It is about 50F(10C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At High and Sycamore/span

(Your target discovers a cursed antique music box at an estate sale that, when opened, traps them in a time loop of the same hour. Each loop, the shadows grow longer and more corporeal, hunting them through the repeating sequence. They must figure out how to break the curse before the shadows become solid enough to kill them permanently.)

Horace sits at the stools, drinking his coffee and eating a delicious golden waffle, really the crisp, the maple, the butter just come together to something delicious. Pancakes are good but they hold nothing on that light crunch, even if he would never admit it publicly for fear of 300 pounds of redhead teeth and claws coming for him.

It’s true. Waffles are, genuinely, the superior of the two. It’s too easy to undercook a pancake and even the best pancake doesn’t hold a candle to a truly glorious Belgian waffle.

Which these are not, but even so.

Next to Horace there is a small music box. It was part of a delivery, sort of. He had made a pickup from an estate sale and the music box was one of the few things left and they just… gave it to him. As a tip, perhaps? Cash probably would have been preferred, but who knows. Maybe he can pawn it.

The small little pockets precisely filled with a little dab of butter and a small pool of table syrup as WH probably doesn’t have the good stuff. Grade A Vermont Amber warmed to a lovely 100 F.

Horace occasionally looks down at the box and inspects it from the outside before poking it with a finger. Another couple of bites of waffle and then a swig of coffee before he pulls out a book from his coat pocket and opens it to chapter 13, comparing any markings to the occult notes found there in.

The music box holds very few clues from the outside. It’s a wooden box, lacquered, with a bit of scrimshaw set into the lid. It is very thematic for the region and its coastal history and the carving on the piece was done in a careful, talented hand showing a three-masted ship rising on a wave. But Horace has been studying of late and in the whorls that represent the waves, he does notice some specific patterns that deviate from what one would expect. And the maker’s mark on the bottom of the music box holds in it an eldritch symbol that is often attributed to certain demonic entities.

The Waffle House continues apace around the man. A couple families here and there. Some people still recovering from last night’s bender. Others preparing to roll into their second-shift (or just second) jobs. And in through the door, a man in overalls and flannel with a pet carrier at his side that wobbles every so often. As they do when someone’s cat or dog isn’t happy about an impending vet visit.

“Huh,” Horace says as he looks over the box and sets it back down on the counter. ‘Mercy will probably buy it,’ he thinks to himself as he watches it before going to town on that delicious waffle again. Horace is a man of simple tastes and waffles are one of those tastes. Along with bourbon and tea,

You’d think a Waffle House in Massachusetts might have proper syrup, but it’s probably a franchise or licensing thing. Got to have the WaHo syrup. Keep the theme going no matter where in the country one might find themselves. Still, if you’re looking for familiar and hangover solving: this is it.

The man with the carrier hikes his way over and drops into that half-booth tucked in by the stools (and thus near Horace ): perfect for a man and his… cat? Claws must be the source of that skittering sound within.

“What can I get for ya?” This morning’s waitress is a woman who is probably pushing sixty, but still acting thirty.

“Coffee. Scrambled eggs. Waffle. Hashbrowns, smothered and covered.” A beat and he adds, “Can ya just leave the coffee? Gonna go through a lot.” She shrugs as she pours the mug and leaves the carafe behind. Swinging by Horace, she gives him a nod. “Need anything else?”

It is New Haven, and even if it is a hive of scuff and villainy this one serves booze so likely there is a Muppet Vampire maccing on a Werewolf or something in the corner. Who knows with these people.

“Ah no, I was just going,” he leaves a twenty on the table, more than enough to cover his tab and a tip. Horace stands, chugs the last of his coffee and looks longingly at that empty waffle plat before grabbing the ship shaped box and heading out to sea, or the mists, or an otherwise waffle deprived life.

The Muppet Vampire might have wanted something that tasted of waffles, too. One tires of pancake-stuffed-werewolf after a while, surely. All that undercooked dough if the wrong person is on the grill that day.

“Well you have a good day,” the waitress tells Horace.

