoid shooting her cousin, Jaisen Dreyfuss. They stood in the engineering hold in the gunboat portion of the St. Elmo, and Jock and Timothy (the peer's son) busied themselves around the hybridized steam engines, polishing, tightening, anything to avoid th miniature typhoon that was Dreyfuss and his immortal cousin, Irene, arguing over each other's sense of spatial distance and navigation.

The albino emerald asp, whom Dreyfuss had decided to name Cleopatra, Cleo for short, unwound herself from his neck and slithered inside of his coat, "Hissssp!"ing that she would wait in there while the female basilisk was spitting her venom (meaning Irene, of course). The fact that he understood what the snake was hissing about was just one of many things that were making him shake his head now and again.They had flown all the way out to White Island, a Bauxite mining colony owned by the crown, only to find a Captain Ishmael waiting to join the crew at the behest of the Foreign Office,  for insurance as well as protocol considerations.

He was up in the steering room now, conning the ship as Irene and Dreyfuss argued in the engineering hold, where the prototype of the Aethro-Sympathetic Field Scanner, which scanned the ambient surrounding aether and thus showed things clearly, but in monotone, as to what was present and occurring in the air and on the ground around the Elmo -- and on which not even the slightest anomalous blip was showing...except for a strange bit of light that was apparently not anything -- but then again, the ship's chronometers had all stopped operating at the same instant, and at about time that Jock had hooked the machine into the ship's power grid, and just exactly as the St. Elmo had passed through that "strange bit of light"...  

"of course I'm certain, cous, this is the place where that cloud swallowed him up!"

"Damn fool, probably thought he'd use that damned chronowhapper...whatever the hell its called, thought he'd use that to catch us up and help out, thinkin he could shoot Merry off o' the obs deck with that gatling of his."

Thunder and the sound of wind from outside began to make a dstracting sound in teh background...

[The Abiliegh]

Making her way onto the ship, she heard and recognized the tune Pulsifer was playing. "Now you stop that right this instant." Not a threat, but the words were definitely pitched. "I've dissuaded this whole damn thing for the time being, no help from you, I might add. Turns out we're stuck in this damn place, and like to not, we're going to have to all work together towards some end or another." She paused of a breath, composing herself.

"So, lets sit back a second and realize that instigatin' ain't gonna get us a lick further in this predicament. The Beau is fine, and I'm praying all you did to the Preacher's vehicle was take off the tires, so his is fine too. Soon as we figure how t'get outta this place, I suspect we're all gonna want to get outta dodge quick."

Having said her momentary piece, she walked back towards the Gatling, and put it back below deck. She figured that Jack would try to stop her, but they'd tangled more than once, old as he was, and she could take a few bruises.

[Thalesia Turnblood]

Whilst Mad Jack and Mr. Brantley battened down the hatches, as it were, Thalesia tore a blank sheet of paper out of a large book she found, soaked it in mineral oil and bound it around her hand to insulate its electrical properties. The odd pinging of what Mr. Brantley had called a 'chronohammer' combined with the surging energy of the Martian generator continued to build up electrical current along the malletium in her bones, essentially turning her left hand into a biologically based Tesla coil.

She couldn't wait to return to her laboratory and begin testing! But there were more pressing issues. As the men anchored the boat, Thalesia spotted a hairy orange foot peeking out from behind a pile of sailcloth. Poor creature, she thought. It must be terrified. It's dangerous in any case -- and a pretty good shot in a pinch. Best to be on its good side should it decide to take up arms again.

"Come on out, darling," she crooned, holding out her non-electrified hand. "It's quite safe. No one will harm you." The beast peeked around the edge of the pile, then drew back. "Oh, come now. Perhaps you'd like a treat? Is there anything on the ship you like? Bananas, perhaps? Apples? Let's go find something for you to eat."

Slowly, the creature came out from its hiding place, lips pursed in a questioning manner. Thalesia continued to hold out her hand until the animal reached out and took it gently.

