Phew, this took a lot longer than it should have considering it was recorded at the same time as the last! Mainly because I was out and about more than usual this week, so expect the next one sooner than this!
When we last left off, we were about to have the trap driver take us to the Old Magic Woman.
Where are we off to, Sir?
To the Old Magic Woman’s Place…as fast as lightning!
If you say so, sir. She’s a bit of a skank, sir, but I wouldn’t kick 'er out of bed for eating maggots, if you know what I mean, arf arf. Right off with us, then.
What are you even talking about, guy? Like, all of these statements are perfectly understandable, and appropriately crass for this man, but why are they his response to “Take me to the woman who is literally magic”?
The driver heads to the outskirts of town. The further you ride, the less frequent the buildings become, giving way to untended farms with ramshackle farmhouses and barns that lean impossibly one way or the other.
Soon, the farms themselves become more sparse, then vanish altogether. The ground is covered by a low-lying fog, but the sounds and smells emanating from the mist paint a picture you’re just as happy not to see: thick gassy bubbles bursting on the surface of stagnent bogs, startlingly loud croaks of peculiarly large frogs, the occasional soft splashing of some poor animal being pulled under by a snake or crocodile or other aquatic predator, and the insects, whose droning is occasionally punctuated by soft thuds as they hurl themselves against the windows of your carriage.
Barely visible amidst the mist are trees in twisted and agonized shapes and patches of cattails that suddenly rustle as if something is moving through them. Once in awhile, you catch a glimpse of two red eyes staring at you from low to the ground.
You pass a sign that says, “Next swampgas, 2 miles” and, a few minutes later, “Magic Services, next right.”
None too soon for your tastes, the Driver takes a gentle right turn, shuts off the horses… and is silent. Deciding that this is your cue, you uncertainly emerge from the trap, trying to peer through the swirling tendrils of vapor on the ground to make sure it’s solid. You test it with your foot. It’s hard-packed dirt. You stand up and immediately see the Old Magic Woman silhouetted in the window of her brightly-lit wagon.
Slowly, you walk over until you’re standing directly in front of her.
All of this narration covers up the scene we just arrived at…
And here she is. You probably see why I say she’s a stereotype of a completely different group than the one she’s referred to as. She’s a pretty classic example of a Jewish grandmother, which… I honestly can’t complain about too much? The game’s creator is Josh Mandel (probably most famous for his work on the Space Quest and King’s Quest series), and the things I’ve found on his personal website and twitter point to him being Jewish, so I’m pretty certain he has a Jewish grandmother, as do I, and… Well, I can easily see my grandmother saying most of the stereotypical stuff this woman says, so it’s not like it’s an inaccurate portrayal. It’s just a little off-putting that this is the character with this personality. I guess it all comes down to the fact that, again, at the time this game was made I doubt many people even knew who the Roma people were, let alone the stereotypes people generally had about them.
Wait, don’t tell me, I know it already.
Your name is Jay…no, Jake…Jake Sssss…
Smokenders! Jake Smokenders! Am I right, or what?
Very close. It’s Jake Stonebender.
Oh, please, it’s the same thing.
So? Who sent you?
Tor sent me.
Oh. Tor. So sad about him.
He was such a nice boy. But now…Rrrarrgh…
I know, I know.
Huh, so Tor wasn’t always like that. I wish we could do something about it, but we’re here for a reason.
I’d like to get into Casimir’s, but they want me to have a Curse Mark.
And? So? Show him your Curse mark.
I don’t have a Curse mark, I don’t think.
Why not?
We have a few options here, but they basically all work.
My dog ate it.
See? That’s why I tell people to rub bitter apple on them. The dogs won’t lick them then.
Well, my supermarket doesn’t carry bitter apples.
Well, I don’t know what kind of supermarket that is.
What’s your curse? I’ll get you a new one.
Oh, crap. What is our curse? Let’s just try everything.
I’m a vampire.
Very good, give me your palm.
The Woman takes your palm and swabs it with alcohol. From under the counter, she pulls a tiny envelope, which she tears open, exposing a narrow matel shim with a sharp point. She scratches your hand with it, then waits for several minutes.
She explains about the Garlic Scratch Test, which she can use to confirm your vampirishness.
She doesn’t see any reaction.
Whatever you have, it’s not vampirism.
Welp, we can’t fake that. Let’s try again.
I think I’m a zombie.