Meanwhile, at the half-booth, the man is waiting on his meal and has taken a long drink of his coffee. The skittering in the carrier continues and he pats at it. “Don’ worry, got th’ fix for ya right here.” And he tips it on end so the door is facing the ceiling, pops it open, and… pours the carafe right on in.

Most of the patrons don’t notice or don’t bat an eye if they do. The waitress just sort of… stops in mid-stride, clearly unsure what to do with an arm halfway outstretched towards the big man on the grill.

But there’s not really time to do much of anything because the carrier soon bursts with activity. Not from a cat or dog that’s been baptized in searing hot coffee, no. But from the crystal spider that’s been not soothed with blessed caffeine, but enraged by it and surges from inside and starts tearing down the counter. There goes Horace’s empty plate… and the twenty.

Cue the panic in 3… 2…

Horace is in the middle of an existential question as he heads towards the parking lot to the north. Is the reason he doesn’t have friends because of his ruthless cunning and attention to detail, the hallmarks of one of the most ruthless assassins in the city, despite his low profile, or is it because he imagines his friends and their culinary choices as a sort of running gag? Does it matter at the end of the day? Probably not. Not having true friends means that no one gets attached and he can move on to the next city when this cover is sufficiently blown.

For now though, chaos is about to unfold, and if there is one thing Horace hates more than not having a waffle its chaos. It doesn’t take him log at all to reach into his coat pocket and pull out the trusty Smith & Wesson 686 and pull the hammer back, leveling the barrel at the crystal spider.

…@me fires and blows up that empty plate of waffles. RIP

… Horace fires and blows up that empty plate of waffles. RIP

While Horace is very good at what he does (killing things), this is not an ordinary crystal spider. It is an enraged one. Not only was it captured (in a pet carrier of all things), it was doused in burning hot coffee. And it’s … owner? Keeper? The big redneck in the overalls and flannel? Well he’s currently standing up at his table without a care in the world, spouting something in tongues. Probably. It may just be gibberish. But every so often there is some “…and the Lord said!” or even a “GEORGE GET DOWN HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

As that empty plate of waffles shatters like Horace’s dreams of sharing a stack of fluffy waffles with proper maple syrup with a certain angry redhead who would prefer some limp pancakes instead, who should walk in but a different-er redhead: Teagan. Who also, as it happens, prefers waffles. And who also would never directly admit as much. It would ruin the whole plan to get a war between IHop and Waffle House brewing (if the IHop across the street ever opens, that is). And she stops just inside that door as it swings closed behind her to stare at a still-dripping crystal spider on the ceiling as it starts to zap patrons. Or try to. The only benefit (so it seems) to the burning coffee is that its aim is dismal.

“What the fuck,” is all Teagan manages in the moment.

Horace flips around, leveling his pistol at Teagan out of reflex before sighing and lowering it slightly as the chaos rages behind them. “No packages today. No deliveries anyway,” he looks back to the chaos and squints before turning to leave. “No sense in lingering. Lucky is going to kick that guys ass when she catches him.”

“Woah,” Teagan says, hands going up as the gun turns on her. “Not here for you, dick!” Probably not best to insult the man pointing a gun at you, but hey! “I just wanted some waffles, shit.” Still, those mirrors are already glimmering over her left arm. She grabbed her key the instant she saw the spider flipping out. “You terrorizing people with mist monsters now?”

She clearly missed the baptism by… coffee.

Speaking of the… wannabe WaHo Pastor, he’s about to regret his life choices. For a couple of seconds, anyway. If that. Because the spider has gotten enough of its bearings back to round on its ‘owner’ and has already delivered one attack on the man who lets out a scream, falling back into the booth next to him (sending a group of teens scattering from where they’d already been stunned into staring open-mouthed). “G-george, this ain’t what we talked ’bout!”

Inching closer toward Horace, Teagan says in a sad sort of voice: “I’m not getting any waffles today, am I?”

“Nope,” Horace says tucking the revolver back in the holster under his jacket and turning back towards the door to leave. “Not my spider, not my circus though I do believe George is going to make quick work of this place.” And with that he busts through the door with his ship box under one arm likely triggering… something spooky.