"Aren't you precious?" Thalesia exclaimed, delighted with her new friend. "Now, where is the kitchen -- they call it a galley on a ship, don't they? Where is the galley on this benighted craft?"

Galley found, treats duly dispensed, Thalesia and her friend resurfaced to find Jack in bloody bandages, seated next to a Gatling gun, playing tunes by turn maudlin and bawdy on a banjo. Her eye twitched. She hated banjos.

Miss McKinnley was dismantling the gun and Jack seemed likely to take offense to her actions. Since the ape was still in possession of Miss McKinnley's weapon, however, Thalesia thought it safest to head off any potentially threatening situtations. She didn't think Jack could take many more holes before she wasn't able to patch him up anymore.

"Rather than concentrating on trying to leave -- which has proven unsuccessful in every attempt thus far -- we should rather concentrate our attention on that which is preventing us. This...object that Mr. Brantley found in the smithy. Could you take us to it? And can you turn off the chrono-hammer, please? That, combined with the other seems to be confounding my personal electric conductivity."

[MWBailey]

Brantley's head whipped around to gape at  Pulsifer "YOU..." he paused and composed himself. "You left that thing on during a dimension-crossing electrical storm?"

Jack stopped playing, gaped at both Brantley and Meta, and stammered, "N-now wait a second here, who you think yer--!"

"What in hell were you thinking?"  Brantley stormed at  Pulsifer, "Is that what you did when you left Tehran ten year ago? No wonder that sheik wants your head! The storm that got whipped up nearly buried Tehran and Istanbul AS WELL!"

Brantley strode in and flipped the lever back to the "off" position (judging by Thalesia's malady, it had to be the one opposite to its current setting).

Jack fumed for a minute, then started playing a tune he had written himself, all about not being able to go back to Constantinople...

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

Keeping to the back of the buildings, O'Callahan makes it to the livery stable, where he finds the hostler bound and gagged, but otherwise unharmed. He releases him, and the man immediately starts pleading with the gaunt priest. "I couldn't help it, Father! He jumped me from behind, then he used my jack to put your coach up...he was acting ike a crazy man-I'd of stopped him if I coulda!" The hearse is sitting up on two large sawhorses, missing the wheels, but not damaged. "I'm am beginning to suspect, my good man, that Mr. Pulcifer actually is crazy...I had presumed "Mad Jack" was just a colourful nickname, but his behaviour seems to indicate that there is some actual fact behind the moniker. This presents me with a quandary. I had fully intended to take him...the bounties on the man are beyond the dreams of avarice...but the Almighty does not hold those who are genuinely insane to be responsible for their actions...or their sins. Ergo, I cannot simply shoot him." The stableman is standing, slack-jawed as O'Callahan so casually muses about dispatching Jack. "You..you ain't gonna kill me, are you, Sir?" he asks, voice trembling just a bit. The priest looks at him seriously for a moment, then shakes his head emphatically. "Brother, despite my reputation, I have never yet killed an innocent man, but only those whom the Law itself had adjudged to be worthy of execution. Well, there was one who was somewhat innocent, but that was when I was nine years old." The features of the hostler assume a more relaxed look. "Well, that's sure good to hear..." The priest speaks again. "The wheels to this vehicle are sitting in a barrow just inside the door of The Blazing Gun Saloon...please be so kind as to retrieve them for me, and re-install them...of course you will be compensated. I believe I had best not show myself in that vicinity just yet. Thank you"
The priest leaves, and still keeping himself inconspicuous, returns to the center of town and enters the Mercantile through a side door. He has an idea. The storekeeper, broom in hand, is surveying the damaged wall, and the items scattered across the floor. "I say, my good man, "asks O'Callahan, "do you stock fishing arrows, and cordage?" "We do." says the storekeeper. "Fishing equipment is over there," he points, " and cordage is up front by the counter."