The Woman holds her hand out, and you lay your palm in her hand.
She feels your pulse, scratching her head.
Hold still.
Suddenly she pulls a hairpin from her scarf and jabs it deep into your hand.
OWWWW!
You yank your hand back as she pulls the pin out of you.
What the hell was that?
Zombies don’t feel pain or have pulses. Besides, you’re a zombie, I give you a glass of salt water, you’re better. That’s not much of a curse.
Not a zombie either, then. Only two more choices.
I think I’m a ghoul.
The Woman reaches to the floor and comes up with a crumbled paper bag. Inside the bag is a wad of foil, which she peels open, revealing a Ziploc bag.
She pulls the bag open and reaches in. Her hand emerges with a brown, gooey, glistening chunk of rotted flesh. The stench hits you almost immediately; you start to gag violently and have to turn away from the window.
The Woman tucks the organ meat back into the bag, zipping it shut, rewrapping it, and dropping it under the counter.
From elsewhere, she pulls out a moist towlette, wipes off her hands, and smiles smugly.
So maybe you’re not a ghoul.
Maybe I’m a vegetarian ghoul?
That’s just a vegetarian. That’s not a curse. If you volunteer for it, it’s not a curse.
Well, unless we can remove our senses of both smell and taste, we’re not fooling her there either. That just leaves one option…
I think I’m a werewolf.
**The Magic Woman holds out her hand. You lay your palm in hers.
It’s shown this next shot every time, but this is the only time Jake immediately responds.
If you were a Werewolf, you would have the pentagram, the five-pointed star, upon your palm, which needs washing, by the way.
She drops your hand.
Besides, have you seen any wolfbane in bloom?
We haven’t but we did steal some fake wolfbane from the coffee shop! We also just happen to have a pentacle tattoo we can throw on, so it looks like we’re becoming a werewolf!
Trying to remain casual and cavalier, you read the instructions on the bag of the package, then pull open the plastic. Licking your palm in an ironically animalistic fashion, you then press the tattoo against your hand and hold it there for 30 seconds, applying even pressure.
Finally, you peel off the backing and blow gently on the beautiful, perfect tattoo.
I like it!
Okay, come on game. Anyone who has ever used a temporary tattoo knows they never come out perfect, even if you follow the instructions to the letter, which are way more intense than “Lick your skin and hold it there,” by the way. But, well, we have out pentagram now! Let’s see about getting that curse mark. We tell her again that we’re a werewolf, and when she takes our hand…
See?
It’s the same shot as last time, except we can faintly see a red pentagram on Jake’s hand.
Is that a lovely pentagram!
They’re usually just a lot of little whiteheads in a sort of a five-pointed star shape, but this is beautiful!
Mr. Eisenstadt! Did you see his Pentagram?
Mr… who?
I saw it, it’s beautiful.
Oh! Looks like our driver gets to have a name! Thanks for that, game, I’m glad you care more about the driver than the Magic Woman who is our main source of help in this mission.
What else do I need?
I’m not so sure the wolfbane is in bloom…
You pull out the wolfbane blossom and hand it to the Woman.
Wonderful! You have any silver?
I’m not sure.
Try me.
Will these do?
You give the palming coins to the gypsy, and her eyes sparkle.
Wonderful, wonderful!
She makes an entry into her Ledger, and then takes a jar off the shelf. It’s filled with a blackish-brownish flesh-like putty. She molds it carefully for several minutes, using a toothpick for fine details.
Painting a spot on your temple with a thick green, pungent-smelling liquid, she presses the little curse mark onto your skin.
I can feel it taking root!
That shows it’s working.
She shines a small blue hi-intensity bulb at it for a few moments, then dabs away the excess green growth medium with her handkerchief moistened with saliva.
Stop that!
Now listen to me. Don’t get this wet for at least 4 hours. Don’t pick at it. Usually, that’ll make it come off, but sometimes they burrow down to get away from your finger.
And don’t shave it.
Now run along. Go to your bar or wherever it is you’re going.
Thank you, See you later.
You will, you will.
And now we’re cursed! Let’s get back to town, ASAP!
You drive back into town.
When you reach the town square, the drivers slows the horses. He pulls a large wooden lever at his feet, and the bottom of your seat suddenly swings down, dropping you through the floor of the trap and onto the street. Before you can sit up, he pulls the trap ahead a few feet, stands up, and waves at you.
