C.C., who never had a hangover because he literally was unable to drink, was unable to comprehend the priorities of the dazed and likely still drunk partiers. He had predicted that, upon hearing news of the Count’s death, all of the supernaturals would instantly declare a blood vendetta upon that jerk Nemsemet and zip off to the museum with fangs and claws drawn and loaded down with whatever was the garlic-equivalent for mummies. Instead, somebody had chirped up about how they could murder a plate of crispy, golden hash browns smothered in cheese with a side of that good, country-style gravy, and the next thing C.C. knew he was alone in the kitchen as the hungover horde shuffled off like zombies towards Sally’s Diner. He just barely made it in time to hitch a ride as a shadowy squiggle on the underside of Rusty’s hog, clinging on for his dear life as he back closer than comfortable to the road.
 
Of course, the diner was just lousy with humans. C.C. didn’t know why, but there was something about the diner atmosphere, and Sally’s Diner in particular, that brought out sad, lonely adult men who sat at their table, drank their coffee, ate their eggs, and then stared at the waitresses until it was time to order lunch. Maybe the food was just that good; C.C. couldn’t tell. Regardless, he was forced to hide himself in the back, knowing full well if he made an appearance he would cause quite the panic amongst the normal populace. To save himself from boredom, the bogeyman took the time to count the corpses of cockroaches lying beneath the grills and the prep tables, and when he ran out of dead ones to count, he moved on to the living ones. 
 
He had hit one hundred and thirteen when a cacophony of clattering utensils, heavy thuds, and muted shouts arose his suspicion. Shifting out from the shadows, C.C. crept up and poked his head through the kitchen’s window to look out at the lobby. Apparently a large group of diners had just suffered from a rather extreme case of food poisoning, which wasn’t much of a surprise after watching the cook’s fairly liberal interpretation of the sign hanging next to the sink about handwashing. What was a surprise was seeing Kid Pharaoh walk in through the front door, the little bells on a chain jingling to announce his arrival like an ensemble of trumpeters. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this jerk was working for Nemsemet; C.C. was already fading back into the shadows when the herald began to speak. Someone else would deal—
 
Hold up! He just said what? Nuh-uh, the Court was not hereby absolved; they had enough of this sort of nonsense during the sixties and seventies when the druids tried claiming that it was unnatural for anything to have rule over anything else. Now, C.C. was not just going to standby and let this little goatman spread slander; the bogeyman sprung forth from the kitchen window, temporarily shifting into a cyclone of shadows before reforming himself a few feet away from the satyr. He recognized this satyr as Billy Spiros, a slippery fellow who had always been on the wrong side of the Courts but was never a big enough deal for them to bother taking him in. C.C. wasn’t capable of frowning, but he would if he could. 
 
“Now just one second, Mister,” said C.C., practically bellowing. “I’ll have you know that according to Article Three of the Apprentice Betrayal Act of 1873 the Court is incapable of being absolved unless by official order from the majority of higher Court officials and a motion for absolution cannot be made whilst one of the Courts is still in the mandated decade-long grieving process for a death of a Count. Obviously, then, it is impossible for the Courts to be absolved. The thought that Nemsemet would even think he’d be able to pull a fast one on us like that is, honestly, pathetic,” said C.C.with a laugh.
 
“One more thing.” C.C. took a step towards the satyr, the shadows around him rippling. “On top of murder, Nemsemet is guilty of violation of the Concealment Edict and of tax evasion, and should turn himself into the nearest Courthouse lest he wants to also be charged with prevention of justice and failure to appear. And I warn you that if he does not show up he will have C.C. Schwarzman to answer to, and I am a very persistent bogeyman.” C.C. paused as the fire fell from his voice. “Also, we’ll be sure to assign a lawyer to his case, and he will be tried fairly before a jury of his peers. Now make like a tree, and please politely leave before I am forced to raise my voice again.”