The reunion: part 17

"So Pope Hian just takes away their magic, or whatever, is that how it works?" Chris casually asked the Anchorite as they took shelter under a table. Her eyes flickered over to Stanley, who was on his knees, holding the three comic books in limp hands, his head thrown back, with tears on his cheeks. 

The Anchorite turned away from Stanley. "Um, yeah. Those three characters were magic because they were created from Stanley's comic book series."

"So it's like deus ex machina in reverse," Chris said. Deus ex machina is an ancient and outdated literary device where the results of the plot by having the gods come in and fix everything.

"Yes, I guess so," the anchorite said, looking around and ducking flying bodies. "Here we have somebody coming in and taking away mystical powers and messing up everything."

Chris flinched as a bright splatter of blood splashed across her face. 

"That Pope is vicious. I think you're going to need to so the Warrior Cat new jacket." The Anchorite reached above his head and felt around on the table top for a napkin. He handed it to Chris.

"Thanks," she said absently. "Poor WC. Anyway, it seems like what we need to defeat the evil Pope is a dose of extra reality. Like, extra extra reality to defeat his power of imposing mundane reality on our characters.— Okay, I know what he needs: cold iron."

The Anchorite shook his cowled head. "I think you are thinking of the creatures of Faerie. Elves, brownies, pixies, and the lords and ladies of Faerie live half in the real world and half in the Shadow Realm. Iron is so rooted in our reality that when it touches them it makes them mortal like us, causes great pain and takes away their power. However, Pope Hian is not of Faerie so cold iron will have no effect…"

"What are you talking about?" Chris asked as she reached into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a snubnose revolver, checked to make sure no innocent characters were in her line of fire, and shot Pope Hian as he had so very much been asking for. 

The Anchorite flinched from the gunshot. When he recovered, he shrugged. "Oh, I see."
The two writers stood up cautiously and looked around at the restaurant mezzanine. Furniture was broken. Food and blood mixed on the floor. Many characters were hurt. Some were stoic, others  screaming. The less injured were giving first aid to the more injured. Starched white table linens, streaked with red, were being used as bandages.

It was a scene of devastation, but the danger was over.

Chris holstered her weapon and made dusting motions with her hands. "I think it's time for dessert," Chris said. The Anchorite nodded.

Faber looked up from where he was desperately giving Brian CPR. "Is this really the time to spout cowboy clichés?" he panted.

Chris and the Anchorite looked at each other. "What's his problem?" Chris asked. "I want to see a dessert menu."

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