[Crimson Ghost]

As our intrepid heros enter the pub, a night of revellry ahead of them, they fail to notice a movement in the shadows of the darkend alley across the street. It's a shame they didn't see it, for if they did, what would they have found?

None other than the teenage prostitue Smoothmoniker wore out earlier in the night. It would have been strange enough to find this girl in the alley, as she was only doing a favor for the madam, but being as her hands and feet were bound by strips of duct tape, it was to be her last good deed.

And she was not alone.

Standing behind her, with a hand wrapped firmly around her mouth to keep her quiet, stood a figure over six feet tall, and as broad as an oak door. He leaned forward, and whispered in her ear. She cringed as he spoke, his voice as cold as a grave.

"I'm not a butcher,
I'm not a Yid,
Nor yet a foreign skipper,
But your own light-hearted friend,
Yours truly,
Jack The Ripper."

Her eyes went wide when she saw the Liston knife, but it was too late for her. The razor sharp blade sliced thru her neck, severing her jugular and carotid arteries in the time it took for the killer to draw his breath as he admired his handiwork.

The lifeless body fell away from a head held aloft by its hair. The psycho slowly lifted the dead girls face to his own, stared into the blank eyes, then slowly, lovingly, kissed the cooling lips.

Placing the head into a canvas bag, the killer stood and stared at our three adventurers thru the front window of the pub, his eyes slowly scanning them, gauging them for battle.

"Where are the rites of passage? The initiations for the young to endure? How can they ever hope to become true adults without them? We live in a world filled with people wearing middle-aged bodies, yet they stumble to a crawl with their child-like minds. We must all go thru a rite of passage, and it must be physical, and it must be painful, and it MUST leave a mark."

The figure started across the street, waterproof canvas bag in hand. Upon entering the pub, he approached the three he had followed to this ancient mystical site. 'Only three more and Xibalba will open, and I can return home.' the voice in his head whispered.

He placed the bag on the snaphook hanging from his belt, and know the game was about to begin.

"Friends, the city has a new terror running free on its streets, and we need you to find it and stop it."

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Here's to hoping that the story will run long and strong.
For those who may not know, "XIBALBA" means "the gates of Hell".