[MWBailey]

The thunder and lightning increased, as Dreyfuss , Ishmael,Timothy, and Jock struggled to extricate the St. Elmo from the weirdly-unseasonable thunderstorm that has again boiled up just outside of Shanghai.

Dreyfuss had just gotten through telling the tale, of how he and the other crew of the Boheme had defeated both Bryan and Cadens (Timothy, like all lads, eager to hear the details) when suddenly there came a sensation as of a giant fist clamping down on the hybrid zeppelin and yanking it sideways to port, then up several thousand feet, then down ward twice as far, and finally to Starboard for an unguessable distance; all they could be sure of was the wind, whistling past at a blistering speed, and the feeling of inexorable power... then it was over, and the moon came out overhead, drawing Dreyfuss, Irene, and Timothy into one of the nearby empty staterooms to gaze out of the porthole, through which the moon shone on the bare white linoleum

There were many such empty staterooms; the actual optimum crew compliment of an aerial military vessel of the Elmo's size was originally somewhere around 90 to 170; The Foreign office had  promised a more sizeable crew, and a marine contingent for the little war-zeppelin, but such a crew and unit had to be created, and then manned from other units, which took a long time, supposedly. The upshot was that there would be at least a one-year, six-month wait, during which Dreyfuss was free to hire professional airmen and a small number of mercenaries to serve until the new unit(s) were available -- but first, they had to take care of the more immediate problem of the kidnapped scion of the peerage. (and of course, finding their way back from wherever they had ended up...)

As they looked out of teh porthole, they saw that they appeared to be in the eye of a storm, as if in a typhoon, but over dry land...and far below, just barely discernible in the moonlight, a sizable village or town, and apparently Jack Pulsifer's blimp far below on the main street of that town (or at least the broadest and longest street visible).

"Well, if that doesn't beat Siberia full o' flyin' squid for strangeness," Dreyfuss said, while Irene looked slightly ill (she was thinking of her beloved flying tank, and how she had crashed from such a height as that at which they were now floating), and Timothy, rather frightened, thinking he might never get home again after all....

Dreyfuss took the Engineering/bridge speaking tube mouthpiece and blew into it, making the whistle in the bridge end of the tube screech and pop out of the tube on that end. Captain Lemuel Ishmael picked up the tube, and said, "Ishmael here."

"Captain," Dreyfuss said, "reduce fan speed and thrust to all ahead 1/2, sternward baffles to full aperture. we don't want to frighten to death whoever's down there with the roar of our fans."

"Aye Commodore, Sir."

The bridge-to engine telegraph display flipped around to All Ahead one-half, and bothof teh fanhousings on teh outside of teh hull made a loud screeching and banging noise, as teh new captain/steersman learned teh basics of controlling the thrust via the baffle mechanism. Al three of teh people in the engineering section winced and clapped their hands to their ears.

"Bloody Cap'n's got a lot ta learn about running this ship!" Irene grated.

"Irene! he can hear you through th' tube!"

"As if I'd care, Cousin dear. He needs to be told he's a true balls-up at it or he won't improve!"

Dreyfuss gave Irene a warning glance before continuing to direct the Cap'n, "And bring us down, slowly, captain; dial out about, say, a thousandthweight of gas per minute for ten minutes, and see what altitude we sink to."

"Aye, Sir, done and doing."

"That is all."

"Aye Sir."

(OOC: The envelope of the St. Elmo is about the size of the standard Bombing Zeppelin used at about the middle of the First World War. It's the standard rigid Zeppelin envelope, and contains the usual gas Cells, except that they are located in the front and rear of the envelope, with a sizable space left open in teh middle; this serves as a secure hold during operational missions, and is teh exat lenth of teh Obs deck on top of teh envelope, which is currently equipped with
1. a mast, sloop-style rigging (as per general standing British admiralty orders as per riggings of HM ships)
2. a stair house housing the landing for the spiral stairway that winds up all the way from Engineering, has a landing at every level including teh envelope hold, and on up to the Obs deck.
3. one of teh two frontally-shielded deck guns that the vessel will eventually have.

