[ . ] An animated looking Adora and Morgana sat in their tiny, rigid airplane seats, a setting they'd grown quite accustomed to over the years. Each looked frustrated by the other's words; a rare sight by all means. "I sort of see what you're getting at here," Morgy began carefully, "but I'm not sure what you expect the end result to be." She fidgeted mindlessly with her seatbelt, trying with futility to adjust its tightness around her hips. "The end result will, one way or another, be the death of Casanova -- a permanent one without any in-betweens. Just blackness with nothing to show for it but a decomposing body," Adora explained as carefully as she could with respect to the fact that she wasn't entirely sure where her plan was going, either. She attempted to review the plot over and over again in her head, but each time she tried, something would distract her from thinking clearly. Currently, that distraction was the mechanical motions of a flight attendant's arms as she demonstrated safety procedures to disinterested passengers for the umpteenth time. "But then you'll go to jail for killing a co-worker," Morgy reminded flatly, her seatbelt now abandoned loosely in her lap. She reached for a SkyMall catalogue to flip idly through; anything to occupy her. "Well, if he really is a vampire, then yes, yes I will. And you'll help me!" "Well," Morgy chuckled crazily to herself, "I am kind of experienced in slaying." She took a deep breath and nodded her head from side to side, as if demonstrating some humility. "Not to toot my own horn or anything," she said, her voice singsongy. "...but obviously I won't kill him if he's just a crazy little man who listens to Disturbed and feels broody all the time." "So then what's the point of all this?" she sighed. "To prove that he's not a vampire without citing various pop culture counts and vampires as mockery along the way. Maybe only a couple of times, actually. I never should've said I'd stop doing that; I had no idea I'd have the misfortune of facing him so many times." "But we know he's not really a vampire. Do we seriously have to fly to Shitsboro, New York to establish this as fact?" "No... I guess you could just observe some basic vampire legend rules. Like, if he's a full-on vampire, wouldn't he theoretically be able to rise only at night?" Now the plane was driving around the tarmac, and Adora craned her neck uncomfortably as she struggled to see what was going on outside. She was right smack-dab in the middle of two windows, one of which was partially obscured by her own seat, and the other by the seat in front of her. "True, but that could just mean that he hasn't been bitten a full three times, and as such is not fully contaminated." "Also true... but if he's still a human who's just sick from one or two vampire bites, he should have discernible wounds on his neck. Come on, when something bites you and sucks the life out of you, it damn well better leave a decent mark. There'd be bruising and scarring. Haven't you seen the specials on Chupacabra?! And that's just one fang." "So he's either full of shit or a full-fledged vampire who's been around the block long enough to heal his wounds." "Pretty much. So by finding his grave -- if there is one -- we can find out which is reality and which is crap." "This is probably the best part of plan trips," Morgy grinned, abandoning the topic, as the plane picked up speed and zoomed along the runway, gathering momentum before it lifted off into the sky. "I know, my butt's tingling with anticipation." "Mine too!" Morgy exclaimed, as if they didn't have this conversation each time they flew. Her head now hovered by Adora's as she struggled to see the airport zip by too, and moments later, they were in the sky, the aircraft wobbling slightly as it adjusted to the new environment. "I wonder how Casanova gets around to venues," Adora mused as they climbed higher and higher and into clouds. "Yeah, flying can't be particularly enjoyable for him. Wouldn't being closer to the sun make him weaker?" "You'd think so." "Oooh, look!" Morgy pointed to an item in her catalogue. "A beer keg fridge for your home? You don't even drink." "So? I'm running out of shit to buy that I don't already have." "True. I'll drink from it!" Adora offered, as if the gesture would help validate the purchase in her friend's mind. "Ladies and Gentlemen," came the pilot's crackled voice through the plane's loudpseakers, "I'm John Porter, your pilot today. Welcome aboard Air Canada, flight 7572 from Pearson International Airport to Oneida County Airport in New York. Current temperature there is about 33 degrees Celsius, and 91 degrees Fahrenheit. We'll update you with more accurate readings as we approach our destination. We expect our trip to be about forty minutes long, so please sit back and enjoy the flight." [ . ] "Dude, this is like, the third cemetery we've been to. You're not going to find his grave. You can't! There's too many corpses and not enough time." A tired looking Morgy crept wearily and dutifully behind her