Weeks had gone by since the Thousand Scrap Night Parade, and Krockman had been busy. Starting from Minnesota, he began sweeping his way through the country, causing transformations where ever he went. Sometimes, he did not even bother asking for payment, simply doing it for the pleasure it brought him; satisfied by the looks of shock and confusion on the people’s faces. As his warpath spread, so did word about this mysterious monster... this “Krockman”. The stories were simple at first, a shadowy figure who lurked around cities on dark nights, transforming innocent bystanders walking the streets. Eventually, however, the theories progressed to Krockman being some kind of god of chaos or a fallen angel, with some people even going so far as to claim to be his children. As for Krockman himself, he could not be happier. He had gone from being some screwed over schmuck to a modern legend. 

Eventually, things came to a head when rumors of cults devoted to Krockman started cropping up. They were not hurting anyone, but their presence did upset various religious groups; so much so, that many local groups called a meeting to discuss the matter. It was at one of these meetings, all the way over in Salt Lake City, that things took a turn for the weird. At the local church, a group of priests had gathered, lead by two members of the clergy: Father Donovan and Bishop Montalbo. These two men of faith could not be any different, with Donovan being older and more saintly while Montalbo was younger and more... arrogant. Of course, now was not the time for butting heads on philosophy. Now was the time for planning. 

As the priests settled in, Montalbo presided over the gathering, eyeing the congregation warily. “Thank you all for coming,” Montalbo said in an authoritative voice. “I know you all have busy schedules back at your parishes, preparing your sermons and all that, but we all have an issue that must be dealt with. I am, of course, referring to the Krockman.” When he said this, the room grew silent as the priests stared on at the bishop. “Now then, as you know, this... man has been causing trouble and starting cults across the country. This is having a huge impact on the church. We need to do something about this.” 

When Montalbo said this, Donovan spoke up, saying, “Why don’t we try converting the Krockman? Perhaps if he were a Christian, maybe his followers will follow suit.” “No, no, no, that’ll never work,” Montalbo retorted, dismissing the priest. “A pagan monster like him needs to be snuffed out. Leave no trace of him behind.” Looking concerned, Donovan simply sighed, saying, “I’m just saying, if we go on the aggressive, it will only serve to reinforce what the cults already feel. It would only make sense to go for the Krockman himself.” “Don’t be ridiculous!” Montalbo roared impetuously. “Not everyone is deserving of redemption.” As the priest and the bishop were arguing, the whole argument came to a halt at the sound of crunching. Looking towards the back of the room, everyone was shocked to see Krockman himself sitting in the room, watching them while eating potato chips. 

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Krockman finally spoke, “I’m sorry, was I interrupting something important? It’s kind of hard to tell with you people.” “You... you’re the Krockman!” Montalbo shouted, taken back by the sight of the lost soul. “Yeah, and I believe you’re Bishop Willard Montalbo,” Krockman said in reply as he got up from his chair. “I can tell by the wristwatch you’re trying to hide. Pretty fancy model for a guy who took a vow of poverty. Wonder where you got the money for it?” As Montalbo suspiciously eyed his covered wrist, Krockman continued,  “Of course, I’m not here to talk about watches. I’m here to talk about this... little committee your hosting here. I have to say, I don’t appreciate the negative commentary. I’m just doing my job. Why are you giving me crap about it?” “That is not your concern, beast,” Montalbo retorted imprudently. “Your cults are popping up all over the country. We are merely trying to find a way to end your pagan influence. You’re nothing but a monstrosity that must be stopped.” 

Hearing this, Krockman did not yell or get angry. He merely smiled, unnerving everyone in the room. “Well, first of all, I didn’t start those cults. They just popped up on their own. I don’t even need them, seeing as I have a website,” Krockman explained sardonically, shoving his bag of chips into the hands of one of the priests. “Do you know why I have a website? Why I needed to have a website? It all boils down to satisfaction. You see, when it comes to religion or even politics, it doesn’t matter what choice you make. Nothing really changes. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and all the evils of the world not only remains but get even worse. And the debt, how can we forget about the debts, debts up to everyone’s eyeballs. The masses have absolutely no faith in their leaders, because they feel abandoned by everything... everything, that is, except the Internet.” Looking confused, the bishop asked, “The Internet?” “Exactly!” Krockman shouted as he slowly approached Montalbo. “The Internet is the last thing anyone really has in this country, and some people don’t even have that. That’s why so many people came to my website, because unlike you guys, I actually gave them something they could actually have faith in. Why wait for divine bread when you can get it with a few clicks of a mouse.” At this point, Krockman was now standing over Montalbo, glowering down at the bishop. “And now, you have the gall to gather in your little warren, and badmouth me in my presence, in my world, as if you weren’t part of the problem to begin with? Hell no! You don’t get to dictate how reality works, and I’m going to show you that once and for all!” With that, Krockman grabbed the bishop by the shoulders and swallowed him whole. 

