The room around the two observers was meticulously constructed, with heavenly constructed granite columns carved with the forms of great dead men, all holding each other on their shoulders. Behind them sat towers of bookshelves constantly being filled with new books and new ideas, but in the center of the room sat one lone pillar, far shorter than the rest with the image of an ancient religious figure holding up the contents- a bright blue book with the picture of a woman embroiled on its leather surface. There was one empty space in the room, a tall window that shows the deep blackness of the mind the observers have taken refuse in. Crafty Red stood near it, peering down from the heavens at Ludo, chuckling to itself as it saw his smile.

The other figure in the room stood near the book on the podium. A tall, robed thing with pristine white teeth smiling from cheek to cheek. The robe it wore was as detailed and well sewn as the pillars were carved, with ornate floral designs and sparkling with shiny beads that hung down from the sleeves in tassles. It held a paint brush in one pale hand and a wooden palette in the other. It delivered long strokes of brilliant color across the canvas it had set up in front of itself, painting gorgeous pictures of trees and buds in bloom. Setting its brush down, it reaches into a large pocket located on its hip and pulls out a long brown cigar, placing it in between its teeth and lighting it with a flick of the paint brush against it.

“Why do you like that guy so much, man?” It asks Red, stroking the brush against the canvas once again.

Red chuckles and turns away from the window. “Ludo’s a tough one,” it answers, “Lived his entire life with his guard up. Usually Mother would have gotten to someone like him first, but no one’s been able to crack his shell. Until me.” It bends down, cackling to itself and holding its teeth from bursting out of its skull. 

“You sure you cracked ‘em?” The other entity asks. “Not to be rude, but it seems like a fluke. I mean he, like, rejected you, didn’t he?”

“That may be true,” Red admits, tapping his hat methodically. “But he still craves power. It’s just a matter of trying to convince him the easy road is the best… hey wait…”

Red peers over at the other entity. Several used cigar butts lay squished on the floor around it with another two in its mouth. 

Red scowls and storms over to it, snatching the cigars out of its mouth and crushing them into a dust between its hands.

“What did I tell you about smoking in my hosts?!”

“Don’t have a cow, man,” it interjects, pulling another two cigars from its pocket, lighting one in its mouth and handing the other to Red. “Here, have one. They’re special imports from Apexia-” 

Red smacks the cigars away again. “Stuff it! I don’t want any of your… fumes… stinking up my hosts!!”

“It’s not my fault your hosts ain’t like, ventilated properly, man.”

“Out! Immediately!” Red snaps its fingers. A hole stretches open from a nearby wall. The other entity sighs and packs up its painting gear, turning its body and the gear it held into a purplish goop and slurping its way out of it.

On the other end of the hole the entity stands, dusting off its robe and reaching for another cigar. As it puffs the violet fumes, it feels a dull pain creep on the back of its head. Shambling around, it sees a skinny, poorly constructed twig of an earthman with small circular wire framed glasses and a mothy pink turtleneck sweater. His nose was big and dented inwards at the bridge, as if he was hit with a metal pipe, giving it the look of a pig's. His hair was an awful dirty shade of blonde that seemed to attract grease like a sponge, hanging in a curly bowl around his head. His teeth chattered loudly as he tightly gripped what looked like a wooden Ebby Ball bat in his clammy hands.

“W-what are you?” He frets, shaking the blue bat uncontrollably. “Y-you aren’t Crafty Red.”

The entity takes the cigar out of its mouth and removes the hood of its robe, its pale, wrinkled, eyeless face frowning slightly. Its head’s hairs were short and black, but on the side of its head hung two long flabs of skin that mimicked droopy ears dangling off the side of its head.

“Oh, you must be like, Red’s new host or sumthn’.” It sighed, rolling the cigar around its knuckles.

The pink sweatered man shakily stood up as straight as he could, the bat nearly falling out of his hands multiple times as he puffed out his chest and pushed his glasses back into his sweaty divot of a nose bridge.

“Y-yes I am! My name’s-”

“Don’t care,” it bluntly states, “Good luck on your endeavors or whatever.” It begins to walk out of the room, but the man yanks on its robe.

“Now h-hold on!” he abjects, “What are you, and why were you in my head?”

It groans deeply, pinching the cigar in its hand into a flat white card.

“Here, man. I gotta get back to my house, like, now. My landlords’ gonna kill me.”

The man takes the card from it. Its vibrant indigo letters glow in combination with its dazzling sparkles of sequins and glitter under a layer of clear lamination.

“...The… Art God?” he read, lilting and squinting at the card in his hands. But before he could get an answer, the figure was gone, with nothing more than a trail of purple sludge that burbled along the shiny new floorboards.