The curtain closed on John, Rose, Dave, and Jade, and something happened. The sun and moon switched again, a purple background appeared, and so did some sort of green mansion.
Spades Slick stood just inside the main entrance of the mansion. He was the leader of a notoriously vicious gang of mobsters known as the Midnight Crew. A rival gang known as The Felt had recently knocked over one of his favorite casinos. His long quest of revenge had finally taken him through the front door of mansion belonging to The Felt's loathsome boss, Lord English.
Spades Slick's subordinates (Clubs Deuce, Diamonds Droog, and Hearts Boxcars) had all been dispatched to various locations throughout the mansion to begin carrying out his mission. His objective was to locate and crack English's secret vault, and plunder its mysteries. That was the business end of it, at least. The pleasure would be painting this ugly house red with the blood of those miserable green motherfuckers.
He looked at the timekeeping devices. Stupid gang and their lousy obsession with clocks. The sooner all these idiots stopped being alive the better. He wondered where they were. It was awfully quiet in the mansion, sans all the dreadful ticking. Slick kicked a carriage clock by his foot.
Next, SS (short for Spades Slick, of course) attempted to captchalogue the carriage clock, but he obviously had no idea what that meant. If it was some smartass way of saying to pick it up, forget it. His item slot was already full with his trusty deck of cards. In terms of weapons, the five slots he had were already full as well. He had an idea that was so much better.
He knocked the clocks over and set them on fire.
CLOCKS DESTROYED: 4/1000
SS checked under the rug for any possible traps. But what was under the rug was much worse than any trap he could possibly imagine. It was a member of a species that he did not recognize, with a ghastly furry upper lip. He covered the unsightly individual back up and tried to forget it had ever existed.
He decided to play 52 pickup, but he would have needed a deck of cards to play that infernal game. And all he had in this inventory was this war chest, which he deployed on the floor and opened. He rummaged around inside. It was no unusual assortment of belongings, and nothing any mobster worth his salt would be caught plotting and scheming without. Certainly nothing eyebrow raising. Also his vendetta itinerary and heist map.
SS scavenged the war chest for fancy headwear. If there were any elaborate hats in here, he'd eat his haberdasher. But of course there was only a plain and serviceable backup hat identical to the one he was presently wearing, which naturally concealed two licorice scotty dogs. How did he know that he was presently wearing his backup hat and the one he had in his hand was his normal one? He froze where he was, not that he'd been moving in the first place.
Anyway, he attempted to hide inside his chest, but he clearly could not hide properly inside his chest because he could not close it while he was inside. Instead he momentarily pretended it was a really cool automobile that commanded the fear and respect of larcenous adversaries everywhere. BEEP BEEP BEEP! All aboard the idiot wagon!
He wondered if he should check the Crosbytop. At least turn it on. Oh, was that what this thing was? He'd had it for a while, but he didn't quite remember how he'd gotten it. He'd never known the identity of the pipe-smoking creature. Perhaps it could have been the same species as the character he'd just seen under the rug. But he knew that was impossible, because this one did not feature the same bizarre furred lip. They were probably differing species within the same genus.
He turned it on and went on to and spent a few hours reading Homestuck. He watched as John made his way up to the first gate and growled. He'd just wasted a lot of his time reading something that was for little children who pooped hard in their baby ass diapers. Also he didn't understand what the hell was going on or who all these characters were. It was all a lot of nonsense.
He stabbed the time setting on the Crosbytop, destroying it. It had once been 4:13 AM. It was now 0:00 AM.
CLOCKS DESTROYED: 5/1000
SS picked up the black spade key from the ground and inspected it. It was a rules card for blackjack. He'd possessed this item for as long as he could remember. He did not yet know its significance, but he could hustle up a mean game of blackjack when he needed to.
He next examined the vendetta itinerary. Upon it were mugshot of everyone he was going to kill. He'd gotten a head start, already having offed Crowbar (7), Matchsticks (11), and Quarters (14), depleting the gang of some its muscle. He still had to watch out for the others, though, and stay wary of their despicable time shenanigans.
