This poetic vision, itself engraved by a long deceased bard (along with "lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate") on the gates to the city, was, alas, altogether lost on Puffy -- an uncharacteristically focussed, goal-directed... almost sentient Puffy -- as she sped through the evening's miasma, sniffing for Schmutzplunk's distinctive stench (and retching only intermittently), seeking to pick it out from all the surrounding redolences in the stinky atmosphere of the northern half of Main Street. This proved ultimately not to be necessary, though, as Schmutzplunk left in his Godzilla-reminiscent wake enough detritus to fill the warehouse from the last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
"You!", Puffy screamed, as Schmutzplunk, still several neurons short of a full thimble, stopped and turned to greet his interlocutor. "You freaking need a bath... oh, and also to be killed, a lot." Puffy was only doing her job (and inasmuch as this was a thing she only rarely condescended to do, it seems captious to point out that, had she not shouted, she could have done Schmutzplunk in the back with a good deal less in the way of fuss, bother and confrontation), but Schmutzplunk, insensitive as he was, really hated to be yelled at in public, and moreso on the subject of his deficient hygience. Vampires were supposed to stink. Ablutions did not feature prominently in their ADUL's (Activities of Daily Unliving). Was the Slayer too dense to absorb this fundamental fact, or just too wedded to her tired and overused, Voyeur-endorsed insults and objurgations? ("Objurgations" was not a word that Schmutzplunk found leaping to his mind on an excess of occasions, but then, neither was "cat." It was a tribute to Puffy's preternatural obnoxiousness that she had managed to provoke him into this lifetime-achievement-level production of a word involving more than one syllable, and unrecognizable to most American college students.) "Grunt-grunt," Schmutzplunk exclaimed, with rather more declamatory zeal, and ran at the Slayer, brandishing one of at least two items with which Puffy did not want to be attacked or impaled... in this case, Pander. Pander had earlier managed to catch up with Puffy, but had overtaken and passed her in the relentless smog, and had been on the verge of becoming Schmutzplunk's pre-prandial apéritif, before the vampire found a more immediate use for the cretinous lunk. Pillow, on the other hand, had succumbed to hypoxia several blocks back, had sat on the curb, and was still trying, valiantly, to extract oxygen from the Meshuggadale evening miasma.
"Puffy, watch out!" Pander managed to cry out, quite supererogatorily, since by the time he'd finished croaking "Puffy," she'd already dodged around Schmutzplunk, pulled him out from under the vampire's prodigiously smelly armpit, and set him down on the roof of a decrepit Hyundai, the most ostentatiously luxurious vehicle for blocks around. She then executed a triple salchow, did three pirouettes just for show, and punched Schmutzplunk in the face. Since all of this took about 30 seconds, Schmutzplunk had just time to duck. Perhaps time, even, for a duck to come down and give him a hundred dollars, which strangely (or perhaps not, this being Meshuggadale), a fairly unconvincing-looking undead bird, species anatine, chose that moment to do. Not that $100 American was likely to extricate Schmutzplunk from his current dilemma, or suffice, for that matter, to pay the bill for any two drinks at Starbucks. On the other hand, it did so gobsmack Puffy that a goofy bird from a nearly-paleolithic television show should suddenly descend from Meshuggadale's murky sky, that her dazedness afforded Schmutzplunk a few more seconds of breathing room. These he used to absent himself, disappearing down a conveniently placed manhole.