Narrator 1: Weepe is getting ready to host again! 

Narrator 3: He’s an excellent host.

[Jaunty organ music plays. Weepe is “singing” along with the music.]

Narrator 2: That brunch was such a blast last time, and now he’s really got the entertaining bug. Maybe it’s a holdover from running a cabaret. Nothing quite like setting up a merry party for good company to enjoy.

Narrator 3: What a social butterfly!

Narrator 1: He is in the parlor now, of his new Tripotentiary mansion. Formerly Jonas Spahr’s mansion, now Weepe’s, and he’s here in his parlor, setting up the perfect scene.

Narrator 2: He’s got an ornamental snack tray over here, some new blankets tastefully draped off of one of the couches over there, flowers — gotta have flowers in the Highest Light of course, flowers everywhere.

Narrator 3: He’s critically examining the aesthetic effect of this particular throw pillow on this particular chair. Everything must be perfect for his special guest.

Narrator 2: He’s been looking forward to this for a while. [A tinkling doorbell sounds.] In fact, that must be them right now!

[With a record scratch, the jaunty organ ceases.]

Narrator 3: Oh boy!

[Swift footsteps.]

Narrator 2: He scampers to the door, gleefully shooing his guards out of the way, slowing himself down to a regal walk just a few paces before he gets to the foyer.

Narrator 1: His drip-IV-siphon-ichor-pump-apparatus and its associated hoses trailing behind him, sloshing with black bubbling ichor.

Narrator 2: Festive! [A door creaks open.] And there on the threshold, his guest:

Narrator 1: The Baron of the Fold Shallows and all islets therein—

Narrator 3: —except for Midst—

Narrator 2: Kozma Laszlo stands on his stoop. She wears a dangerous-looking pantsuit.

Narrator 3: Oh, that rhymed!

Narrator 2: All of her pantsuits are dangerous, in fact.

Narrator 1: Weepe adopts his most obsequious manner. He clasps his hands. He bows deeply and subserviently before the short-statured baron. (Weepe) “Baron Laszlo, please come in!”

Narrator 3: In the baron’s wake is an array of guards, Laszlo’s personal staff.

Narrator 2: One of them is hoisting a gnarly looking rifle, while another is jotting notes in an appointment book.

Narrator 3: They’re multitalented!

Narrator 2: All of them are also trained in cosmetology, but that’s not really relevant today.

Narrator 3: Kozma got a fresh mani just yesterday.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Hi. I’m armed. We’re all armed. I’m not coming in there without my full entourage, given the circumstances. You understand.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, that’s okay. None of us is packin’ any heat.” He gestures over his shoulder at his own Tripotentiary Guard, who are standing here and there throughout the foyer, distinctly with no armaments visible on their person. (Weepe) “You can take it easy, Baron, I’m not interested in startin’ a war tonight. We’re just talkin’, you and I. Right this way.”

Narrator 3: As Weepe leads them in, Kozma points a bejeweled finger decisively at a couple of Weepe’s sculptures in the hall. Her secretaries make quick note of them.

Narrator 2: She can’t help but admire the Tripotentiary’s decor. (Kozma) “These are neat.” It’s true, the Tripotentiary and the Baron share a certain maximalist sensibility.

Narrator 1: Weepe nods appreciatively. (Weepe) “Yeah, I really like things like this. I’m glad you agree, Baron. You want any of ‘em, I got extra.”

Narrator 2: The whole group is led to a couple of adjacent sitting rooms deeper within the mansion. Weepe enters first and takes his seat on a severe-looking wingback chair, flanked by ponderous medical equipment: thick bundles of hoses and cables snaking around the legs of the chair, leading to and from various IV stands, tanks, armatures.

Narrator 3: The gentle huff and wheeze of a large pump quietly hisses behind the chair.

Narrator 2: Weepe plugs himself in, discarding the already full IV bag he had brought with him to the front door. Black, seething, inky blood gurgles from his body, siphoning horribly.

Narrator 1: Weepe crosses one knee over the other, sitting comfortably in his chair. (Weepe) “So for this part I think, if you don’t mind, I wanna have your guys wait in the hall with my guys. Door can stay unlocked, but this conversation is between you and me, Baron.”

Narrator 2: Kozma and her people examine the skeletal, infirm jelly man strapped weakly into his chair, having his fluids drained. It seems like just the short trip to the front door and back really took it out of him.

Narrator 1: Kozma’s main lieutenant whispers something in her ear. She nods.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Hm. Acceptable, but we’re going to search you first. And THEN my associates will wait outside.”

Narrator 1: Weepe shrugs casually. (Weepe) “That’s fine with me.”

Narrator 3: Kozma’s burly lieutenant approaches menacingly, visibly grimacing as he cautiously pats down Weepe’s ghastly, bony physique.

