Capeworld Comics

1883, Late June

Elizabeth West loaded one of the Winchesters and then another as the dogs outside continued to howl and whine. This had the makings of another Indian attack, and an attack at the worst possible time. Adam and Frank were far from the ranch. There was only herself and Dorothy Richards, and Dorothy wasn’t answering, no matter how much Elizabeth shouted.

But Elizabeth tried again. What else could she have done?

“Dotty! Dotty! Dotty, where are you!” she cried.

Still no answer.

The dogs continued to howl as Elizabeth placed one rifle on a table and clutched the other tightly in her hands.

She looked out a window by the front door. The dogs were howling at something over the hill. They stood like sentries rooted to the spot and when they barked, they barked so forcefully their bodies quaked.

Elizabeth prayed the dogs wouldn’t die. The Indians killed their dogs the last time they attacked, and several cattle as well.

Whatever was over the hill would not reveal itself. The dogs kept barking, and barking, and Elizabeth began to suspect that whatever they were barking at wasn’t a band of Indian raiders. The Indians didn’t wait like this last time. They shot the dogs, and then rode up to the ranch, firing blindly into the air in an effort to scare them out.

After a minute of waiting, Elizabeth was sure that she wasn’t dealing with a band of raiders. But what were the dogs barking at? What could it be? A wounded animal, maybe? Something too damaged to move but too large for the dogs to attack?

Or maybe–a wounded person?

“Dotty?” Elizabeth called out again. “Dotty, are you hurt, girl?”

Elizabeth slowly unbolted the door and crept outside. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted. “Dotty! Dotty, are you there? Are you hurt?”

There was still no answer.

Then the dogs stopped barking. They became as still as statues.

And then, yipping and whining, they bolted toward the house. They nearly knocked Elizabeth to the ground as they scampered to a hiding place in the back of the house.

Elizabeth then saw why they ran.

Slowly, over the hill, rose a large, red shape.

It was four-legged, but that was where its similarities with any creature Elizabeth knew ended. It was covered in fur the color of blood. It was large, so large, Elizabeth never knew something could be so large. Its legs were long like stalks and its neck long like a snake. Its neck twisted about as it threw its head back and roared.

It was a cry that brought Elizabeth to her knees in prayer.

Through her tears, she could see something white on the creature’s back, something round like a shell, but it didn’t cover the entirety of the red back.

The white something on its back nearly went horizontal as the creature brought its legs up, and then down, again and again, hammering at the ground.

Its blows echoed through the prairie like thunder. Elizabeth shut her eyes tight and repeated her prayers.

Even when the thundering stopped, she didn’t dare open her eyes. She sat in silence, rifle clutched in her hands, and waited. The whimpering of the dogs in her bedroom was the only sound she heard.

She thanked God when she saw Adam and Frank come riding over the hill, for she believed that her prayers had been answered, but as they got closer, she saw that something was terribly wrong. Their faces were bloodless and bore expressions of purest fear. When they approached the porch, they didn’t bother to hitch their horses, they jumped out of their saddles and bolted through the door.

Adam hugged Elizabeth tight. She sobbed in his arms.

“Adam, oh, Adam! There was a monster over the hill! A red monster! It was horrible, like something from a nightmare!”

“It’s okay.” Adam whispered. “It’s all okay.” But as his hands lowered her into a chair, Elizabeth could see that things were far from okay. She looked over Adam’s shoulder and saw Frank Richards. There were tears in his eyes.

“Where is Dorothy?” Elizabeth asked. “I…I couldn’t find her. I screamed and screamed for her when the dogs started howling but I couldn’t find her! Where is she, did you find her?”

The men did not answer, but Frank recoiled as if a blow had struck him. He tightened his fist. Through his fingers, a mass of red hair seeped like blood from a wound.

1883, Mid-July

Whistle came to a sudden stop and Ernst, Morton, and Glass were tossed forward by the momentum, stopping only because of the ectoplasmic straps that secured them to the sides of the hollow carriage.

“We’re here.” Martin Glass said. The youngest member of Ernst, Morton, and Glass undid the straps that fastened him and his friends with but a touch. His brief education under the thaumaturgists of the Ror Raas had left him with esoteric skills, including the ability to reshape ghosts and all their ectoplasmic manifestations with a touch, as if ectoplasm was mere clay to his hands.

