“Your time has come, fiend” rasped Vampiric-Demonic-Scourge-Hunter Jacques Cousteau, leveling his harpoon. The figure in the cloak remained motionless. “Not a word, eh?” Jacques paused to cough. “Then you’ll take those non-words with you to the grave” He released the harpoon, and it flew through the air, pinning the cloak to the wall. The body was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, a voice came from behind Jacques, cold and impolite.
“Hah, you cannot kill me! I am king of the mecha-vampires, lord of the semi-dead, and writer of the informational pamphlet Death, and how it affects you! My power is greater than you could ever imagine!” Jacques turned and saw a withered hand reaching for him. He leapt back, onto the mound of fallen werepenguins. He reached into his parka and withdrew his trusty Pistol. Pistol was a sawed off shotgun with electrum shot that could pierce the hide of even the strongest robo-merfiend. He fired Pistol with reckless abandon, aiming for the figures black, twisted heart. Electrum tore through its chest, but the man merely laughed. Jacques suddenly realized who this was. He wasn’t dueling a common Demon-Giant, nor even a Dragon-Harpy. He was fighting with the Necromaster himself.
Jacques charged his foe, activating the condensed-moonbeam blade on Pistol. He pierced through the left ear of the Necromaster, who began to disintegrate. The man smiled as he dissipated, and whispered softly, “Thank you, my son”
“I am no son of yours!” cried Jacques.
“You are that and more.” The Necromaster pushed aside his hood with the last of his strength. He stood for a second, a mirror image of Jacques, and a wind swept him away. Jacques gazed into his own eyes, as he watched himself fly away on the breeze.