Narrator 2: He lingers on the hoses and needles inserted into the Tripotentiary’s limbs. Weepe makes uncanny eye contact with him while this is going on, blinking his see-through lids.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Don’t mind any of this, this is, uh, just so I don’t get too sick and die,” Weepe explains, perhaps unnecessarily.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Fine,” Kozma says impatiently.

Narrator 3: The lieutenant steps away from Weepe and whispers once more to Kozma before leading the other guards outside into the corridor to stand patiently face to face with Weepe’s guards, who they do outnumber considerably.

Narrator 2: The door closes lightly, indeed remaining unlocked. Kozma and Weepe regard each other in the parlor. Alone.

Narrator 1: Kozma examines the chair that Weepe has carefully prepared for her, unceremoniously shoves it aside, and pulls a different chair forward instead.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Can’t be too careful,” she says.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I don’t blame ya, that one’s kind of lumpy honestly.”

Narrator 3: Kozma exhibits no mirth, clasping her hands in her lap, waiting expectantly for Weepe to start.

Narrator 2: Kozma doesn’t like his sense of humor, it would seem.

Narrator 1: Oh no, this is a nightmare!

Narrator 2: She sits grimly across from him on the other side of the coffee table, completely ignoring the tray of decorative snacks. She’s not an idiot.

Narrator 1: Weepe coughs piteously, hacking up a glob of… something into a lacy handkerchief, which he sticks into his shirt pocket.

Narrator 2: Kozma’s lip curls. (Kozma) “I don’t like to be kept waiting, Mr. Weepe. What have you got for me?”

Narrator 1: Weepe sups of a succulent grape from the platter.

Narrator 2: Kozma watches it tunnel down his esophagus. Ugh!

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Okay, sure, we get this goin’. So the Upper Trust talked about your stuff and first things first: we… well, I… have carefully considered all this demands you share with us at Mrs. Loxlee’s yesterday. We takin’ this very seriously. Obviously if your claims are true, you have us at a disadvantage.”

Narrator 3: Kozma listens, neutrally.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “As far as the Mediun and the downward expansion of the Trust is concerned… nah. We gonna expand however we please.”

Narrator 3: Kozma’s eyes narrow.

Narrator 1: Weepe plucks another grape from the platter. (Weepe) “And as for all this business with the Breach, we thank you for your frank and earnest disclosure of that information. And while we are not going to accept your specific requests about leaving everybody alone who has breached, we do accept your immediate and unconditional surrender.”

Narrator 2: Kozma is genuinely surprised. She begins to smile. She begins to laugh. (Kozma) “Wow, I wasn’t expecting this to be fun. The Trust is never fun. I figured you’d agree, hand me a bunch of tiresome paperwork, pat me on the head, and expect me to fuck off back down into the Fold while you figured out the most expeditious way to go back on your word. Now I get to do what I REALLY want to do, which is END your fucking cult.”

Narrator 1: Weepe eats another grape. (Weepe) “Okay.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “You clearly don’t know how we do things down in the Baronies. You have no idea how fucked you are. You’re not a leader, you’re a con man. I know damn well how you got here, you sleazy piece of shit, how you sold out the Breach on Midst to get ahead. Well, I AM the Breach, Tripotentiary. I had eyes and ears all over Midst, and I know exactly what you did. I know everything.”

Narrator 1: Weepe examines his grape, blinking slowly. (Weepe) “No you don’t. You really, really don’t. But I would like you to.”

[Bass ambience thickens. Weepe’s machine continues to huff and wheeze.]

Narrator 3: Kozma is losing patience with this bizarre man and his bizarre game. She stands up to go.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “You can have thirty seconds to tell me whatever it is you think I don’t know.” She picks up her cane.

Narrator 1: Weepe does not stand. He remains in his chair. (Weepe) “We have somethin’ in common: we both been mayors of Midst. As Tripotentiary, technically I am the mayor of Midst now… what’s left of it.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Congratulations. I’m aware.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “The funny thing is, Kozma, it’s not my first time BEING the mayor of Midst.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Is that a fact? Fifteen seconds.”

Narrator 3: Kozma drums her fingers on the head of her cane.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, I suppose you could say I’m kind of, uh, oh, I dunno… the boy who would be mayor?”

[The bass ambiance falls away to leave only the sound of Weepe’s machine.]

Narrator 3: Kozma blinks.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “What did you say?”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “You called me that once, a long time ago. I thought it was a funny turn of phrase. It was meant to be an insult at the time, but I’ve kinda reclaimed it.”

Narrator 2: Kozma is watching him, standing there. She’s not moving. A vein is pulsing in her forehead.

Narrator 1: Weepe is getting up too, now.