Inside Krockman, Montalbo found himself in a strange void, standing in a vast golden sea. As he looked around, the bishop saw something swimming around in the golden, sludgy water... something big. Before he could lean in for a closer look, the creature burst forth from the water, sending a wave water crashing onto him. He barely got look at the monster before being caught in the wave, but what he saw was horrible enough: a giant, bearded turtle monster with what appeared to be beetle features. 

As he breached the surface, Montalbo felt a little different, as if the wave had swept something away from him. Looking at his hands, he saw that they looked smoother, younger in fact. Suddenly, from the void, Krockman’s voice called out, “What’s the matter, Bishop? Don’t you appreciate me shaving off some of those years and making you young again? Why don’t you see for yourself?” Suddenly, Montalbo found himself on solid ground as a full length mirror sprouted up in front of him. Staring in the mirror, he saw that he really was younger, at least in his twenties. “Like what you see?” Krockman asked, his condescending voice echoing through the void. “Go on then. Why not take a walk?” 

Before Montalbo could even take a step, he felt a pair of hands grab onto him and forcibly dragged him off. Looking at his captor, he saw that it was a woman, one who almost looked like a female version of Krockman (if only a bit shorter and slightly pudgier). Leering back at the renewed bishop, the female Krockman snapped, “You ready for a little inquisition, bishop? Things are about to get interesting.” Having said this, the lost soul stopped and, using her forward momentum, flung Montalbo forward, only to be caught by several hands sprouting from the golden sea. Trying to struggle free from the hands, Montalbo stared at the woman as she flashed a toothy, fang filled grin. “What are you going to do to me?” he asked nervously. Smiling wider as she pulled up a chair, the woman said in reply, “What won’t I do?”  

Eyeing her captive, the woman asked, “Now then, where exactly did you get that watch of yours?” Looking on in shock, Montalbo retorted, “What kind of question is that?” The minute he said that, a large fist came out of nowhere and punched him in the stomach, causing it to tighten up and pinch inward; giving him a waspish figure. “Let’s try that again,” the woman said with a peeved smirk. “Where did you get the watch?” Gasping for breath, the bishop said in reply, “It was a gift from an old friend.” All he got for his troubles was a fist to the face and throat, his voice going up an octave. Scowling at her captive, the woman snarked, “You do know that’s going to keep happening until you tell the truth. I’ll give you one last chance to spill it. I suggest you think it over.” Glaring at the lost soul, Montalbo retorted, “Go to hell,” before being consumed by a flurry of fists, most notably in the chest and crotch. 

After the beating was done, the hands released their grip, dropping Montalbo onto the ground. Grabbing his head in pain, Montalbo slowly got to his feet, only to be confronted by another mirror. Looking into the mirror, he saw that he... was now a she, her face soft and delicate, long black hair flowing down to her cassock. “W-what? What happened to me?” Montalbo asked in panic as she clutched her face. “Why did you do this to me? Why would you do this to me!?” At that point, she realized that the female Krockman was gone. Suddenly, Krockman’s voice echoed out from the void, answering, “Why? Because I can, that’s why.” 

Suddenly, the arms that had held Montalbo swiftly glided through the golden sludge towards a large mound growing out of the sea before merging with it. Staring at the strange sight, Montalbo was shocked to see the mound slowly rise up, taking on a more humanoid shape. The limbs became longer and more gangly as the torso became barrel chested. A brown suit with turtle shell epaulets formed over the mound, followed by a long, white cape that concealed a pair of insect wings. At the top of the body sat the head, square jawed and blue skinned with solid green eyes, sharp teeth, a pair of goat horns and antennas sprouting from a mess of brown hair. Looking at the monster, Montalbo realized immediately what this thing was: it was Krockman in his true form. Suddenly, she felt the ground rumble as a platform burst forth from underneath her feet, bringing her up to Krockman’s face. The fully unleashed lost soul smiled a sinister grin as he raised his fist into the air and brought it down on her, causing everything to go black. 