“Can I get ya anything else?”

It’s about twelve days too late for this in any other part of the world, but for New Haven it’s… part for the course, sadly. Horace finds himself back at the counter. The waitress has just taken Redneck Bob’s order, left him with the carafe of coffee and his skitter-filled pet carrier. And Horace is sitting before his waffle-less plate.

The only difference is Teagan standing there inside the door. And the fact that instead of midday, it looks like the dead of night outside, the shadows pressing in at those large, plate glass windows.

There is a quick look to the windows as between one breath and the next, it’s full dark. Teagan swoops over to the empty stool next to Horace and leans in to give him an accusatory look. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Horace says in a far off voice as he scans the room and clinically assesses the situation. “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” he mutters to Teagan as he heads for the door again, the box under his arm once more. He is going to sell this thing damn it. How else are you supposed to afford waffles on a truck driver’s salary?

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Teagan mouths at Horace’s back as she stands in a Waffle House that is not being terrorized by a crystal spider and appears to be much later than it was before. Even if the clock on the wall says otherwise. She huffs an exhale and glances over her shoulder toward Redneck Bob as he upends the carrier, pops it open.

“What’s he,” she asks Horace as they start to go out the doors. The coffee is poured. The crystal spider screams and explodes forth to the panic of the patrons. Horace heads out the doors with Teagan behind him and…

“Can I get ya anything else?”

Teagan puts her head down on the counter with a thud…thud…thud… “Jim. I swear to fuck.”

A perceptive, astute eye might notice that it isn’t actually dark out. Those are shadows. And they’re just inside the windows and doors now. The banners advertising ‘deals’ that have existed for decades are barely visible.

looks up from where he is eating those last few bites of delicious waffles from the counter again, making sure that in this time loop he gets to eat all of the bites, because fuck the Time Police.

A quick shot from the revolver and the crafe blows up, perhaps Horace is erroneously assuming the enraged crystal spider is the source of his suffering. With the pitcher knocked away he grabs his box and heads for the growing darkness.

Honestly, Teagan doesn’t entirely blame Horace. Even if she is… doubtful the enraged spider is the source of the problem. Or at least it being enraged. She grimaces at the report from the revolver, hands over ears just in time. Even so, grimace.

The carafe explodes, hot coffee ends up all over Redneck Bob who shouts and begins swearing leaving Horace to deal with, instead an enraged man.

“Where the fuck you think you’re going?!” Skitter skitter, but Bob is having none of it as he lumbers after Horace. Teagan makes to follow, “I don’t think that’s going to he-”

“Can I get ya anything else?”

The shadows are definitely inside the building, now. Hope you don’t need to use the perpetually freezing restrooms because they are doused in shadow. And is that a figure starting to creep forth from the doorway?

Horace takes a breath and sets the box on the counter this time and starts to head towards the door before he narrows his gaze at it and then looks over to Teagan. “You are smart. What do you think about that box,” he asks

Teagan was in the middle of trying to steal those last bites of Horace’s waffle because goddamnit, she is going to get some waffle today. At this rate, Mercy will wander in just because the day is cursed as it is and rain hell down on both of them. She has the fork halfway to her mouth when Horace asks her about the box. She opens her mouth and is likely about to snark at him, but just siiiiighs and reluctantly gives him back the remains of his waffles as she takes up the box to start looking over.

“Keep an eye on the spider,” the redhead mutters. Because it is about that time. Redneck Bob is opening the carrier and lifting the carafe.

Horace seems past caring about the waffles, but does anyone truly stop caring about waffles? Maybe he has been pushed to the edge. Maybe he will take up crepes, or French toast, or some other breakfast dish that pales in comparison if he can just get out of here.

Horace nods his agreement to watch Bob and George and ultimately decides not to shoot the coffee out of Bob’s hand again, but this time wanders up to the table, “I’ll give you fifty dollars for the spider.”