Narrator 2: Slowly, weakly. He’s creepy, tall, towering over her. He towers over most people, but especially her. The height difference is quite stark.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I was the mayor of Midst and the Fold Shallows before you. Baron, technically. And I’ll be the Baron of both again after you’re dead.”

Narrator 2: Kozma isn’t blinking. Her grip on her cane is tightening.

Narrator 3: She’s also a teeth grinder, so she’s grinding her teeth.

Narrator 1: Weepe looms, a spider in the dark. (Weepe) “In a way, you could also call the Trust a new kind of barony for me too. Just addin’ another one to my collection.”

Narrator 2: Kozma is barely breathing, frozen with fear.

Narrator 3: Her hands are starting to shake.

Narrator 2: We hope you’ve gotten to know her well enough that you understand what that means.

Narrator 3: With dawning comprehension in her face, she says

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “No…”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I went through kind of a rough patch there for a while, bein’ murdered’ll really do that to a guy, but things are really lookin’ up for me lately.”

Narrator 2: She’s backing away. She’s looking at the exits. Weepe is just following slowly, his hoses and tubes trailing along behind him on the floor. This can’t be happening. She is so fucking scared she doesn’t even have the presence of mind to call for her guards.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “The Trust isn’t gonna stop expanding, Laszlo, because I’m in charge of the Trust now and I don’t fuckin’ quit.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “He’s DEAD. We killed him. I killed him. You don’t look anything LIKE him.”

Narrator 1: Kozma is backpedaling, eyes wide.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “And what the hell is that accent? That’s not how he talked.”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Yeah, bein’ thrown into the Fold abyss locked inside an iron maiden made of mica until tearrors eat you alive will do a number on your hot bod and your vocal timbre, let’s put it that way.”

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “There was nothing left, we CHECKED!”

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Turns out the Mothers can do a lot with nothing, Kozma, but I don’t owe it to them, I really owe it to you. The thought of seein’ you again was all that was holdin’ me together, and now you’re here…”

[Weepe’s device quickens its pace.]

Narrator 3: Kozma is twisting the head of her cane, eyes wide, hands shaking, bearing her teeth, absolute mortal dread spreading through every muscle in her body like fire.

Narrator 2: (Kozma) “Then I’ll just have to kill you again!”

Narrator 3: A lidless, grinning, nightmare skeleton wraith advances on her. 

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Better luck this time. I’ve been waitin’ a long time to show you how it’s fuckin’ done.”

[Abrupt cut in all sound.]

Narrator 3: Out in the corridor, a light goes off on Kozma’s lieutenant’s wristband, indicating that the Baron has drawn her sword cane in the other room.

[An urgent percussive rhythm begins.]

Narrator 1: From the parlor beyond the door, the sounds of breaking glass and a cry of pain.

[A scream. The music intensifies. The sounds of soldiers struggling, the breaking of glass.]

Narrator 3: Kozma’s guards move fast.

Narrator 1: Weepe’s guards move faster.

Narrator 2: Within moments, they are engaged in a life or death struggle in the corridor. Kozma’s guards are trying to get into the room. Weepe’s guards, outnumbered, are trying to stop them. It seems impossibly mismatched. After all, Weepe’s guards are conspicuously unarmed.

Narrator 1: Except, like most other things Weepe says, that was a lie.

Narrator 2: In a moment, as we shall see, Kozma’s guards are flaying into pieces, chest cavities rupturing like rotten melons as ravening goop from hidden syringes boils through their bodies.

[Screams of pain, of boiling Fold.]

Narrator 3: Weepe’s guards step back from the shrieking forms, withdrawing their injectors from the blubbering heaps, as they smear out across the floor, crawling themselves apart.

Narrator 2: The screams give way to moans, give way to the empty sound a ripped balloon makes in the wind. Even the sounds in the parlor have died down by now. What’s going on in there?

Narrator 3: With less scurry than before, footsteps plod up to the parlor door, and Weepe pulls it open, breathing heavily.

Narrator 2: Ichor drips from his terrible fingers as it pours out from numerous punctures in his arms. Not connected to any machine now, he simply exudes the stuff.

[Drip drip.]

Narrator 3: A smoking puddle wearing a severe pantsuit bubbles and burns on the floor behind him, a warped, melted swordstick simmering beside it.

Narrator 2: Weepe, or whoever he is, is radiant with happiness.

Narrator 3: He grins at his guards, skull, teeth, tongue, and bare staring eyeballs hideously apparent inside his translucent head. 

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “Nice work, guys.”

Narrator 2: He says, black blood spattering the floor.

Narrator 1: (Weepe) “I’m sorry about all the mess. Little leaky leaky there… [hue hue hue hue hue].”