Itchy (1) had given The Midnight Crew the slip repeatedly. Doze (2) he'd captured and interrogated just as repeatedly, to no avail. Trace (3) had broken into their secret hideout more times than he could count, while Fin (5) always seemed to be a step ahead of them and scooped their heists. Clover (4) had all the intel and was highly cooperative. They might need him to crack the vault. He'd certainly be guarded, though. It was always best to avoid Die (6) in any direct confrontation unless one wanted a temporal mess on their hands. But if SS needed repairs, he could always get to Stitch (9) and "persuade" him. And he might need to if he couldn't kill Sawbuck (10) with a clean shot. Eggs (12) and Biscuits (13) were morons. But they were dangerous morons. Cans (15) was a tank and SS's crew would probably need more ammunition than they'd packed to take him down.
In terms of Lord English, no one knew what he look like. But that was about to be corrected. Slick had dibs on English. The leader was all his.
SS wondered where the number 8 mugshot had gone, but he found it on the floor of his chest. It didn't matter anyway, because no one was gonna kill SNOWMAN (8). It was out of the question.
He looked next at the complicated heist map. On review, perhaps his schemes had been a bit convoluted. But he wouldn't have had it any other way. Deuce and Droog had split up to neutralize as many Felt as they could find. His heavy muscle and expert safecracker, Boxcars, was headed straight down to the vault.
Okay. It was time to use his radio to check on his unscrupulous cohorts and get out of there. He put the word out for a status report. No response yet. He cleaned up all his junk, put it back in the chest, and prepared to get the show on the road. He slipped the spade key/rules sheet back in the deck of cards and inventorized it as his war chest. Smooth as clockwork, and every bit as logical.
SS passed through one of the doorways around him into a hallway. Funny, he hadn't heard any commotion or gunplay, but it looked like there'd already been some action in here. Or would be. He could never take tense for granted with those goons.
CLOCKS DESTROYED: 13/1000. Apparently.
Oh, wait, it looked like Clubs Deuce was getting back to him on his radio device. He was saying he had Doze tied up for interrogation. SS asked him what else was new. Capturing that guy was like shooting a paralyzed monkey in the face.
The narrative attempted to shift to the point of view of Hearts Boxcars, or HB for short. Except instead, it switched to Clubs Deuce, or CD for short.
Doze remained tight-lipped, so CD dealt him a senseless shin-drubbing with his crook of felony. Oh the humanity. He could barely watch himself do it.
But Doze was probably still using his special ability to slow down time for himself. He couldn't feel a damn thing and certainly wasn't saying anything apart from a very low noise that could have been him saying "ow" very, very slowly.
CD gave up and walked over to the clocks in the back, ready to punch them in their faces to establish chronology. Except he couldn't. All of the clocks were so lovely. He saw no reason to hurt them.
CLOCKS UNHARMED: 987/1000
CD walked back over to where Doze sat, tied in a chair, on his stout but short little legs and began a feeble campaign of psychological warfare, starting by switching their hats. Perhaps compromising Doze's fashion motive was the way to get to him. Nope. It looked like he was still in a weird state of stasis and didn't care at all. Well, either that or it was driving him nuts. Very, very slowly.
Something with a yellow hat flitted by, but CD didn't seem to notice. He was trying to figure out where exactly his war chest was. See, the only thing he had was a simple, unassuming deck of cards (well, along with his five weapons). Why not play solitaire then? Well, see, to play solitaire, one would need a deck of cards. He didn't see a deck of cards. All he saw was his battledrobe and…
Oh no! It was Itchy and it looked like he was all wound up. He untied Doze and quickly swapped everyone's hats around. CD was left with SS's fedora, Doze got his hat back, and Itchy ended up with some kind of cowboy hat which had not been there a second ago.
Doze proceeded to make a fleetfooted getaway. THE CHASE WAS ON!
SS switched the narrative back from HB to himself. Someone had replaced his plain and serviceable hat with a silly and undersized one. An outrage beyond compare. He was sure he knew who the culprit was, though. He could still smell the overly caffeinated blood. Angrily, he smashed another clock.
CLOCKS SHOWN MERCY: 986/1000
SS lifted his leg just a bit and held it in the air. Itchy ran by and… oops. He fell over on his side. SS hefted his horse-headed cane above his head and brought it down with a "crack!"
