John's a busy lad these days, what with the Rising Darkness lurking around every corner: magic has been steadily growing stronger, and the walls that once held everything steadfast in its place - heaven and hell and all those other boundaries in between - have long since started to crumble.

Which is John's very convenient excuse for why he's in the backwoods of Mississippi at a tiny church in the middle of the night, just being as blasphemous as humanly possible. He's got half the floor and walls painted with a grotesque mixture of goat's blood, horse semen and Home Depot paint, occult spirals and binding sigils that would give half the congregation the vapors in the daylight, including his incredibly inelegant fuck off sigil - which is yes, shockingly, something of his own design. It's fairly good at keeping nosy townspeople out, though nothing more dangerous.

Which is the goal. He's trying to lure the wayward spirits that have been ravaging the small town's catholic sinners, killing them with their own vices - mostly the alcoholics and adulterous. He's got booze and cigarettes at his disposal, an attempt to attract the nasty into targeting him (but also just for fun), but he's seriously considering dropping trou and adding a bit of self-love into the sinful mix because it's been two hours and he's dying of boredom.

"Come on!" he shouts, to no one in particular, stubbing out his tenth cigarette on the preacher's bible, laid out at the pulpit which he has already spilled half a shot of cheap whiskey on top of, "There's no bleeding way anyone in this town is a juicier sinner than I am."

He should have brought a deck of cards to play with to pass the time.