It was a dark day and night, rain outta the windows. The name’s Melon Malone, and I’m a private eye. And I’m doin’ the narratin’ for this chapter..

Now, as a 1930s detective, I don’t give a hoot about trainin’ arcs. So, we’re gonna have the title character show up. She’s called the Lady of Forlorn Hope. The dame’s a bit of a dead hoofer, but she’s not a bad doll.

Right now, the dame’s six feet under. Not literally, but in a crypt. There’s a village near that joint, and that place’s run by the mob. The leader of that racket’s name is Marcone Malone, no relation. Anyway, he and a bunch of his racketeers are at the local speakeasy. They’ve got their molls with them and have been drinkin’ for a while. A bunch o’ them are swacked already.

One of them, a bird named Tommy Six Fingers, is flippin’ his gums.

“We run this town, boss! We should do somethin’ really big, like brinin’ in cadillacs and jive! We could make a lotta money!”

Alright, the mugg might not have used those exact words, but he said somethin’ like that. Call it creative license or localization or whatever.

“We’ll need more goons for that,” Marcone says.

“I know where we can get lotta triggermen! They ain’t crumbs either! They’re the real deal!” Tommy says.

Now, Marcone starts getting’ ideas, big ideas. Stupid ideas. He’s tired of bumping gums in this small town. He wants to go to an apple. Marcone starts blowing his wig, but he keeps it hidden. The rod’s been in the business long enough to know to not trust anyone.

He takes a bite of his slugburger as he mulls it over. Marcone goes through every little detail. The racketter’s thinkin’ about how to deal with this local lord, who might just crack down on him at any time. And if the nobles find out Marcone’s getting more goons, well, they’re gonna send some buzzers to throw him in the big house.

“We need to get a lotta dough fast, and a lot more goons,” Marcone says. “And I know just where we can get the dough.”

“Are we gonna bust up a joint?” Tommy asks.

“Nah, nothin’ like that. We’re gonna go into a crypt and take some dough.”

Marcone then shouts.

“Hey! Pete! Over here!”

Now, Pete Cracky is really gay. He’s always smilin’, laughin’, no matter what the situation is. Some joes think he got high off somethin’ and never stopped. But everyone agrees that he’s the gayest man in the entire kingdom.

He’s also a fairy. The guy’s got wings and everything. Pete’s also a fruitcake. He’s a fruitcake fairy specifically. His head’s a fruitcake and the rest of his body’s human. Except the wings, of course. That’s a bit queer if you ask me, but hey, there’s all sorts of folk in this world.

Pete also sucks di-

Huh? A censor? What the fuck? Are you tellin’ me I can’t even say a joe sucks di-.

Well, that stinks. What else can’t I say? Can’t I call a guy a n-.

Are you fucking kiddin’ me? You’re all from the future, and you’ve got no stomach for callin’ guys n-. You fukin’ n-!

I can’t believe this! I can say fuck and shit all I want, but n-‘s too much for you? Everyone I know uses it! And why can’t I say someone sucks di-? That doesn’t even make any sense! I should be able to say n- and di- as much as I want!

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

That’s it! Where’s my Chicago Typewriter?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

There. I shot the censor thingamabob. Now, I can say that Pete sucks dinosaurs-shaped popsickles and call you screwballs a bunch of nogoodniks for settin’ that thing up! Honestly, imagine censoring dinosaur and nogoodnik. It don’t make any damn sense.

Anyway, now where was I?

Oh, right, I was tellin’ you about Pete. Let’s see…he’s gay, he’s a fairy, he’s a fruitcake, he sucks dinosaurs-shaped popsickles, and…I know I’m missin’ something. Oh, yeah, that’s right. Pete’s a homosexual.

Anyway, Pete comes over to Marcone.

“What do ya’ want, boss?” Pete asks with a smile on his face.

“Get your heater,” Marcone answers. “We’re doin’ a job.”

So, they get their heaters. These ain’t Chicago typewriters or anythin’ like that. They’re more like muskets but more primitive. The racketeers also got a few swords. One of them brought a gob stick out for some reason.