best friend, weaving through decrepit tombstones and the odd austere looking monument -- the billionth she'd seen since arriving in Casanova's hometown, it seemed. "We have to cover as much ground as possible, otherwise we can't make an informed conclusion," Adora said simply, conveniently ignoring the faulty logic in her plan. "Isn't there at least some sort of directory of corpses we can consult?" "That'd be a pain in the ass too," Adora waved her hand dismissively, her eyes scanning the names of gravestones frantically. Her heart leapt when she saw the letters 'Casan' on a newer, polished looking plaque laying flat in the ground, but as she advanced, the light illuminated the remaining letters to reveal 'Casandra Dawson.' "Yeah, but at least we can rule out birth dates before 1980 and scan deaths within the last couple of years or so," Morgy reasoned hopelessly. "Wait... this scheme assumes that he's dead and buried, which he should be if he's a full-fledged vampire, right?" "Yes." "So if he's not, he wouldn't really have a grave, right?" "I guess not. Unless he's bogarting someone else's." "Maybe he is and that's why Roxy Erikson walks among us!" Adora cackled, nudging Morgy playfully for a response. She only managed to shudder and contort her pretty features into a look of disgust, as if a foul smell had invaded her nostrils. "Is Casanova even his real name?" Morgy asked, a question that stopped Adora in her tracks. "I have no fucking idea," she mumbled in response. "Hopefully his parents aren't that retarded." "So let me get this straight," Morgy exhaled deeply, blowing a wisp of pink hair out of her eyes, "We're not sure of his name, we're not sure if he's dead and we're not sure if he's buried in this city if he is dead. On top of that, do you honestly expect to stumble upon an exhumed, open, empty casket bearing the words 'Casanova: 1980 - 2007; revered by morons, pesky annoyance to most others'?" "More or less. I'm confused." "Me fucking too, wifey. Meeee too." "Okay," Adora stopped and turned to Morgy, "new plan." She sat on the nearest tombstone and stroked her imaginary beard carefully. "If we can't really figure out his mortal status, and as such can't walk up to him and stake him in the heart and possibly ass, there's only one thing left to do." "Try to take over the world?" "No! Find Dracula's grave and stake him in the heart and ass! Then all his minions will cease to be vampires and will just be dead. Dead or revealed for the non-vampires that they are." "Huh. Intriguing. Woman, I like the cut of your jib!" "Time to dig deep and find our inner historians; we have a centuries-old mystery to crack!" "Jesus," Morgy exclaimed suddenly, slapping her forehead as if she were hopeless for not thinking of something earlier. "What I really need to buy is a plane. Here I am looking at catalogues," she snorted goofily, stunned by her failure to think of the obvious. "Kay, let's go buy a plane. I think we're going to Romania." [ 100 ] So, apparently I'm in the midst of some huge feud here. It doesn't really feel like it, since I've been trying to pay as little attention to it as possible. You know, since I'm so god damn fucking sick of dealing with Casanova. Yeah, yeah, he's probably not thrilled about having to face me so much, either. Well, maybe he doesn't mind since I've been slacking my ass off lately and letting him soak up the glory I was too lazy to get for myself. I let him win a couple of matches, just to validate this never-ending babble about the spotlight he deserves and yadayadayada. Which is kind of funny, considering I distinctly remember his calling Morgana out on the same thing: harping on past achievements and status. The only difference is that Morgana keeps doing great things in her career, whereas my favourite opponent over here only continues babbling about a time when he was the king shit because everyone else in the promotion was just shitty shit. It makes him sound like the token loser kid with a retainer, who slurps back waves of his own food-studded spit while getting giddy over band camp memories. I probably deserve a nice "thank you" from Casanova for throwing him a bone and letting him look awesome in front of his retarded buddies for beating ~Big Bad WhoreDora~, but I'm sure I won't get it. Which is why I'm ready to take back the spotlight and the glory and the winning and all that stuff I'm better at than he is. He won't go away totally empty-handed, right? He got himself a date with the clap from all this, and now he has the elevator shaft pussy of Roxy Erikson to pound his pencil peen into until the pain subsides or his cock starts oozing green from the infection. Whichever. So, yeah, I'm not going to use this time to crap on about my stolen glory or whatever, because I can admit I relinquished it myself by not being the best athlete that I can be. I'm ashamed of how I've been doing my job the last few weeks -- months, even -- and I'm ready to make amends. Which means you should get ready to give me my title back, please and thank you!