The three trampled over the hay that littered the inside of the hollow carriage as they left. The hay glowed like fairy gold.

Whistle was a horse, and horses knew only a little of how the world worked. In Whistle’s experience, enclosed spaces, such as his barn, had hay, and so he assumed that hay had to be inside the little enclosed space that was always attached to him whenever he left his barn. Whistle expected there to be hay, and so there was hay. It was the same reason why the featureless shadow of a coachman sat above the carriage and held his reins. He expected there to be a coachman when he was out and about, and so there was.

“Ah, this weather is so nice!” Joseph Morton stretched his massive, wrinkled body and soaked in the sunlight like a wilted plant. “Weather this nice is wasted on the Yanks. Blackwall is nothing but cold air and moisture by comparison! And look at that sun! Beautiful!”

Martin Glass wiped down his glasses, and kept his eyes shut while doing so, lest his friends see how blue his eyes really were, and ask why they were such a vivid purple color. It was just one of the secrets he kept from them.

He put them back on his face and joined Joseph in marveling at the sun. “That really is an incredible view. The wonders of the sky are preserved out here in Arizona. There aren’t any steam beasts or five story buildings to get in the way.”

Matthew Ernst gestured to a white ranch house marked with a gaeite candle, the universal symbol of manesologists. “It’s nice to see this, too.” he said quietly. “A real wooden building! Back home, you have to go all the way out to Epping Forest to see wood in any form besides a table.”

Ernst, Morton, and Glass had arrived at one of the many stations used by the American Manesological Society, or Poeists as they were commonly called, built across the Americas. England was a small country, and so their single office in Blackwall was sufficient. But America was huge. The Poeists’ first station, built several years ago in New Jersey, might as well have been placed in China for how far away it was from the Arizona territory. Thus many Poeist stations came to dot the American landscape, and every few years another sprang up.

A man in a duster coat and stetson hat came outside the station to greet Ernst, Morton, and Glass. “Welcome back to America!’ he said as he approached.

The silver star pinned to his chest said DEPUTY US MARSHAL and proclaimed his authority, but it was his skill with the revolver strapped to his side that guaranteed it.

This man was Bass Reeves, a man who was a storied and colorful character before he ever joined the Poeists. Once the slave of a man named George Reeves, he escaped after beating George severely for cheating him in a game of cards and spent several years living among the Seminole, Creeks, and Cherokee. When the Ror Raas brought an end to the American Civil war in 1863 and the institution of slavery by placing fires in the sky over the Battle of Shiloh, Mr. Reeves used his newfound freedom to become a farmer in Arkansas.

In 1875, he was made a deputy marshal of the Indian territory under marshal James Fagan and judge Isaac Parker. Though a black man, no one could not deny that Mr. Reeves’ knowledge of the land and fluency in several Indian languages made him an ideal deputy, and Mr. Reeves became one of the greatest lawmen America had ever seen. He had captured more than a thousand outlaws and was known for his skillful marksmanship with revolvers and rifles.

Bass Reeves joined the Poeists in 1880, and found the work not too dissimilar from law enforcement. Both involved hunting down targets over a vast area. Both required quick thinking and quick reflexes. Both were highly dangerous professions. Mr. Reeves continued hunting down human criminals without missing a beat–his work with the Poeists just increased the number of men on his list.

Mr. Reeves was 45 years old, but age had affected him little, if at all. His beard was thick and dark without so much as a touch of gray. His skin was without a trace of wrinkles.

Mr. Reeves shook the trio’s hands and then turned to Whistle. “So this is the legendary ghost horse!” he said.

Mr. Reeves touched the creature’s snout. “And he’s just as friendly as they say!”

“Would you like to feed him a carrot?” Joseph asked.

“He eats?”

“Well, he thinks he eats.” Joseph produced an orange treat from his massive pockets. “Here, try.”

Mr. Reeves took the carrot and smiled as Whistle first sniffed it, then chomped it between his teeth.

“Ectoplasmic carrot?” Mr. Reeves asked.

Joseph pointed a thumb at Martin. “He makes them. Not the most glamorous use of thaumaturgical powers, but Whistle deserves a treat every now and then, and normal carrots just fall right to the ground through his chin.”

“Thank you all for coming such a long way from England.” Mr. Reeves said.