Marcone leads them outside. There, they barge over to the crypt. The door’s a big block of stone, and none of Marcone’s eggs can get it open. So, the torpedos take out a massive toilet plunger and put it on the door, tryin’ to…well, I think you get what they’re doin’.

This doesn’t work. So, the red-hots take a guy named Hardhead Johnny and bash him against the rock until it breaks apart. It kills the mook, but the others don’t care that much. They walk into the crypt.

Now, this crypt ain’t nothin’ like a speakeasy. It’s more like a bad motor court. Dark, damp, that sort of thing. Water drips down from the ceiling, that sort of thing. Lots of rocks, skeletons. Lotssa spooky stuff. Just think of an underground haunting house or somethin’.

Marcone Malone lets some of his men go inside first. They’re worried about traps, so they pour some rotgut over the ground. No traps get triggered, so the rods assume that the traps are just really well hidden.

They take Fat Kenny and roll him in. He moves over the floor like a wheel. No traps are triggered, so the eggs decide to go inside.

After walkin’ for a while, they find another door. This one’s made of rock too, and…

Stop right there!

Hey! Who the fuck are you?

I’m the new narrator, Generic Superhero! You see, the writer’s running out of 1930s slang words, so now he’s sent me in to save the day!

Alright, fine, I’ll leave.

There! Now that he’s gone, let’s continue!

We find the villainous slime led by Marcone Malone attempting to break into a crypt for their evil scheme. They take some chisels and start breaking down the door.

The criminals finish their dark deed, turning the stone door into tiny pebbles. They then step inside with malicious grins. At the center of the room is a large coffin. Marcone Malone walks up to it.

“This is it, boys, we hit the jackpot!” Marcone tells his foul minions.

These vile criminals open the coffin. In it, they see a beautiful woman.

She has salmon hair that goes long past her shoulders. There are three eyes on her head, the third a bit above her nose. All of them are a beautiful shade of red. Her body is clad in robes of white and…

Hey, superhero guy, the readers can just look at the novel picture to see her.

I wish for you to be silent, detective! The title character is finally here, and I intend to describe her in full!

She’s wearing white gloves and has a needle-like sword at her hip. And that finishes her description!

The villains see her and cruel grins cross their faces.

“Well, lookie here,” Marcone smiles maliciously. “Some noblewoman’s been hanging out in a crypt! We live in a world where undead exist, and I’m just assuming she’s a particularly grim noblewoman. Yes, I am that stupid.”

“This is our chance, boss!” Tommy says. “We can hold her for ransom and make a lot of gold!”

The Lady of Forlorn Hope sits up. Her icy gaze turns to the gangsters. There is a seemingly blank expression on her face.

What do ya’ mean, seemingly? Either it’s blank or it’s not.

Shh. I’m narrating.

“You want to hold me hostage?” the Lady of Forlorn Hope asks.

“Yeah, we do,” Marcone answers.

“Then you will suffer.”

Then she…she…oh Mother of Mary, this is horrible! I’m supposed to be a family-friendly superhero, not an edgy 90s superhero!

Let me see what’s going…oh, dear lord! I’ve seen some fucked up shit in my time as a detective, but that’s just fucking horrible! I’m gonna throw up!

Someone get the normal narrator back!

And I’m right here! It’s time for the proper narration.

The Lady of Forlorn Hope rips Marcone’s still-beating heart out of his chest and shoves it down his throat. At that point, the other gangsters shoot her, but the bullets bounce off her skin. When the criminals try to run, the stone door reforms in front of them.

Charging forward, the Lady of Forlorn Hope rips Tommy’s skin off and strangles Pete to death with it.

I would describe what she does to the other gangsters, but that was so horrible that I’d need to make this a horror story. Suffice to say, the Lady of Forlorn Hope was covered in blood by the end of this.

“Now,” she said. “I will do something mysterious because the writer is making this crap up as he goes and hasn’t figured out what my role in the story is yet.”