There he was, standing in the middle of a godforsaken forest, in front of what appeared to be an ancient mobile home. The kind you could only see on The Discovery Channel's Swamp People Redneck documentaries; more rusted iron and rotten woodwork than anything else. The only way he knew it wasn't an abandoned piece of shit, covered in more shit, was the fact that his amulet began to vibrate because of near supernatural things, such as demonism and witch craft.

And of course, the beheaded possums hanging next to the entrance gave away that someone, or rather 'something' was living there.

He looked around then scoffed before putting his hands in his long, red leather trench coat and in a swift motion, slid out two .45 caliber magnums. With a semi-screw summersault he changed his point of view 180 degrees. While in mid-air, he fired two slugs of silver-lined bullets into the giant bat that was hanging upside down from the thick branch behind him. The foul beast squalled, then burst into a bright orange flame, leaving scorch marks on the branch where it hung.

"Well, that was uncalled for…" A voice with a heavy Jamaican accent sounded from the entrance of the old trailer. "Demon killer or not, there be no reason to kill mon's pet, mon... Now, if you would get inside, Mr. Redgrave, you be late for your 'pointment and you be pay'n by de hour."

"All right, all right… But in my defense, that thing was fucking ugly. If anything, I made it better looking," Dante said.

Bertrand, the man glaring through the doorframe, was a well-built black man with a cigarette jutting from the corner of his mouth. He raised an eyebrow and blew a puff of smoke from his nose.

He was trying not to lash out with a stream of verbal vomit at the macho white boy with the oversized handguns and the weird sword on his back who had just killed his pet bat. Which left Bertrand with only one question: how did such a weapon even stay there? He didn't see any straps; no buckles. He then came to the conclusion that it was probably some kind of witch trick. He never understood those things anyway, he just worked as a bouncer for his uncle's business.

"Just get inside, ya?"

"This better be worth it," Dante said, glancing down. "Look at my boots! I just polished them yesterday. They're all covered in mud and possum crap." He grumbled while walking towards the trailer.

When he reached the door, Bertrand help up a hand to stop him, "Take off dem shoes. The doctor don't like it when his trailer be getting filthy." Then he turned and walked off, leaving Dante to shrug in disbelief before kneeling down to grumble some more. That only made Bertrand smile.

As Dante advanced barefooted into the old trailer, it dawned on him that the old piece of junk was more spacey than he first thought from the outside. Maybe it was an optical illusion, created by the cockroaches on the wall in the cramped corridor.

Determined to get what he came for, he strode on... albeit with a stiff upper lip.

Finally in the doctor's practice, an old black man with a gray goatee rose from behind his desk. The man looked fragile and possibly senile with one pupil bigger than the other and stained clothes that looked as if they were taken off a dead junkie from the late nineties.

He gestured for Dante to take the seat in front of the desk. Dante took a few seconds to have a closer look at the room. In the corner was a shaman's staff, complete with an empty calabas and dried gecko and even a damn blowfish. There were shafts filled with pots and jars full of ingredients for potions and rituals. Pickled eyes and intestines, dried veins, roots and flowers of plants known only in a language long dead and buried.

Dante approached the seat and took it.

The doctor took a deep breath that made his nostrils quiver. He opened his mouth and an uncommonly deep voice came out of the small man. "So... Mr. Redgrave, you saw it fit that Bertrand's pet died? Such aggression, what is there to come of this generation?" However deep, his voice was also warm and kind.

Dante looked up to his eyes and said. "Yeah, well, old man, you deal with this sizzling sensation every time you have to go, and you'll be itching to kill a few things before long! …No pun intended."

Suddenly the doctor's eyes screamed fire and violence, his voice not quite so warm and kind anymore as the palms of his hands slammed onto his desk. "Show some respect, boy. Do not forget whom you face! I am the Witchdoctor of this realm. I have seen your kind and I've dealt with worse. You need me but I don't need you. So watch your tongue before I cut it off!"

Dante blinked, one eyebrow lifting as he watched the old geezer settle back into his chair with a deep inhale.

When the old man spoke again it was like someone had flipped a switch, turning him back into a mild mannered old fart. "So tell me of this…'sizzling' you speak of."