“Not a problem.” Matthew said. “Whistle makes distances a trivial matter, and we’re always glad to help our American cousins.”

“And it’s good thing you’re here, we need your help. The Bisclavret siblings are back home in Louisiana investigating sightings of a human-shaped shadow that reportedly ate a person near Honey Island and Dirk Peters is in Washington, because they keep seeing Lincoln’s ghost, so we need the extra hands for this case.”

Mr. Reeves pointed to Whistle’s carriage and rider. “Do we need to move any of that?”

“No.” Matthew said. “They’re part of Whistle, like how the clothing of many a manes is part of them. Whistle believes he needs a carriage and coachman when he’s out and about, and so he has a carriage and coachman.”

“So we don’t need to hitch him?”

“Not at all.” Matthew pointed to two square pieces of leather placed at the sides of Whistle’s eyes. “We figured out when we first met Whistle that as long as his blinders are on, he’s passive.”

“Oh, but if you take them off, look out!” Joseph said. “He’ll crash around like a four-legged tornado–but worse!”

“Well, if Whistle’s good to sit out here, then we can head on inside.” Mr. Reeves led Ernst, Morton, and Glass into the station.

The inside of the station was filled with the mementos of past cases and adventures. Most of the Poeists’ trophies were kept back at their main station in New Jersey, far to the East on the coast of the Atlantic, but the Arizona territory station had a few marvels all its own.

There was the feather of a Thunderbird, a great and mighty prince of the realm of Fairy, and so large was the feather that its glass case took up an entire wall. The feather was a gift from the Thunderbird Nanabush, though he more often took the form of a horned rabbit called a jackalope, who befriended the American Manesology Society after they helped an Ottawa trader by the name of Neyas Petosega, who was a fairy on his father’s side and a shapeshifter on his mother’s side, and ran into difficulties due to his mixed parentage.

The feather was the color of lightning, white at the center and blue around the edges. There was a glow to it, and those unfamiliar with Thunderbirds often assumed that the feather was a long window made out of ghostly ectoplasm at first glance.

On the opposite wall was a mouth-tentacle from the infamous shapeshifter known as the Snallygaster. Though not as long as the feather, it was still twice the height of a man. The slimy red appendage was claimed when little Adeline Bisclavret put her dainty hand on the tentacle, transformed it into a burly loup-garou claw, and pulled.

That didn’t kill the Snallygaster, his death came later when Adeline’s brother Etienne wrestled the shapeshifter into a firepit. Fire was one of the few things that could truly destroy a shapeshifter.

Below the tentacle was a gray canvas sack once used by a ghost known as Bloody Bones to carry away any wayward children that crossed his path. The sack was empty, but the sobs of children still echoed softly within its dark interior.

Hanging by the fireplace was a case containing a white bandana and two pearl handled Colt revolvers. These were tools used by a mysterious vigilante known only as the Sunrise Kid, for that was when he appeared to outlaws and desperados. The Sunrise Kid, due to his superhuman exploits, such as when he disarmed the entire Clayton Gang by shooting their revolvers out of their hands, was commonly believed to be a ghost, but he was not. He was a living man, albeit one with superhuman abilities. He was, like ghosts, a representative of a race that was becoming more and more common by the day. The mask and guns were spares, gifted to the American Manesology Society by the Sunrise Kid as a way to apologize for them having to investigate him and waste their time with a being that, while peculiar, was not a ghost.

“I’ve always loved how you put up trophies in your buildings.” Joseph said. “I think we made a mistake putting all our interesting memorabilia in the basement.”

Joseph gestured to a strange creature stuffed and displaced crouching on a rock. “This one’s new. What is it? It looks like someone crossed a monkey with a lizard.”

The creature indeed looked like what Joseph described. Its body was hairless and scaled, but the head was rounded unlike anything reptilian. On its back were triangular spikes which ran down its spine and tail. Its eyes were black and shaped like beans. Its mouth was open, and Joseph could see small, but sharp, teeth and a red, forked tongue.

A plaque below the creature read 1883–Cholula Rivadavia.

“They call this little fellow a goat-sucker, though it sounds better in the original Spanish–chupacabra.” Mr. Reeves said.

“That sounds far too pretty to be “goat-sucker.””

“I put holes in this poor devil back when John-a-Doors sent us south on some nagual business. I didn’t want to do it, because these little critters are rare, nuisances to ranchers though they may be, but it jumped at me, and my reflexes being what they are, I put two in its little head before it got its claws to me.”