When she opened her eyes, Montalbo saw that she was back in the church, surrounded by Krockman and the priests. However, as she got up, she noticed that everyone was staring at her in shock (except for Krockman, who was smiling smugly). “W-What’s wrong?” Montalbo asked nervously, still a little thrown by her now female voice. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is it because I’m a woman?” “Oh it’s a little more than that, sweet cheeks,” Krockman chimed in as he pulled out a hand mirror and gave it to the former bishop. Looking into the mirror, Montalbo was shocked by what she saw. While she really did become a young woman, she also became somewhat demonic in appearance, with red skin and short, nubby horns. “I... I’m a demon? You turned me into a demon!?” Montalbo asked Krockman in shock, wincing slightly as she squeezed the tip of one of her horns. “Technically, I turned you into a devil,” Krockman explained. “There’s a difference, trust me.” Unable to handle this, the new devil collapsed to the ground, wailing in absolute anguish. 

Satisfied with his work, Krockman smirked as he turned towards the priests and stated, “Alright, which one of you penguins is next?” “Wait! Mr. Krockman! Please, listen to me!” Father Donovan pleaded frantically. “I know Montalbo is a bit brash and too given to worldly things, but you shouldn’t punish the others for his hubris. They’re innocent.” Looking incredulous, Krockman retorted, “Really, you’re speaking on their behalf. What makes you so special?” “Nothing, to be honest,” Donovan said in reply. “I’m merely a humble man of God. All I’m asking is for a little compassion and understanding between us. It’s what the Lord would’ve wanted.” Glaring at the priest, Krockman simply scowled before blowing a gust of golden wind at him, covering him entirely. 

Once the dust settled, the elderly priest was no longer there. In his place was a woman in her thirties, long golden hair cascading down to her back as small wings took the place of her ears. She was dressed in the doughy, little priest’s robes, practically swimming in it (though she did have a bit of a “mom-bod” going on). Looking at herself, Donovan asked, “Am I... am I an angel?” “A nephillim actually,” Krockman explained. “I was going to draw it out like I did with your friend here, but you seem nice, so I decided to just cut to the chase.” Examining her body, Donovan simply said, “Well, if this is what the Lord wishes of me, then so be it.” 

When Krockman heard this, his face grew crestfallen. “Okay seriously, you’re kind of sucking the fun out of this,” he said in annoyance. “Aren’t you at least a little upset?” “Perhaps, but I take comfort in knowing this is the will of God,” Donovan said in reply. “Surely, you can understand that, being his messenger and all.” Hearing this, Krockman grimaced a bit, only to smile when a cruel idea crossed his mind. “I suppose you’re half right. I do serve a higher power: the Great Will of the Universe,” he said with a sneer. “Tell me Father (or should I say Mother), what do you know of the Great Will of the Universe?” This was not the first time he asked a so called holy man about the Great Will, but he never got tired of the look on their faces when they get completely stumped. 

Hearing the question, Donovan thought it over, tapping her finger against her chin. After a few minutes, a look of profound shock crossed her face as she announced, “I understand it perfectly!” Smiling at this, Krockman muttered, “This oughta be good.” “The Great Will of the Universe is the ultimate form of self actualization,” Donovan stated. “The culmination of years of study and practice that leads to true understanding.” “Yes, yes, that’s nice and all, but...” Krockman said in a bored tone, only to be cut off by the nephillim. “At the same time, it is also the ultimate impediment, blighting us all with the hardships of life,” Donovan continued, shaking a little bit (whether due to some lingering rheumatism or if she was merely cold). “Though it’s in no way intentional. Simply a case of indifference on the Universe’s part.” Feeling uncomfortable, Krockman simply replied, “I... what?” “Despite its indifference, the Universe is still dependent on those who live within it to maintain its own internal order,” Donovan continued feverishly, closing her eyes as she hugged herself. “Only by mastering this balance of indifference and fulfillment can one achieve apotheosis and reach the highest state of existence, becoming the truest possible servant of the Will itself.” After she had said this, the room fell silent, everyone too stunned to say anything (outside of Montalbo’s whimpering). 