The "gunboat portion" that is mentioned so often is much smaller than the envelope, about the size of, say, the Rea-Life Myth-class gunboats of the Victorian era (HMS Cockatrice being a very good approximational comparison. The Gunboat Portionan is, in fact, an old iron-hulled, paddle-wheeled gunboat, originally christened Ariadne, and had in fact been one of the legendary Jean Lafitte's raiding 'clads.

Her paddle wheels have been redesigned and rebuilt into metal-housed, metal-bladed and constructed Centrifugal Ducted Fans, which the Elmo is  geared to turn at very high revs, creating thrust which can be deployed in many different directions, including sideways, upward, downward, sternward and fore-ward. The effect is very like that of having two extremely-powerful jet engines on articulated mounts, and makes the Elmo capable of high-speed flight, and of flying more slowly without the benefit of lifting cells. (sort of like a harrier, but much larger). her "Ramming Masks" can be lowered from their "benign" positions, and effectively turn the Elmo into an armed Aerial Ramship. (they have not yet been dismantled for the "D-Hopper" Missions, and will not be for at least one more year in her home dimension-- and yes, she IS going back, as is the Beau Rosin) A very formidable warship indeed.

Spoiler: ShowHide

She has 3 full-sized decks, and a "lumbago deck" at the very bottom, which is used for the storage and manipulation of ballast (most of which is in Liquid form). she has two "castles," the forecastle, at the bow of which is located the Steering Room of the dirigible, and the aft- or after-castle, which houses officer's country, the Officer's mess, and the captain's cabin, and also two diminutive "orderly cabins" and one sizeable "guest" stateroom.

The forecastle, in addition to the Upper Bridge and Steering, also houses five small staterooms (three on starboard, two on Port) there is an open-air "middle deck" between the two castles, and located under the envelope hold portion of the envelope in which the Life Blimps (4) are stored, and has large door panels which can be lifted from inside the envelope and rolled back on rollers to allow access from the middle deck.

The deck immediately below the Castle-and-middle-deck is the gun-deck, in which 12 rotary-repeating, self-reloading Hotchkiss deck guns are mounted in retractable half-turrets, and 4 hopper-fed silver-capable coilguns (similar to, but much simpler and easier to repair than a rail gun) which commonly fire 2 1/2 inch steel ball bearings at such speed that they burn in mid-flight, and rip the air with a hypersonic boom (CRACKK!) (very effective against any target that is vulnerable to heat and/or fire).These are also mounted in retractable half-turrets. In addition, an elevator system lifts ammo to the gun deck from the magazine located on the engineering deck, and down to the rocket-tube hoppers on the ballast deck. the rocket hoppers hold approximately five rockets each; each tube has three hoppers mounted revolver-style so that different types of rockets can be used for diferent purposes, including rocket grapnels. The rockets are electrically triggered, via what we would call something like "mechanically-actuated piezo-electric sparking," but which have a different name in Dreyfuss'/Jack's home multiverse.

one rotary-fed rocket tube in teh stern of teh ship

RTAF St. Elmo's current crew at time of this RP are :
Commodore Sir Jaisen Santiago Dreyfuss, Owner-Master and Commanding Officer
Lt. J.G. Irene Frost
Captain/Steersman Lemuel Ismael
Fireman/Acting Chief Engineer Jock Lough-Malley

The above are considered a Minimal Skeleton Crew.

The St. Elmo is officially classified as "Pocket War Zeppelin: Threat Hunter, Supernatural/Unknown."
She is considered, size- and armament-wise, as about equivalent to a heavily-armed aircruiser.

.
I will remove the St.  Elmo and crew if y'all prefer. I've been thinking of a possible enemy, but i woud need teh permission of some or all the Steam London bunch.

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

(OOC- Well, the more the merrier, I suppose...but it feels a little like a three cart carnival dog-and-pony show pulls into a small town, and they're thinking they're going to wow the populace, and then watching in dismay as the Barnum & Bailey circus train pulls into the station.)