“Excellent reflexes.” Joseph said. “Age has done nothing to you, I’m jealous!”

“Thank you. I wouldn’t be here today if they were any less. Outlaws would have put me under decades ago if I slacked even an inch.”

Joseph looked closely at the goat sucker’s scaly, yellow head. “Excellent taxidermy as well. You have to look close to see the stitches.”

“Thank you again. Did it myself. These hands of mine are good for more than pulling triggers. Chupacabras, according to John-a-Doors, are fairy kin. They mostly populate South America, though a few have been sighted in the United States. Apparently, they came about when a nagual made a deal with a fairy, which they call nunnehi in these parts.”

“Oh, I already don’t like the sound of this.” Joseph said.

“Nagual are not natural shapeshifters, like the Bisclavret clan and their kinfolk back in France. They have to make a bond with an animal they call a tonal before they can turn into that animal. Well, one nagual wanted to break the trend of bonding with crows and coyotes and typical things like that. He wanted a tonal that was unique, and the fairy promised to show him an animal that had never before walked the Earth. The problem was, the way the deal was worded, it allowed the fairy to bring over an entire mess of goat suckers, an entire herd.”

“That’s how they get you.” Joseph said. “It’s always word games with them.”

“It was something like “Show me animals that have never walked the Earth.””

“Yeah, that would do it.”

“Apparently, goat suckers are a kind of pest over in Fairy. They’re like rats or weevils. Fairies are always looking for a way to get rid of them because they keep cattle just like humans do and dislike lizard monkeys feeding on them. The poor things though, they’re likely to be wiped out soon. Not only do ranchers shoot them on sight, but the nagual, he was ripped off and he knew it, and he made it his life’s mission to hunt down and kill every single goat sucker.”

Mr. Reeves looked down at the goat sucker and patted its head. “I wish I didn’t kill the poor thing.”

“It charged at you.” Joseph said. “What else could you have done?”

“True, true. Anyway, enough gawking at the trophies, let’s go talk to Mr. Leeds, gentlemen.” Mr. Reeves led the three manesologists to a door. “He’s right through here.”

Mr. Reeves opened the door and led the three into a simply furnished office. There was a desk and three chairs. It was all the little office had room for, and so Mr. Reeves stood by the door while his guests took their seats.

Behind the desk was a figure shrouded by a long, white cloak and wide-brimmed hat. Everything about the man was hidden by fabric or shadows.

He held up a stiff, gloved hand to greet the trio. “Good day.” he spoke from a shadowed cavity below his hat.

Mr. Leeds was an old friend of Ernst, Morton, and Glass. They had met him far back in 1867 on the East Coast of the United States, in a place called the Pine Barrens, and they helped him overcome his physical abnormalities. Mr. Leeds then supplanted Dirk Peters as leader of the American Manesological Society, which Mr. Peters didn’t mind at all given that Mr. Leeds’ great age made him incredibly wise.

Mr. Leeds was born in 1735. He was 148 years old.

He was, surprisingly, not the oldest man to walk the Earth today.

“Welcome back to the states, Gentlemen.” Mr. Leeds’ voice was slow and awkward and came in slurping whispers. It was the fault of what Ernst, Morton, and Glass recorded as “birth defects” in their notes back in their Blackwall library. His neck was too long, like a pipe, and air whistled going in and out of it. His tongue was too long, and sloshed around his cavernous mouth to make syllables.

But none of that, of course, could be seen through the cloak.

“You don’t need that coat and hat, Mr. Leeds.” Joseph said. “Not with us around. And isn’t it awfully hot here compared to the East Coast?”

“It’s an ingrained habit, Joseph.” Mr. Leeds said. “I feel as if these clothes are my own skin.”

“It’s true.” Mr. Reeves said. “He doesn’t even like us seeing him without his clothes. Though I doubt any of us would be comfortable if one of us suddenly stripped down.”

“I still think you should try the John Tenniel clothes.” Joseph said to Mr. Leeds. “I think the clothes would look smart on you.”

“I’ll decline, though I have considered something like a harness to help take the weight off my wings. But let us to business.” Mr. Leeds moved a corner of his cloak over the table, and when he removed it, photographs were left behind.