Krockman stared in shock at the nephillim as she shivered. For all he knew, she could have been dead wrong about the whole thing. The difference between her and those who came before her, though,  was the sheer conviction in her voice. It did not matter if she was wrong. The fact that she believed so deeply in her own interpretation was impressive enough on its own. If anything, Krockman was convinced that of all these priests, Donovan was the only one who earned a spot in Heaven. Feeling both dissatisfied and unsettled, the lost soul took his leave, completely at a loss at what to do. 

Back at Fort Hancock, Krockman slowly made his way into his home, completely drained. “I’m home!” he shouted to no one in particular. “No body bother me!” As he was walking in, he was shocked to see Willam and Sophie standing their, eager to greet him. “Welcome back, Cooper,” Willam said in a friendly manner. “I take it you’ve been busy.” Staring at his young cousins, Krockman shook his head, asking, “Where the hell have you two been this whole time? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” “We’ve been on holiday,” Sophie explained. “We’ve been traveling all over Limbo lately. We’ve heard a lot of interesting things along the way.” 

“Yeah, did you hear about Miss Emily being sucked into Limbo?” Willam asked inquisitively. “Apparently she’s set up a hotel.” “Yeah I know,” Krockman said, growing annoyed. “I tried to get her to go back home, but she refused. That hotel’s her home now apparently.” Hearing this, a concerned look crossed Willam’s face as he asked, “Wait, so you just left her there? Won’t that drive her mad?” “That’s her choice, not mine,” Krockman retorted coldly. “You can’t just leave her there!” Willam snapped. “We have to go save her!” Rolling his eyes, Krockman pointed towards the door and said, “Be my guest. Just don’t expect me to get involved. You’re on your own, kid.” Glaring at his older cousin, Willam huffed as he made his way out, dragging Sophie along with him. “You know what, I think I’ll you up on that offer,” he spat out at Krockman. “God forbid you should be bothered to do the right thing. Mr. Misfit’s right, you are an arse.” “An arse? An ass?! You think I’m an ass?!” Krockman shouted as the younger lost souls left. “Is that really how you see it!? Fine! Go on then! Go be a hero! See if I care! That’s a fine way to talk to me after everything I’ve done for you, that’s for certain!” 

It was at that moment that Krockman noticed he was not alone. Standing at the other side of the room, staring on in shock, were Roquella, Alucard, Misfit, and Bathory. Looking sheepishly at the group, Krockman asked, “Uh, how long have you all been standing there?” “Long enough to see that,” Misfit answered, sounding disappointed. “Did you really have to yell at your cousins like that?” Growing angry, Krockman retorted, “Well, did you have to tell them I was an ass? Why would you even tell them that?” “Why? Why?!” Misfit snapped. “Because it’s the truth! Ever since you refused to do anything about Emily, you’ve been acting like an insufferable ass. What’s worse is that my best friend and my daughter (and apparently Alucard’s girlfriend) are trapped over there, and you refuse to do anything about out of spite. Now I don’t know why you didn’t just reap her back in the mortal realm, but if you don’t get rid of her, I will.” 

Taken back by this, Krockman looked at the group suspiciously, grimacing all the while. “So that’s it then, is that how you all feel?” he asked. “Even you, Roquella?” Looking sheepishly at her fiancé, Roquella answered, “It’s not like Misfit’s wrong. Why didn’t you reap Emily and the others back in the mortal realm?” Sighing at this, Krockman simply shook his head, saying, “Fine, I really didn’t want to do this, but I guess I have no choice.” Growing concerned, Misfit asked, “What are you talking about?” “I have a very good reason for not reaping Emily and the others,” Krockman explained as he opened up a portal. “But for you to fully understand why, I need to pick up something from a place I never thought I’d ever see again.” “And where exactly is that?” Alucard asked. Staring at the portal, Krockman simply answered, “Home. We’re going home.” 

——

Time and balance are everything. There is a season for every occasion, a time to rampage, and a time to refrain. Mac knew this better than anyone else as he skulked in the shadows of False Orchard for the umpteenth time that week. Much like his so called father, he had been busy for the past few weeks, attacking his former home and terrorizing the guests. That’s not to say each visit ended in violence, mind you (he wouldn’t want them getting used to him). More often than not, he would silently observe his quarry from the shadows, and he certainly saw a bit.   