[The Abiliegh]

As things had quieted down, Meta had taken advantage of the opportunity by returning to the saloon and and inquiring as to whether or not they had room for let. Discovering the affirmative, she smiled, requested a bath be drawn (and agreed to pay extra, of course. professional or not, she was not about to be impolite), and took her belonging to the room matching the key.

Hot water and a crude bar of soap was all to be offered, but with two days of dust on her person, she didn't truly mind. It felt positively sinful to let her tense muscles relax and to let down her hair for a moment, which, unpinned, fell to well below her waist.

Washed and dried, she went to here trunk. While rifling through the contents, she thought she heard a most peculiar noise from outside... something not recognized. Going to the window, she leaned, peering far out towards the street. Nothing there, from her precarious vantage. But while contorting herself back she caught a glimpse of the sky.

Her mouth formed a little "o" of surprise, and she thought it best to skip the pampering and get back down to the Beau.

Slipping into a simple silk kimono she kept, she tied the obi with practiced efficiency. Her boots were donned quickly, and she took her mass of still-drying curls and tied their impressive length into a simple knot behind her neck, keeping them loose but still out of her way. Broach next, then a curious brass plate was slipped into the back of the obi, finished with delicate lace gloves, to which she placed a small button with a simple jewel light into the palm.

And then she tore down the stairs, taking two at a time, and went right back on deck.

"Pulsifer... Customs man...." She paused, not winded, but certainly wanting a breath. "Look. Up."

[[OOC: I'm down, but it sounds like, high has they are, that perhaps they aren't stuck here yet. Perhaps there can be a way to get them workin towards a release without actually having them get trapped? If y'all decided to remove them, I'll edit this post and just enjoy my bath ]]

[Miles (a sailor)Martin]

Exiting the corner booth that he had been observing the goings on from Miles walks over to the bar and asks for another cup of coffee and a double shot of whiskey,as it is delivered he hears a sound reminisent of  something but not quite the same,turning from the bar he scans the room ,then the windows, as he pulls a small bag out of the inside pocket of his coat and says to the barkeeper " Is there an assay office in town, i would like to get this appraised. It was my pay for a past job and I am now wondering if I was one of P.T. Barnum's primary resourses." not waiting for an answer he heads to the door,caution in every step having heard the comment about the fellow with a Gatling cannon watching it, Miles pulls a mirror on a short rod out of an inside pocket and checks to see where  the aforementioned ordinance was placed,noticing that it was no longer covering the door,then puts away the mirror on a stick,goes out loads up the generator and headed around back to the well to start making H2 so that maybe he could get his airship ready to fly. looking up he sees far above the bag off the Beau Rosin yet another airship and says under his breath" i swear this dinky burg is getting busier than flipping O'Hare feild in timeline B.I.2.

[Sgt.Major Thistlewaite]

