"WELCOME BACK TO THE DEVIL'S Christian city," Grimmy Reaper murmured, looking at hoary relics of turn-of-the-century buildings that looked ominous in the early evening as they drove through Nirvañana's old city by the Puerto Paradiso Bay, the Spanish Colonial district or the Colon as locals called it.

     Grimmy thought of this side of Nirvañana as an old manual typewriter with a computer monitor. Old World culture shoving modern sophistication down its throat and chokes, but pretending it was just deep breathing.

     Nevertheless, Nirvañana had become one of America's favorite tourist destinations. People from around the world would visit the city to experience its unique culture and attain spiritual enlightenment, especially after the Virgin Mary's apparition in the early 60s.

     But most of them came for the casinos, wild clubs and beach parties, drugs, occultists, and the manifestations of the unknown.

     In the sidewalk by the hub of ethnic restaurants and bars, a black man blew a trumpet and his pet monkey played a toy piano, rendering a smooth 1920s Charleston jazz to the delight of the people gathered around them

     Tourists led by a guide with a flashlight crossed the cobblestone streets and walked into an abandoned building in a Ghost Hunt tour where people pay $100 to visit haunted buildings and encounter historical spirits

     The streetcar called The Troll, that carried people through the districts of the Colon, pulled up at a station and picked up three passengers, one of them a wackshmuck zombie, Grimmy suspected.

     And she saw a man about seven feet tall emerging from an alley lit only by flickering gas lamps. The man was naked, covered in black fur, and had a muzzle that resembled that of a jackal. He made a long bounding stride in front of the car and landed on the other side of the street. Then he dropped to all fours and loped into the darkness of an alley in the seedy occult lanes.

     Detective Tomb Heap's neck stretched as he yawned with a quarter of an apple clenched between his teeth.

     Same old shit. Grimmy bit her tongue. Hey, ain't "shit" a bad word? Well, it's both a noun that means poo and a verb that describes the act of pooing. Harmless shit, right? Hello, are you making excuses, Grimmilda? Mother Superior told you that people use the Lord's name in vain when they say "Jesus" just like how they say the word "shit" to cuss. It's all about usage. But in this case, I did not sin because I used it as a noun.

     A procession of the Passion of Christ replete with icons, crosses, and banners, cut the car at the intersection. Priests and devotees paraded huge carriages carrying life-size dioramas depicting scenes of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

     The cross and the Holy Bible

     A dozen half-naked self-flagellants, faces covered with purple cloth, beating their bleeding backs with whips

     Children dressed as their chosen saints

     And nuns singing the litanies were at the head of the parade.

     Heap blew his horn several times, agitated by the traffic.

     A burly flagellant broke ranks and walked to the driver's side of the car. He bended over and tapped on Heap's window. "Hey, wiseguy, have you ever heard the word 'solemn procession?'"

     Heap's face crumpled to a menacing scowl. He pressed his badge on the window and muttered something unintelligible. The flagellant straightened up and backed off, trembling. He strode back to the procession, scourging his back harder and faster, harder and faster and faster and harder and...

     Harder.

     Faster.

     Harder.

     Blood gushing.

     Harder.

     Faster.

     Like he had lost his mind.

     Until he collapsed.

     A commotion. People crowded around the flagellant, trying to revive him. The procession came to a halt. Church marshals came with a stretcher and carried him away as the parade resumed.

     "The badge is mightier than the bullet," Heap said.

     Grimmy meditated on the passing dioramas like how she had been trained to do at the convent. But just like in all her meditations and prayers, she struggled with strange and often irreverent ideas that crossed her mind...

     It's too easy and it bothers me.

     (Hey, stop it Grimmilda. Didn't you learn anything at the convent?)

     I'm really worried about salvation.

     Yeah. The part where God forgives any sinner who believes in Jesus Christ.

     C'mon, is it really for real?

     Sounds like false advertising to me. Screwy at best.

     (Grimmilda, you know you're sinning for thinking this way, right? My God, that kiss opened up the heavens for me.)

     But picture this: God sent his only son to save the world and he got humiliated, tortured, and nailed on the cross.

     Died. Expired. Croaked.

     Guess what? When he rose again on the third day, all he wanted was for people to repent and believe in him to be saved.

     Faith.

     Not by good works. Not by any supernatural act.

     Just atone for your sins and accept Jesus as God and Savior and you're off the evil hook stress-free. Instant delivery. No papers to sign. No drama.

     That's all?

     Doesn't anyone think it's as dubious as a multi-level marketing gimmick to recruit members and fill up the coffers?

