'provisions depleted?' john turns to see beeman waddle in.
i gave you three months worth. you were gone only one. this diminutive occult version of bond's "q" carries a custom bowling bag and squints in the light like a mole.
so what do you need?
you smell something, john?
well, i've got your stone fragments from the road to damascus, dust from the dead sea scrolls -- oh, you'll love this -- out comes a little matchbox with a smiling bug graphic.
screech beetle from mount sinai. he shakes the matchbox and the beetle flutters inside. it's wings create an eerie high-pitched whirl. john shrugs. so?
yeah, to you it's nothing but to the fallen -- like fingernails on a chalkboard.
gold was blessed by the bishop anicott during the crusades. john spots a foot-long copper tube in the bag, pulls it out, grips the bicycle handle on one end.
watch it there. with this puny little thing? john gives the handle a squeeze and whoooosh -- ten-foot flame belches out.
dragon's breath.
whoa, don't want to get a flame near this. piece of the shroud moses wore to the mountain. john picks it up -- you're shitting me, right? nope.
how spirited was this incubus?
we're finger puppets to them, john, elaborate costumes -- they can work us but don't come through us. they can't. you know that.
sure, john. anything else?
on the house.
oh my.
this is not good.  bowling ball hits a lane. beeman spins to the sound. ball rolls round and round, closer and closer until it clangs dead against the back wall of one of the lanes. beeman gets up, starts down the corridor of dormant pin machines. he stops at lane 13, leans way way down, past the machinery and peeks out the pin hole.
john?