On the 30th floor of the MGM Grand Hotel and Resort Las Vegas, an Egyptian man is pressed against the glass, staring at the Strip. He has booze brewed from fiery demon piss running in his veins, and a needle filled with 15 CCs of Tartarus, the hottest drug cooked up in the pits of Jahannam, is pressed against his arm. The Warlock is tripping balls, and he isn't gonna let up anytime soon.

There's a lot going on in the Warlock's mind as he slams down the plunger, flooding his arteries with fire, brimstone, and something that the Seraphims that sold him the stuff called "God's Mercy". Chiefly, the numbing sensation as the conceptual kill agent that the Seraphim also called "God's Mercy" begins assaulting the Warlock's frontal lobe with enough religious imagery to melt it into a bubblegum-colored puddle.

God's Mercy probably would've succeeded if it hadn't been conceptually obliterated when met with one of the 76 counteragents embedded into the Warlock's psyche.

Shaking his head, he stumbled as he fell off his window seat and nearly stabbed himself in the neck with his used-up needle. He quickly came to a conclusion: he really had to take a piss.

The yellow lights in the master suite strained the Warlock's right eye. The left spun around crazily, always excited to be in a new place. He staggers to the toilet and, reaching it, vomits profusely. Far too much sulfur booze for one night. No, correction: not enough.

He wipes his mouth and shakily stands up. He throws a glance at the bathtub behind him. It's filled with ice, a soft red glow emanating from under the layers of ice cubes. That'll come in handy later. He turns his attention to more important things.

Namely, the bathroom sink and the four bottles of Wesson Pure 100% Natural Vegetable Oil surrounding it. Two steps and he's plugged the sink. Another step and he's emptying the bottles into the sink, filling it to the brim with the golden liquid. He looks into the ornate mirror in front of him. He probably should've shaved before this.

He whispers a Latin incantation, and then slams his head into the oil.

He's surrounded by a world of shapes and colors, four-dimensional symbols rocketing through his vision. In the imbroglio, he focuses on one triangle. If the Warlock had been seven thousand years older, he might've understood the language it was a symbol in. For now, all he knows is that it contains the knowledge he seeks, and swims toward it.

Poking his head in, he observes the tableau before him. The penthouse suite of one of the casinos, dominated by a meal. From where he's standing, it looks like a bastardization of the Last Supper. An obese red-skinned demon sits at the center of a long table piled high with food and drink. His suit is stained with Elysium, the wine of the damned, and two ram horns spiral away from his greasy head. He is surrounded by lesser demons who wait on him in hopes of gaining his favor.

The Warlock has what he needs. He tears himself out of the scene and grasping at his mind like an anchor, climbs his way back to reality.

He falls on his ass when his soul reenters his body. Bodies don't react well to having their insides shifted around. The Warlock is more used to it than most. Getting back up, he turns toward the bathtub. The ice has began melting, revealing a swirling spiral etched into the floor of the tub, glowing with power. It's a 7th level Sigil that he learned from an Afghan thaumaturgist. He's almost ready.

With a flick of his hand, A

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