Emily had grown a bit more delusional over the past few weeks and it was clearly beginning to take its toll on her entourage. While Jojo and Mona were taking things in stride (though grumbling about the impromptu “Parks and Recreation” marathon), it was the drok’s friends who took it the worst. Chelsea had taken up drinking, while Chad had more or less been reduced to a browbeaten manservant. Despite all of that, none of them ever considered leaving False Orchard; a prospect that utterly sickened Mac to no end. So after deciding to set his sights on Chad and Chelsea, Mac made his move. 

Having taken his rage burst form, Mac slowly approached the front door of his old home, scratching at it with a clawed finger and taking a moment to savor the sudden, unnerved silence from the building. After a few, dreadful minutes, he smashed the doors open and roared into the lobby, sending the patrons scattering like frightened cockroaches. Pleased by this, Mac set to work wrecking shop, smashing chairs, flipping tables, shattering pottery, and doing whatever he could to satisfy his taste for destruction. In the ensuing panic, nobody noticed that the monstrous scrap was making his way towards the bar, where Chad and Chelsea were hanging out. Smashing into the bar, Mac found the pair, Chelsea was busy nursing a drink while Chad stared on in horror. Mac smiled at the look of horror on their faces. 

As Mac stared the pair down, Chad got up from his seat and stared back, trying in vain to hide his fear. “N-now look you,” the human said nervously if somewhat assertively. “You’ve been t-terrorizing us for some time now, and we’re getting sick of it. So get your ugly ass out of here now, or there’s gonna be trouble.” Mac paused for a moment, somewhat impressed. To be fair, it was a rather lame threat, but the fact that the human said it at all was something. Chuckling a bit, Mac spoke, his voice crackling with static as he said, “So that’s how you see me, eh?” When he heard this, Chad was shocked, asking, “You... you can talk?” “Does it really matter?” Mac retorted. “Now I’ll ask you again. Is that how see me? Do you think I’m ugly?” 

Staring up at the monster, Chad nervously nodded in reply. Scowling at this, Mac smiled briefly, saying, “I see. Well, it could be worse. My nose could be gushing blood.” Looking confused, Chad asked, “What do you mean by...” before he could finish, Mac hooked Chad through the nose with a clawed finger and tore it, long streams of blood spilling from his sinuses and onto his shirt. Staring at the human as he screamed in agony, Mac felt rather proud of himself. 

It was at that moment that Chelsea got up from her seat and slowly staggered towards the scrap. “Alright, that’s enough!” the young troll slurred. “If you think you’re getting away with this, you’ve got another thing coming! I don’t know why you’re doing any of this or what Emily did to you, but I suggest you leave us alone!” The woman was clearly drunk, but Mac could not help but be impressed. Staring at Chelsea for a bit, the scrap noticed a large basket of bread on a nearby table. Grinning a bit, he reached down towards the basket and plucked a dinner roll, noting its weight in his hand. Scowling at the monster, Chelsea snapped, “Hey! Are you even listening?! I said...” At that moment, Mac threw the roll at Chelsea, catching her off guard as it hit her in the face. This was followed by another, then another, until finally, he was pelting her with a flurry of rolls. When he finally ran out of rolls, Mac capped off his assault by throwing the basket at Chelsea, knocking the young troll to the ground. 

Having finished his attack, Mac took a moment to survey his work, taking in the misery with delight. To the right, Chad’s ruined nose was practically pissing blood, while Chelsea was laying prostrate on the ground, whimpering. “Are you actually crying?” Mac asked in an annoyed tone. “This is so pathetic. I come all the way here, and what do I find? A crying drunk and an angry sissy, that’s what. Seriously, can’t you people have just a little dignity?” Looking up at the monster, Chelsea asked, “Why are you doing this to us? We’ve never done anything to you. None of us have ever even met you.” “Well that’s rich, because Emily wouldn’t have gotten this place without me,” Mac retorted with a glare. “I think the better question is why you people keep defending the manipulative shrew?” Looking confused, Chelsea said, “Because she’s our friend.” “Yeah, some friend,” Mac retorted. “Where is she anyway? Probably hiding in her office just like the last few times I came by. By the look of things, she doesn’t seem to think either of you are important enough to risk her life coming out here.” Eyeing the pair more closely, Mac snarked, “Of course, the fact that neither of you was armed, you were probably banking on me coming by. You probably hoping I’d end your misery. Well, if that’s the case, I won’t give you that satisfaction. In fact, consider your nose to be the worst injury you’ll receive from me.” With that, Mac left the bar, feeling satisfied with himself as Chad and Chelsea watched him, utterly broken.