You’re all right then! ‘Ave fun sir, and I’ll be awaitin’ you when you’re ready to go.
And we’re back downtown! Let’s not waste time, we need to get into Casimir’s!
You walk up to the entrance, but the bouncer puts a hand out to stop you.
You have curse mark?
You proudly show him your curse mark. He examines it closely, and is evidently satisfied, because he steps aside and holds the door open for you.
Woah. Curiously familiar is right…
You instantly feel as if you were in Callahan’s on Halloween, with everybody in costume and the only night when Mike turns the lights down low. Curiously, you can’t remember if Callahan’s is packed on holidays, or if it’s empty. Seems you remember it both ways.
Besides the subdued lighting, the next most obvious difference is the smell, which is heavy and coppery…the aroma of fresh blood. Callahan’s smells more like sawdust and beer.
But despite the smell and the intimidating crowd, the atmosphere is one of conviviality. You hear a lot of laughter and storytelling, you see a lot of belligerent-looking carnivores listening attentively to creatures who could easily constitute snack-time instead.
With the spirit of Callahan’s Place palpably present, you realize that this place’s namesake, Casimir, may come from the same place and time as Mike…might even be related. Hell, they could even be the same person, although you doubt Mike would send you here if he were making the trip himself.
And we’re here. It really is basically just like home, with much the same layout and the same atmosphere. In fact, there’s a fairly familiar looking person behind the bar.
The plump, green-fleshed guy behind the bar notices you looking at him.
'Evening, young man. Casimir Pajitnov, owner and operator.
He offers you his beefy right hand.
Jake Stonebender, pleased to meet you. You know, your bar reminds me of a bar in the United States.
Long Island?
That’s right.
Oh. Next time you see Mike, tell him Casimir sends his best, won’t you?
I will.
Great. If I can do anything for you, just scream.
This brings up kind of an interesting point. There’s more than one of these types of bars, but unless Casimir is exceptionally good at recognizing American regional accents, he has no real reason to immediately guess Long Island if there’s multiple bars across the US. So is Callahan’s the only one in the country? Or was this just a good guess/reasoning from Casimir? Either way, let’s see what else he’s got to say.
Are you and Mike…related?
Not in the way you probably mean it.
Is it too nosy to ask how you ARE related?.
Well…ask Mike, he’ll tell ya what he wants you to know.
Yeah, you two are related, all right.
I can understand Casimir’s response here. He has no idea how much Mike has told Jake about anything, and since Jake isn’t a regular here and will be back as Mike’s problem before long, it wouldn’t be right to say more than Mike has or wants to.
Now, the other person of note here is to Casimir’s left, with his back to us. Occasionally, he turns to look at us and then goes right back to drinking. He’s just labelled as “sullen man.”
You’re not sure at first, but yes, that’s Pyotr. He looks listless, pale, and far less energetic than usual.
In fact, you’d say he looks like death warmed over, but that would probably be a compliment.
Well, there he is. We found Pyotr, now to get him out of here, or at least find out why he came back.
You assume he’s talking about your pentagram.
The big, bright, Texaco star.
What’s he getting at?
Can I trust my car to you? Or don’t you do brakes?
It lands like a blow to the groin with a spiked tennis racket.
Having a drunk friend say something that socks you in the gut is no surprise; alcohol and despondence make a great glass cleaner for the window into the soul…especially for the basement windows.
Ouch… Pyotr is drunk to the point that he’s bringing up the accident where Jake lost his family. We really need to do something about this.
If you’re here to pay your last respects, I’m already dead.
Pyotr, dear Pyotr, come home with me now.
No.
Goddamn you, Pyotr, I’ll see you in HELL!
Last one in’s a rotten egg.
You’re being very childish.
I know you are, but what am I?
The three of those were all options to choose. Once we say them all, in any order, a new one appears.
I come all the way from America to see you, and what do I get? Smartmouth comments!
Y’know, Jake? You’re such an old woman sometimes.
I’m gonna drink 'til sunup, and then you know what’s going to happen?
You’ll turn into a man-shaped pile of dust?
No. Guess again.
You’ll shrivel like a prune until you’re a corpse?
No. Again.
You’ll fade away until you vanish completely?
No!
Again, we can answer in any order, we just need to do all three.
I give up.
I’m going to turn into a pile of dust in the shape of a man.
Didn’t I guess that?
No.
So I appreciate your following me here, but my mind is made up. Now let me drink in peace.