GREEN TORSOS DEAD: 4/15
SS attempted to wear CD's hat over his current one, but he realized Itchy had already switched them such that he was currently wearing CD's. On the floor was Diamonds Droog's hat (DD from now on). SS's own hat was nowhere to be seen, which was exactly why he always kept a backup hat on hand. This son of a bitch on the floor here had just played his last game of musical hats. Soon these lugs would learn to show him some respect. He'd made this town, after all. Hadn't been nothing but a bunch of dust and rocks before he'd gotten here.
SS deployed his chest and swapped the dinky little hat on his head for one more suited to his tastes. And speaking of taste… Oh, thank god. His precious scotty dogs were still here. He didn't know what we would have done without them. He didn't even want to think about it.
Suddenly, Die appeared, making his usual sort of entrance. The nonplussed, vaguely bewildered sort. He had his green 6 hat on and held a voodoo doll with four pins in it in his right hand.
As a cliffhanger, the narrative suddenly shifted to DD. Instead, it shifted to CD. Clubs Deuce had opened his battledrobe in search of his backup hat. He also needed some more rope to tie up Doze again, who was absolutely tearing through the mansion. If CD didn't hurry, perhaps Doze would clear the chair he'd been tied up in within the hour.
But the battledrobe was a huge mess. CD mostly just saw a bunch of bombs and cards. Oh, right, the cards! Except he wasn't sure what was what. He could never remember which card to pick up. He couldn't believe how shitty his memory was. He decided to pick up the *cough cough* deuce of clubs, the card of his namesake. Ah yes, the licorice gummy bears. These needed to be stored for safe-keeping as soon as possible. Finding his backup hat had never been more urgent.
He picked up a bunch of cards and flung them Doze-wards. Didn't accomplish a whole lot, other than put some of his private reading on embarrassing display. Black inches magazine. Licorice "as far as the eye can see."
Since Deuce was a busy guy, he figured he'd just pick up any old thing and put it on his head. Since he was in a big hurry, he'd assume it was his backup hat. He stood nearby the two remaining cards on the floor. An off-suited king and jack. Well, he wasn't going to stand around jack king off all day, so he grabbed the jack of diamonds. Oh, there was his backup hat. Problem solved, he guessed. He placed the hat on top of the other thing he'd put on his head earlier without even realizing that it was still there.
CD suddenly forgot he was CD and decided to transform into HB, but suddenly remembered that he had been DD all along. DD was currently wearing a yellow hat with the number 1 on it. Whoever had taken his hat was about to discover that he was the unluckiest man on earth. He had better hope that DD found him dead. What DD was going to do to him would be much less painful that way.
He decided to wear his backup hat, but he didn't have it with him. All he had was this deck of… oh wait, he did have his backup hat. It was stashed away in the brawlsoleum. He was the only member of this band of thugs who was civilized enough to keep more than one backup hat, as well as an extensive array of finely tailored suits. The brawlsoleum had seemed like the best storage option for DD's exceptional wardrobe. If there was any sort of better compartment to keep the wardrobe in, he'd have loved to hear it. Also there was a shitload of guns and cards in there too. DD put on a backup hat.
He withdrew his swedish fish from within. Whew. They were there. This was why it was a good idea to store your candy in your backup hat rather than your usual one. The other members of his gang had learned this the hard way and were finally starting to catch on.
Suddenly he got coldcocked in the face from the future. He swung his cue stick around a bit before realizing that if he had gotten hit from the future, and he couldn't time travel, he couldn't possibly hit back. But he'd know the knuckles belonging to that suckerpunch anywhere.
Trace, Felt number 3, always knew where he'd been. The spineless rat liked to follow DD's past trail around and mess with him. Trouble was, whenever he did, he let them know exactly where he was going to be in the future. This time they'd be ready for the green bastard. DD radioed Deuce for backup. Gave him a time and a place, and exactly what path through the mansion to take.
There was a trail of blood on the stairs where Droog stood. He didn't know, however, whether the guy had gone up the stairs, or come down. Or who had wounded him, and when. Might have even been himself, for all the black carapacian knew. But he couldn't overthink this time stuff. He went with his gut and headed upstairs, following the trail of blood. He didn't notice the mysterious hand sticking out of a blue portal in one of the clocks.