The photographs showed a horribly mangled corpse from several angles.

“Ah, God, the poor woman.” Martin flinched from the photograph. “Was this a woman?”

“Yes.” Mr. Leeds answered. “Her name was Dorothy Richards. She was a rancher’s wife.”

“It looks as if someone hit her with a large hammer.” Matthew said. “Again, and again, and again.”

“No.” Joseph disagreed. “This is more like…tiny explosions.”

“Like a scatter gun at close range, right?” Mr. Reeves suggested.

“Yes, exactly Mr. Reeves.” Joseph said.

“I thought the same thing until we learned a ghost did it.” Mr. Reeves said.

“It must have been quite a savage one.” Joseph said. “Poor Ms. Richards looks like the Brute of Ipping got ahold of her.”

“We think it may be the ghost of an animal.” Mr. Reeves said. “Like Whisper, but of a vastly different temperament.”

“And species.” Joseph said. “If she was trampled to death, it couldn’t have been by a horse, but then again, if the khet spiritual component is strong enough, a ghost can appear as small as an ant and still be able to toss around a mountain like a toy.”

“Mr. Reeves, can you continue informing Ernst, Morton, and Glass about the Red Ghost?” Mr. Leeds asked. “I would like to rest my voice.”

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Reeves said. “If you all would turn your chairs to me, I’ll bring you up to speed on the situation. It’s like this, on June 5th, at a ranch along Eagle Creek, two women were left by themselves. There was a spate of Indian attacks in the area, and their men had gone to investigate a possible attack on their neighbors’ properties. According to Ms. West, their dogs started to howl around sundown. She got her rifle and tried to find Ms. Richards, who had left the house to draw water for their cattle, but was unable to locate her. She stood by her window and watched, expecting Indians to come rushing to her door any moment. But they never came. The dogs kept barking at something over the hill, and eventually she figured that what they were barking at wasn’t an Indian. She began to fear that Ms. Richards had gotten herself hurt outside and that the dogs were trying to call someone over to help her. She opened the door and began calling for Ms. Richards. That was when she saw it–what people are calling the Red Ghost.”

Joseph rolled his eyes. “Oh. Another Red Ghost.”

“He’s not our first Red Ghost.” Matthew explained. “There was the Red Ghost of Essex, named such because he kept bleeding, and the Red Ghost of Nottingham, named such because he was dressed up all in red.”

“Any of those Red Ghosts go on four legs?” Mr. Reeves asked.

“No.” Matthew answered.

“This one does. Ms. West said that it was like a horse but bigger, much bigger. And it was hairy, like a bear, but even larger than a bear. Its legs were long and she compared them to the legs those steam beasts standing over Blackwall.”

“It was as big as a steam beast?” Joseph asked.

“No, but if really was bigger than a house, she probably would have made a more comprehensive report. She said that there was something large and white on its back, but with the distance separating her from the Red Ghost and fear clouding her mind, she couldn’t be sure what it was. She said it might have been a man, hunched over and covered with a white cloak, like what Mr. Leeds is wearing, but she also said that it might have been luggage strapped to the animal’s back and covered by a white cloth.”

“If it’s luggage, we may be dealing with an exaggerated manifestation of a mule.” Matthew said. “They’re fairly common in the territory, correct?”

“Yes. Animals of all kinds are common out here.” Mr. Reeves said.

“Good God in Heaven.” Joseph muttered. “The deranged killer ghost of a mule. That’s one of the books.”

“Ms. West went back inside, and from the window watched the Red Ghost lift its long neck back and roar to the sky.” Mr. Reeves continued. “Then it started to lift its legs and stomp the ground. She said it was like thunder. The dogs ran whimpering back to the house. Eventually, the Red Ghost stopped and vanished, not even turning before it popped itself out of the world. The men finally arrived back at the ranch, and they found the body of Dorothy Richards.”

“Has this been the only sighting?” Matthew asked.

“No. It was only the first. The Red Ghost has been seen up and down Eagle Creek. The sightings are all the same–like a horse but bigger, shaggy, red like the color of blood, and has something white attached to its back. Fortunately, there haven’t been any more attacks, only sightings.”

“Let’s work fast to make sure there won’t be another.”Joseph said. “But a question—Mr. Reeves, are we certain this is a ghost and not a shapeshifter? Could we be dealing with another mad shapeshifter, like the Snallygaster?”