The gasbag of the Beau Rosin has been making its eccentric orbit above the town, and as it loops around has gravitated towards the "eye" of the storm...now it's not making a loop so much as it is spinning in place, more or less above the smithy. O'Callahan hugs the buildings until he is away from the center of town, then steps into the street. He unlimbers the Sharps buffalo gun, and withdrawing the ramrod, he pulls a screw-threaded extractor from his pocket, threads it into the end of the ramrod, then pulls the ball from the barrel of the Sharps. Then, from a brass powder flask, he adds a double-charge of powder to the big rifle. He has purchased the most robust fishing arrow the Mercantile had available, made of steel and about 3/8 of an inch in diameter, with folding barbs near the business end, and a loop for attaching a line. He wraps a handkerchief tightly around it, and shoves it butt first down the barrel of the Sharps. He has also purchased 3,000 feet of 1/2 inch hemp cord, which he attaches to the arrow. So far, no one up the street near the Beau Rosin has noticed him, but that changes as he carefully takes aim nearly straight up at the gasbag half a mile above, allows for the howling wind, and discharges the double charge in the Sharps. The BOOM is stupendous, and it produces a significant cloud of white smoke, which the wind quickly whips away. The steel arrow goes flying upwards, trailing the cord behind it, unreeling from its spool at blinding speed. All things considered, it is a tremendous shot. The fishing arrow passes through some of the rigging hanging from the gasbag, then becomes entangled as O'Callahan grabs the line and halts its upward flight. He pulls it back sharply, and the barbs unfold and it is firmly attached to the gasbag. The priest then produces two loops of cord, quickly ties them to the line going up to the bag with friction knots, and, slinging the Sharps across his back, rapidly climbs the line. All this has not gone unnoticed, and several people watch as the strange clergyman ascends all the way to the gasbag. The smith comes to the door of his shop, and stares upward. Already thinking him to be crazy, the next thing he does is completely unexpected. He jumps, and plummets the half a mile back to the street. Just 30 feet above the ground, it appears that he starts to flicker, and then there is a puffing ring of dust, and a WHOOOOMF in the street...but when the dust clears, the body of the priest is nowhere to be seen...he has figured out the only way in this town to exceed 88 miles an hour, and, although where he has gone is a mystery, there can be no denying that he is gone.

O'Callahan picks himself up. "That actually hurt." He says it out loud. He has landed on a flat, bare shelf of rock. Everything is lit by a garish, flickering red light. The air smells heavily of sulfur, and is oven hot. Horrible, keening screams echo against the cavern walls surrounding him, coming from every direction. A huge figure comes toward him, shaking the ground with every step of its cloven hooves. It bends down and regards the priest with disfavor through its glowing, yellow eyes, with pupils like that of a cat. Two enormous curving horns protrude from its massive forehead. The creatures skin is a dusky red, and covered with what appear to be tattooed runes. From behind it, a sinuous tail  whips back and forth, terminating in a triangular fluke. The monster speaks, a basso profundo rumble from deep in its chest..."Dammit! I threw you out of here ten years ago! What are you doing back, priest?" O'Callahan answers, "Don't worry...I'm just passing through." The huge figure chuckles, "Finished robbing me of what's rightfully mine yet?" O'Callahan shakes his head, "Not quite yet...and they're not yours, technically, until they're dead."  "True enough" a gigantic, clawed hand strokes the goateed chin "...so, you didn't rate...There...and I didn't want you here...so how's your "special deal" working out?"  The grim smile flashes across the priest's face..."Not bad...the count stands at 133...I deliver 144 Hell-bound souls, and I can retire, and get my case reviewed...might even get in There this time." Another basso chuckle, "So, what brings you here? I really don't want you around, you know, you're too much trouble, even for me...and you're not scared of me, which is infuriating." O'Callahan chuckles, too...it sounds odd, as if it hurts his throat. It's not a noise he often makes. "I accidentally wandered into Purgatory...who knew He would put it in Colorado? All those I've dispatched so far are there, living what they think are ordinary lives, the smith, the bartender, the storekeeper, the liveryman...none of them remember what they used to be, or anything before they came there, but they don't think about it. Somehow, the barriers down...several others have wandered in that don't belong there, and, unlike the regular folks that come and go, they're in, and they can't get out. Nobody can get out right now...I couldn't get out...until I figured I could probably come here.The smith somehow brought back a device not from Earth that's skewing the frequencies...and how he got out to get it is anybody's guess...somethings not right..now time travelers are getting involved...it's a mess. I got out the only way I could figure...I knew since I was headed straight down at a hundred miles an hour, I'd wind up here." Dusting himself off, O'Callahan asks, "Which way to the the Gates?" Pointing with a clawed finger, the Devil (yes,of course it is him) says, "That way, about a mile. Mind the dog.."
"Perfect," says O'Callahan. "That'll put me well outside the boundary of Purgatory...and don't worry, your dog likes me. You'll understand if I don't say 'See you later." "I hope you don't." says the Devil. "I much prefer you to be His problem."