After having given a quick 10-4 over the radio, CD took another look at the prisoner. Doze had certainly lucked out this time. It looked like round two of Deuce's brutal interrogation would have to wait. The carapacian hadn't been able to find any rope, so he'd tied up the prisoner with a stretch armstrong doll which he'd happened to have lying around. He didn't remember how he'd gotten it. It looked sort of dumb, but it would have to do.
Okay. It was time to hit the road. CD beat his hostage into the back of his battledrome with his bull penis cane. Wait. This was a bull penis cane? AH! He flipped the fuck out over the apparent fact that this was a bull penis cane.
Meanwhile, running roughly parallel with present events, Itchy and Die decided to play a game of cards. Die had two aces while Itchy had two kings. Suddenly, an ace of hearts on the table was replaced with a king of clubs. Die grit his teeth and held Itchy's pin closer to the voodoo doll. Itchy always cheated. But he'd always cheated for the last time. Die decided to jump to a timeline where Itchy was dead.
Well then, it looked like Itchy had gotten what he'd deserved. But, uh… as usual, Die found himself in a bit of a predicament. He was staring face to face with Spades Slick, the leader of the infamous and highly dangerous Midnight Crew.
Spades befriended Die and introduced his cast iron horse hitcher to his new friend. "Hello. How do you do?" he snarled mockingly. Die twitched on the ground. But Die wasn't dead. Not just yet. He pulled a pin out from his pocket. It had a spade symbol on the end, corresponding to SS. Die stuck it into the voodoo doll. He disappeared and rematerialized in a barren, alien landscape.
Slick had made this town, just like he'd said before. Very literally. The town without Slick was like Die without his voodoo doll. He was its defining factor!
And, anyway, back to the Midnight Crew, the perspective shifted from fake HB to not HB at all and then right back to real HB. Hearts Boxcars had made his way to The Felt's secret vault. It was certainly bigger than he'd been expecting. He doubted he would be able to rely on his usual safe-cracking method, which was prying it from the wall with his bare hands. He'd have to think of something else…
HB did a silly dance. That was absolutely the most ridiculous thing he could have chosen to do right now. I mean come on. It was time to take a closer look at the safe… no, seriously, stop that.
He stopped and thought about the conundrum for a bit. What about… prying the wall from the safe! Oh, come on! That notion was even more ridiculous than the last one. Wait who was he kidding? No it wasn't. It looked like the combination to the safe was entered via the hands of the clock. And he somehow doubted spinning the hands around manually was going to cut it. Knowing these guys, he'd have to alter the flow of time itself to make it work.
Which of course was bullshit. He'd just blow it up instead. Time to get Deuce on the radio. He deployed his wrathtub and retrieved his pair of wax lips from his backup hat. If anyone was to try to steal HB's wax lips, he would eat their eyeballs and deliver an angry lecture into their empty eye sockets. Boxcars looked over at Red Cheeks magazine. Just looking at it gave him heart palpitations. Literature for avid cardioficionados such as himself. Those burgeoning red humps… that mischievous red tail… the snug, welcoming cleft… the saucy imagery was hard to beat. Harder than what he was beating inside his chest now. His heart was what he was beating. He beat it to Red Cheeks magazine pretty regularly, he'd say.
He radioed Deuce on the 10-4 cards, letting the other carapacian know that he needed a powdermonkey on the double. And then he heard ticking. And it wasn't coming from the big vault clock above. He hoped it wasn't what he thought it was.
Oh no. Oh god! It was Biscuits! His oven timer was ticking. This was no good.
There was a "Bzzzzz" and… ugh, there he was. This idiot thought his special oven transported him into the future by the amount he set on the timer. Well, he was sort of right. But in reality all that was happening was that he hiding in there until the timer was up, and then popping out. HB guessed Biscuits was relatively harmless if he was alone. Boxcars could take him. What he really had to worry about was if the green creature teamed up with… oh no. That ringing. That godawful ringing. He could hear it. Eggs and his timer appeared before Hearts Boxcars. Son of a fuck! HB might as well have gone and grabbed one of his axes to kill himself now.