Once you’ve had that perfectly made waffle: life becomes a matter of chasing down the next high (waffle high, that is). No one ever dreams of a specific vacation morning where they had ‘the best pancakes.’ The closest you get is ‘the pancakes my mom used to make,’ but there’s no specific time or anything. It was more the… comfort of it than the actual thing. But waffles? Oh, there’s definitely a best waffle.

With a sigh, Teagan sets to examining the music box, chewing at her lower lip. She rifles around in her messenger bag and pulls out a book that… at one time was probably some standard reference volume, but has since had so many pages added, highlighted, marginalia scribbled in that it looks like a frankenbook. She’s already found the maker’s mark on the bottom and has flipped to a section.

“Fifty? I captured George here m’self,” Redneck Bob says in indignation, puffing up a bit as he stares up at Horace. “Gonna train ‘im to guard my property. Some big ass wolf and muppet-sounding fucker went fighting through recently. Can’t be havin’ that.”

Buckwheat waffles are a rare delicacy. There is a slight hint of that rye spice that makes rye whiskey and beer so unique and delicious. There is something about the golden waffle that reigns supreme. Best served with bacon or fresh fruit, of course.

“No no, cant have the muppet wolf fucker frolicking through your back pasture no,” Horace says with a heavy sigh. “How about sixty?” He is clearly buying time for Teagan to figure out the problem so he can apply hammer technology to fix it.

Redneck Bob huffs, but seems mollified: clearly Horace gets it. He seems to be considering the offer, but finally looks to the carrier for a moment. “Eighty,” he counters gruffly.

Meanwhile, Teagan is still puzzling over the music box. She hasn’t opened it yet and does not seem inclined to do so. She’s dealt with a cursed music box before, so none of that here. But she seems to have found an appropriate section in her book, so she’s leaning in to squint at some smaller notes penned by… whoever had this before she procured it.

MEANWHILE meanwhile… “WHAT THE SHIT!” This from the line cook who, if Horace looks, is fending off some shadowman with too-long arms with hands ending in too-long fingers with a frying pan.

“Let me talk to my associate,” Horace says turning back away from Bob and George to go back to Teagan. “He wants 80. I want out of here,” he says before pulling out the revolver again and emptying all 6 bullets into the poor music box. If the music box is the source of the problem, they get to go home. If not, time will reset and he can sell it later but now they are out of time for smart solutions.

“You want out of here? I just wanted some waffles, instead I find out you’re just carting around cursed shit.” Teagan grouses to Horace, not looking up from her book. She starts to reach for the music box…

…and is lucky not to lose a few fingers. “FOR FUCK’S SAK-”

When everyone’s ears stop ringing, however, they may notice the shadows have cleared. And Redneck Bob is back to popping open that carrier and lifting the carafe of coffee over it. Since it doesn’t seem that Horace is going to take the deal, he’s back to baptizing his pet crystal spider. And Teagan She’s already grabbing her book under her arm and making a beeline for the door. Will Horace try to pay again or just count his losses and get out before havoc-by-spider is unleashed yet again?

Horace grumbles something about curses and not being paid enough for things before he slips his revolver back into its holster. He pulls out two twenties and slams them on the counter for the waitress. “I was never here,” he says before he turns and follows Teagan out. Probably by the time the pair hit the door George is out again and causing chaos. He just closes his eyes and mutters to Teagan, “Welcome to New Haven. It will be fixed by tomorrow and we can go back to eating Waffles. If Mercy doesn’t find out.”

“God,” Teagan says as she steps outside and grimaces at the sound of chaos reigning in the Waffle House behind them. She looks over to Horace. “I’ve been egging her on in opening an IHop for so long, she can never, ever know I prefer waffles.”

Something slams into one of the windows, revealing it’s not plate glass. Something reinforced. Has to be in this town.

Teagan offers a hand out to Horace. “Might still come after your packages, but promise I won’t tell Mercy about the waffles. Deal?”

Horace looks the hand like it might be poisoned and then nods to Teagan and shakes the hand firmly, but politely. “It is just business,” he says removing his had from her grasp and then head off into the mist and their jobs, never speaking of their complete and utter betrayal of the Muppet and the Fiery Pancake Wolf.