And we’re booted out of the conversation. But we’re not done yet, we still don’t know why he came all the way back here in the first place!
Oh, my pal, the werewolf.
What’s the problem, Pyotr?
What’s the real problem?
You must be lonely, Jake.
What if you felt that lonely for your whole life?
I’ve lived my life as a lonely adult man for longer than you’ve been alive.
But it doesn’t have to be that way.
Well, maybe you can replace Barbara, but I can’t replace Sasha.
…Sasha? Alright Pyotr, time to spill the beans.
Who’s Sasha?
We used to sit in here and play “As Slime Goes By” on the jukebox.
When she smiled, I could feel it in here.
He taps his chest.
The last time I saw her…I don’t know how many years ago it was…she had made a decision. There was a teacher of hers, and he gave her something I…guess I didn’t have.
Anyway, I never heard from her again, so I guess she was happy with him. Is happy with him, for all I know.
Ouch. Well, the least we can do is try to have him talk to this Sasha, even if nothing comes of it. And that means getting him our of this bar. Let’s do some looking around.
A fugato sits drinking with his buddies. Fugato is an ancient term meaning, “Creature of accident in costume department.”
Okay, maybe there’s some ancient lost meaning to fugato I’m unaware of, but to my knowledge it’s a musical term meaning… I have no idea. I’m awful with music, so I don’t really grasp the specifics, but I do know it’s a musical term related to the word “fugue.”
Ruuorrrrwwwwrrr.*
Hey, bud, how’s it hangin’?
Me Jake. You no kill I? Okay?
All of the fugato’s dialogue is presented this way. He growls or roars, it’s translated for us the player, and Jake has absolutely no idea.
Arrrarrgh rorraWWwargh!
Sure, man, no problem! Chill!
They have a lot of ways to express a growl. Now, the one on the right is downing most of the bottle (which, the game specifies for us, is Mako Root Schnapps, with a full Mako Root in the bottle), and the game also tells us the one in back is the one paying for it. Let’s talk to that one.
Rowwrarragh.
Talk to me!
Me friend. Jake you friend. You Jake friend. Okay?
Grrrrroooowwwwrr.
*Sure, man, whatever.
Everything we can say to them goes about like this. We’ll be back to chat with him some more later on. For now, let’s keep looking around.
Ah, another werewolf! Let’s mingle!
An authentic and somewhat ratty-looking werewolf sits at the table and watches the solitaire game. Occasionally he pulls off his flea collar and attempts to sniff it deeply, but they just don’t give him the same kick that they used to.
You’re too nervouse to talk to the werewolf. You’re afraid that he’ll put your foot in his mouth.
Yikes. Well, that’s all there is to see, so let’s get to interacting! To the left of the fireplace, there’s a jukebox on a table in the back, a little hard to see.
A silent, unlit jukebox sits on a small table near the fireplace.
That thing doesn’t work. Guess I should get rid of it, it’s been broken for awhile now.
How long?
Thirty, forty years.
Huh. Well, Pyotr mentioned the jukebox, so maybe we should try getting it to work.
If you want to try and fix it, go ahead. Just don’t take it out of the bar. I can sell it to one of the doctors around here for spare parts.
And now we have the jukebox. But… we don’t really know how to fix this thing. Let’s see… Maybe Casimir has an idea?
Right here.
Sadly, none of the options will help with the jukebox, but one is of interest.
Do you guys have “theme nights”?
Sure we do. Tonight’s Curse Night.
So I discovered.
And whoever figures out the riddles on the blackboard gets cursed extra loudly by everybody else in the bar.
Oh, yeah, I know how that goes.
Riddles, eh? We have some experience with those! We’ll have to check them out.
We haven’t started the riddles yet, though. And then, on Mondays, there’s the Wet T-Shirt Contest Night.
Oh. Well, I guess we’ll come back when they’re set up.
Some of these guys must look pretty ghastly in wet t-shirts.
Well for dog’s sake, we don’t WEAR the t-shirts. Everybody brings in their favorite t-shirt, we dunk 'em in the sink, lay 'em out on the bar, and whichever one looks the best when it’s wet, wins.
Is there some other way to do it?
I’ve gotta say, I like this version a lot better than the one we have.
Nah.
Alright, well, Casimir won’t be any help with the jukebox. Let’s keep looking. Back over where we can see the fugatos… there’s a dumbwaiter hidden over to the left, above the candle on the skull on the bar.
