"This is his place?" Heenan glanced skeptically at the run-down shop marked MAGICS 'R US their stretched limo had pulled up in front of, "I don't think even the rats would hang out in a place like this, Paul."

"Papa Shango prefers a place where no one will bother him too often," Bearer stepped out of the limo, "Come; he is expecting us."

"OK, but let me just say, Paul, that I don't believe in voodoo myself," Ted DiBiase grumbled, waving for his bodyguard to bring a briefcase, "The only religion I prescribe to is that of the almighty dollar, because that's what's done me good."

"And besides," Blassie added, "I don't think Vincenelli would be sold on this nonsense either..."

"Seeing...will be believing," the Undertaker assured them all, ringing the noose doorbell to the shop. Instantly, the door creaked open. "Nice, very nice," a still unbelieving DiBiase mused, following the Deadman over the threshhold. "Mr. Shango, we're here," the Million Dollar Man called out into the dark shop. There was no answer whatsoever. "Well, guess he's not here," Heenan quickly remarked, "Might as well pack it in and..."

"Papa Shango will come in his own good time," Bearer assured him, "So we should just wait for the opportune time. Oh, you like his handiwork, Mr. Hart?" he asked Jimmy, who was looking rather green at the gills as he stared at a row of shrunken heads along the wall.

"Uh, nice, Paul, nice," the Mouth of the South said quickly, "Uh, does he deliver his victims to you like this, or does he...?"

Suddenly a wall of flames shot up along the back of the room, making everyone except Bearer and the Undertaker cry out and leap backwards. A terrible laugh pierced the air as the slightly hunched, skull-faced figure in the top hot and cloak stepped forward through the fire completely unharmed. "WHO DARES ENTER THE REALM OF PAPA SHANGO?" he roared out loud, waving around a smoking skull on a chain and a voodoo rattle.

"It's just me, your old friends Paul Bearer and the Undertaker, here on business," the mortician stepped forward, "Good to see you in such good health. These are..."

"Your business partners of sorts, yes," Shango stared the managers down intently. "I divined as such when you arrived."

"Good for you, pal; from now on, though, please don't do that flaming business; I'm an old man, and my heart can't take big shocks!" Blassie complained, clutching his chest, "In fact, could you lose the fire now, before we get the fire brigade in here? We agreed this would be a secret meeting...!"

Shango shook his rattle hard, and the flames instantly died away. "You wish my services, Bearer, for the Undertaker?" he asked the mortician.

"OOOOOOh yes," Bearer nodded with a wide grin, "As you know, my Undertaker will be facing Hulk Hogan for the world championship on Saturday. And, although he's almost certain to win, I figured a curse against Hogan couldn't hurt either."

"And if you can prove you can make this voodoo mumbo-jumbo Bearer says you can do work, we can pay you quite handsomely; Virgil," DiBiase ordered the bodyguard, who stepped forward and opened the briefcase to reveal a huge cache of dollar bills.

"Money is not a prime motivator for I," Shango told him, "However, I would certainly take your money. What proof do you need?"

"Just whatever works," the Million Dollar Man said firmly.

"Whatever works," Shango stared straight at Virgil. Realizing this, Virgil took several large steps backwards, but he was already too slow; Shango raised the skull and rattle and let out a terrifying cry. With a howl, Virgil abruptly slumped to his knees-and then shrieked as black liquid started suddenly pouring down his face out of nowhere. "My God..." Sherri was all but aghast.

"OOOOOOOOh yes, oh Scarry Sherri," Bearer nodded in triumph, "This is just a sampling of Papa Shango's powers. Hogan would be helpless in its grasp just as Virgil is."

Virgil shrieked in terror again as he tried futilely to wipe the liquid away; more, however, formed to take its place. "OK, that's good, we've got the point, you're ace, you're the best," Jimmy was looking freaked out himself, "If you'll shut it off, we'll take you to Don Vincenelli and get his clearence on this."

Shango shook the rattle hard, and immediately the liquid stopped. Breathing heavily, Virgil stumbled towards the bathroom, presumably to wash the rest of the liquid off. "Well, I'll say you've earned this then," DiBiase, looking completely unconcerned for his bodyguard's well-being, handed the voodoo master the briefcase of money, "Come on along with us, and we'll take you to the big guy himself-no, sorry, let me rephrase that, OUR big guy, not the guy in the red suit and horns..."

Shango slunk towards the door, cool and collected. "Say, Ted, I know you're always looking for a fast buck or two hundred million; what do you say, once we're done with finishing off Hogan, selling all that stuff en masse?" Heenan whsipered in DiBiase's ear as they walked out, pointed to a now clean and relieved Virgil falling in behind them, "We'd get richer selling that to stupid little kids who'd buy anything..."

"Voodoo, you say?" Don Kennedesco Vincenelli remained unconvinced, reclining back in his chair in the darkened office at his mansion, "I don't buy that..."

"I didn't either, Kennedesco, but he almost hexed Virgil to death before our own eyes, and in this case, seeing is certainly believing," DiBiase insisted.

"For every last one of us," Jimmy agreed, "We should give this guy," he put an arm around Shango in the chair next to him, "Free reign to hex Hogan up."

"I don't know, boys, I don't know," Vincenelli lit up another cigarette, then rose and paced around in circles, "It's not so much the principle of the thing as the fallback; if this guy here fails to come through, I could well be the laughingstock of the entire national wrestling syndicate. I want the world title, yes, but if I have to be humiliated trying for it..."

"Well we'd be glad to show it for you right now to prove it, Don Vincenelli," Blassie offered, "Surely there's someone here in the building that's expendable enough to have voodooed."

"Very well. Patrizio," the don turned to his own bodyguard next to him in the darkness, "An extra ten percent in your next paycheck for this."

Patrizio grunted softly and stepped forward. "OK, do your thing, mister," Vincenelli told Shango. For a moment, there was silence. Then Shango let out a low roar, and before anyone realized it, Patrizio's shoes had caught fire. Shrieking, Patrizio hopped around, trying to stamp the flames out. The don clapped in the dim light of the flames. "That's pretty good, Mr. Shango," he commended the voodoo master, "Tell me, do you also do the doll thing?"

"I do," Shango told him, "But for it to work properly, I will need something of Mr. Hogan's to add to it."

"Bearer, I'm tasking you to get something of Hogan's to assist with this," Don Vincenelli ordered the mortician, "Just to be absolutely sure, I want a few trial runs on Hogan before I commit to going full-tilt on Saturday Night's Main Event."

"You won't regret this, my good man," Bearer all but cackled, shaking the don's hand hard. "Come," he told both Shango and the Undertaker, "Let us get the man what he wants-after we see if Mr. Roberts would be willing to help as he requested..."