I was making good headway with the burning when my behelit began to cry, signalling the emergence of the unsavory supernatural elements dwelling along the furthest boundaries of the light cast by the fire. Even without calling upon my behelit power I can sense the way they did not belong with the natural data flow, like a colony of ants living in a lollipop.
Bonesaw in one hand, I discard the detached arm of Swizzle Malarkey into the fire with the other, and turn to face my three stalkers: semi-sentient globs of flesh with sharp metallic objects poking out of their carapaces nudging toward me in a way similar to slugs, trailing a glistening slick of blood behind them.
"I know there's more to you buggers than this."
And I was right. As they draw closer, they undergo a transformation. They stand, becoming at least five feet tall, and what I had thought were their entire bodies turned out to be shells, their real selves gray and humanlike but with thorned tentacles that grow in place of arms long enough to drape across the ground, and the heads of all three are completely devoid of any physical features.
I hold up the behelit hanging from my wrist to release its power.
Let's see what these Sour Patch Kids have in store for me.
The one closest to me would swing its left tentacle and I, anticipating the horizontal swing, would weave out of the way only to receive the follow-up attack with its other tentacle across my face. Momentarily stunned, I wouldn't be able to defend myself as it coils its left tentacle around my neck and pulls me toward its torso, where a mouth full of razor sharp teeth would finish me off.
That, it goes without saying, would be no good. Adjustments would have to be made.
I take a deep breath as the aura of the behelit subsides, and I brace myself for the first strike.
When it comes, instead of sidestepping to dodge I drop to the floor. Then, I Tootsie roll to the left and avoid being hit by the next tentacle strike.
"I think I'll cut you down a peg."
I bury the bone saw into its right ankle and, propping up my leg for leverage, roll behind it while still gripping the handle so that the foot is chopped off cleanly.
The monster topples over facefirst faster than any self-respecting trick-or-treater can turn down an Almond Joy.
The behelit highlights the vulnerable points of my tentacled friend's shell, and I plunge the saw through one so deep that my knuckle grazes against the leathery surface.
One down, two to go.
"Who's next?"
...
By the time Vanellope and Wynnchel make it to the campsite, in an open park area featuring an angel cake fountain spewing grimy green water hidden deep within the mausoleum complex, Sticky has already dealt with all three monsters.
Arms and fingers steeped in strawberry jam and real blood, she has returned to the tedious task of throwing loose body parts - squirming hands, arms, feet, legs, torsos and heads - that were organized into seperate, scavenged boxes labelled innocent things like 'Cute Muffin Cupcakes' and 'Berry Cheery Cherries' into the fire to dispose of them.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're alright! I had this horrible feeling something bad was going to happen." Vanellope calls and runs to her excitedly. Sticky looked exactly the same as she did before the cutesy variety party game inexplicably became a survival-horror singleplayer.
Vanellope is about to tackle hug her friend when, hearing the clicking sound of Wynnchel loading his gun, she freezes in place.
"Put your hands behind your head and don't make any sudden movements." He says in a commanding tone.
She looks sideways at mister armed and delicious. Down the nose of the loaded pistol pointed at her back. "What's going on?"
"Do what he says, sweetie." Sticky says with a coldness in her voice Vanellope had never heard before.
Vanellope...
The voices return as her head spins from all that was going on.
"Now back up toward me. No sudden movements."
"Sticky, why are you letting him do this?"
Wynnchel slaps a cold pair of handcups on her and locks them. The way he pulls at her arms to make them fit causes her wound to open back up, and it starts to bleed again in a narrow trickle.
"Wynnchel, your baton please?" She holds out a hand to receive the black club from her accomplice.
Vanellope can only look at Sticky, who expresses not even the slightest sliver of joy at their reunion or even remorse for what she was about to do, holding the baton high above her head, another of the red pendants dangling from the wrist.
"Hold still."
I'm sorry...
The baton comes down on the top of Vanellope's skull hard and she blacks out.