A dumbwaiter, just like Callahan’s dumbwaiter, is built into the wall..
Hmmm… We’re in a place run on horror movie logic… What if…?
You place the jukebox into the dumbwaiter and send it up.
Up and up it goes, to the churning storm clouds overhead…
Slowly the jukebox descends from the roof…
It’s alive! Alive!!
Good lord!
Spa fon!
Spa fon is a less odd reference to pull at the time this game was made than it is now. It’s an expression that came from EC Comics (the people who published Tales from the Crypt). Spa fon and Squa tront were alien expressions of surprise, just like, “My god!” or “Gott im Himmel!”
I realize seconds before I hit Reply that a lot of people might don’t know what “Gott im Himmel!” means, but I think it’s pretty clear from context. It’s German that was adopted by a lot of Yiddish speakers, so, you know, I’ve heard it a lot.
You haul it out of the dumbwaiter, and dust some of the char off of it. Sure enough, it seems to be working! It’s lit and you can hear whirrs and clicks inside!
Inwardly, you feel some guilt. After all, maybe man shouldn’t be playing Repairman with the primal forces of nature, fixing things he doesn’t understand and deigning to sat which appliances live and which ones die.
But what the hell, it’s just a jukebox.
We can’t use it until it’s back on its stand, so let’s go put it back.
Trying to lift with your knees, you hoist the jukebox up and tip it onto its stand.
Oh, that was easy. Let’s check out the song selection.
This is 1/4 of the songs. Let’s look at them all, shall we?
A-11: Plague Round In My Mind
A-12: (The Theme From) Dahm and Dahmer
A-13: Sqwuursh Went the Strings of My Heart
A-14: Everybody Flays the Fool
A-15: I’d Like to Teach the World to Sting
A-16: Just An Old Facist Love Song
A-17: Dismemberies
A-18: Those Ghoulish Things
A-19: Try a Little Tenderizer
A-20: One Croak Over the Line
B-1: Bewitched, Bothered, and Beheaded
B-2: Help Cremate It Through the Night
B-3: You Don’t Have to Be All Scarred Baby (To Be In My Show)
B-4: I’m Not In Lovecraft
B-5: Everybody’s Stalkin’
B-6: Gonna Fry Now
B-7: I Wanna Go Home (Sloop-Jawed Beast)
B-8: Drooling Banjoes
B-9: Hooked on Congealing
B-10: Ooze Sorry Now
B-11: Life Is Just Ebola Cherries
B-12: Embalmable You
B-13: Spokes Get In Your Eyes
B-14: In Her Goiter Davida
B-15: Saturday Morning Contusion
B-16: Gloom Moon
B-17: As Slime Goes By
B-18: Seizures in the Sun
B-19: Fooled Around and Fell in Lava
B-20: I’m in the Mood Pon Farr (Simply Because You’re Nimoy)
That’s a lot of choices… Good thing we got some advice on what to choose. Song B-17: As Slime Goes By, the song Pyotr and Sasha used to listen to in here.
With a brief hum and a series of clicks, the jukebox begins to play B-17: As Slime Goes By
The moment “As Slime Goes By” starts to play, Pyotr stumbles off of his chair.
For some reason, those two lines are separated but in the same text box. It seems like they just forgot to push the second sentence off to the next box.
Didn’t I say not to play that?
Yeah. Let’s get out of here.
Yeah!
You put your arm around him, but he shrugs it off.
I can walk myself.
You steer Pyotr out of the bar.
You steer Pyotr out of the crowded bar and into the street.
I don’t know why these lines are both here, either.
I feel sick.
Do you have to throw up?
I don’t know. My head hurts.
Let’s get you home.
Pyotr pulls his arm away from you, bringing you to the realization that you’ve been gripping him tightly for the past minute.
I don’t want to go home. I’m not ready to go home.
Okay. Want to see if we can sober you up?
He pauses for a moment and closes his eyes. A pained scowl crosses his face. You beat the pained scowl off, and it flies off into the night, hooting angrily. Pyotr wearily nods his head in answer to your question.
And we successfully got Pyotr out of the bar! He won’t go home yet, so next time we drag him to Starbucharest’s to sober him up, so that hopefully he tells us more info.
As I said at the start, expect the next update much sooner than this one! I’ve got a way less busy week ahead, and we’re about halfway through Adventures of a Lovesick Vampire, so we’ll see how much we can get through this week!