     (Shut the fuck up, Grimmilda. Oops! Must confess soon—blasphemy and bad word. Should I confess about that kiss, too? Nah. It was accidental.)

     But, but, salvation just by faith? Too friggin' easy. It blows my mind.

     How about big time baddies? God will write off their sins just like that, too? No fair!

     Take Hitler for example. If he repented and declared faith in Jesus at the last minute, would he be in Heaven now? Wait, wasn't he already a Christian when he did all those evil things?

     Suicide bombers? Uh, okay, they die doing their thing and there's no chance to repent—they're disqualified. But...

     But...

     But how about me?

     My sin weighs heavy on my soul.

     I...

     killed...

     (Lord Jesus Christ Son of God have mercy on me a sinner.)

     I...

     killed...

     my...

     (My God, can you ever forgive me for what I've done?)

     After the procession had passed, the car headed for a long tunnel road through the rocky Trinidad Mountain that connected the Colon to Nirvañana's new city on the other side.

     The tunnel ran through the Catacombs of St. Lazarus, a misty complex subterranean network of tunnels for religious practices with recesses for tombs and elaborate burial chambers. Some people also used them as wine cellars.

     The place Grimmy Reaper would always remember for her first kiss.

     The Catacombs reeked of rain-soaked soil, rotted chrysanthemums, and snuffed candles. Deathly and forgotten, Grimmy thought as she surveyed the dimly lit Catacombs with sharp unblinking eyes.

     She pulled the bottom of her habit up to the thighs, ready to draw her knife.

     "There's nothing to kill here, Reaperby," Heap said. "Everyone's dead or pretty much dead pretending to be alive since Napoleon seized Nirvañana from Spain in 1800. He visualized a French Empire based in Nirvañana to conquer the United States and take Canada from the British again. Too bad, Napoleon lost 35,000 men and lost interest in America. He sold Nirvañana to Thomas Jefferson's United States in 1803 for $7.5 million to refocus on his European war. Napoleon's American lover and over six thousand of his soldiers, 6,846 to be exact, were buried here." He smiled smugly without looking at Grimm Reaper, waiting for a comment.

     Grimmy didn't give him one. She cracked her neck, trying to avert the tension, but stayed alert. In her early days as demon slayer, she tracked and killed a shape-shifter here. She knew that the Catacombs hid one of hell's portals.

     That's the reason why she appropriated an abandoned wine cellar and used it as a battle outpost. On my watch you cannot trespass.

     Out of the tunnel, the dazzling lights of the modern new city gave them a boisterous welcome, making them squint. To Grimmy, this side of Nirvañana that sat on the vast Sheol Valley Desert looked like a bastardized Paris and Las Vegas merged into one. Time, culture, and structures seemed incongruent, but they worked together for the most part.

     "Here we go again." Grimmy Reaper sighed as the car entered the Nirvañana Police headquarters; she felt as though she had just arrived home but entered the wrong house.

     The place used to be a top-secret atomic bomb development complex now looming to be one of those listed buildings of historical interest protected by law from alteration or demolition. It was called the Crucible Complex.

     "Don't bother being a tour guide," Grimmy said. "I'm sure I still know my way around here."

     Heap did not take the bait, just got another apple without saying a word.

     A considerable mass of papers and things visibly disarrayed by the lack of deliberate efforts at arrangement assailed Grimmy and Heap as they entered the Chief's office. Disorderly. Messy. Chaotic. If there was a better word, that was probably a compliment for it. It seemed doubtful that anyone actually held office in it.

     Chief Hannibal Cromwell's eyes widened in incredulity upon seeing the Department's Grimmy Reaper in a nun's habit. "Cool disguise. Makes me feel like I'm going straight to hell when I die."

     Heap cleared his throat.

     Grimmy glared at her boss. "Old tricks for an old dog, Hannibal."

     "Hey, don't give me that time-bomb look, Grimmy," Cromwell said, stroking his thick silver-gray beard. "You're just on extended unpaid vacation, right? You wouldn't have come if I'd just texted so I sent Detective Tomb Heap for you. He's our new guy from New York."

     "Cool name, Detective Tomb Heap," Grimmy said. "Does it come with a copyright and I must pay every time I say it?"

     Heap tilted his head forward and forced a smile that quickly turned to a simper, his animadversion towards Grimmy Reaper becoming more evident with every passing moment.

     "Let's do our business," Cromwell said.

     Grimmy shrugged, she didn't like this at all. "I need to use the bathroom."