“We know it’s a ghost because we have samples.” Mr. Leeds answered. Once again, he moved the edge of his cloak over the desk, and when he took it away, there was a clump of red hair.

“Let me show you.” Mr. Reeves said as he drew a heavily modified LeMat revolver from its holster. It was the first of its kind, the next step in the development of gaeite candles, a gaeite lantern. Unlike normal gaeite candles which could only project olprt radiance, Mr. Reeves’ LeMat could project a concentrated beam of olprt from an aperture along the gun barrel.

This beam could work manesological Operations, just like the gaeite candles used by Ernst, Morton, and Glass, but it could also serve as a weapon against spirits. Bullets fired down the beam could weaken and stun ghosts. Mr. Reeves could actually shoot ghosts, and he became the first man in history to shoot a man and his ghost when one of the many outlaws he put down during his long career attempted to take ghostly revenge on him.

Mr. Reeves pressed a button on the side of the revolver and its amber colored gaeite core slid free, bathing the room in silvery-white olprt radiance.

The clump of red hair revealed itself to be composed of ectoplasm as the olprt radiance rendered it a black silhouette, as it did with any spiritual object.

“Good.” Joseph said. “I much prefer dealing with ghosts than shapeshifters. It feels like I’m playing a game with someone who cheats whenever I flash my gaeite candle at a shapeshifter and the olprt does nothing but make me look silly.

“There are other photographs you need to see.” Mr. Leeds said before placing a stack of photographs down neatly next to the photographs of Dorothy Richards. “These were taken at various sightings.”

The photographs were of tracks.

“They’re cloven!” Martin gasped.

“Yes. Split right down the middle, like a goat or a deer.” Joseph said.

“Or a sheep.” Martin said. “Lord! Imagine if this is some sort of sheep–a giant, angry, red sheep!”

“It wouldn’t be the strangest ghost we’ve encountered.” Joseph said. “Though I would rank it among the top 20…no, 15.”

“Assuming that this isn’t the manes of an animal, but the manes of a man manifested in the form of an animal, are there any ideas for a motive?” Matthew asked Mr. Reeves.

“We have a few. The Red Ghost may be the ghost of an Apache raider. That’s what we thought it had to be originally, because Mr. Richards once shot and killed an Apache during one of their raids, but if it is an Apache, we have to wonder why he hasn’t taken to raiding other homesteads, and why he didn’t go after Mr. Richards himself. It could also be the ghost of a jealous settler, someone upset he died making his way West while others settled the land. Or it could be the ghost of your general waste-of-breath outlaw. God knows there’s a lot of evil men buried out here. I put some in the ground myself.”

“Regardless, our next step is clear.” Martin said. “I’ll perform the Aldi Operation and turn this little clump of hair into a compass that’ll lead us to the Red Ghost. Once it’s ready, we’ll hunt up and down Eagle Creek until we find it. Simple work, though it’ll be tiring, especially on my end. Since I’ve never encountered the Red Ghost, it’s going to take me most of the day to perform the Operation. Is there a room I can use?”

“Yes.” Mr. Leeds answered. “The room in the back where we stored the ghost piano of Albright saloon.”

“So long as it doesn’t play itself, that should suffice.” Martin picked up the clump of hair. “Leave some food and water outside the door. I’ll get hungry.”

“That sounds like the perfect excuse to get something to eat. I’m hungry!” Joseph stood up. “What’s there to eat around here?”

“You can eat after seeing all those photos of Ms. Richards? Mr. Reeves asked.

“Of course.” Joseph smiled. “I’ve seen worse, and not just in photographs. Oh, the things I have seen Mr. Reeves…why don’t I share some ghost stories with you over a pint?”

“There’s a saloon about a mile away.” Mr. Reeves said.

“Just a mile? Whisper will have us there in a blink of an eye.”

“Then we can bring back some scrambled eggs and bacon for Dr. Glass.” Mr. Reeves said.

“Just leave it by the door.” Martin said. “I’ll nibble at it whenever I come out of my trance.”

“Hope you like the food.” Mr. Reeves said. “It’s a little different from what you’re used to.”

“I’ve had eggs and bacon before.”

“But have you tried it with bird pepper sauce?”

“Bird pepper sauce? What on Earth is a bird pepper?”

“You’ll find out.”