VOICES, STRANGE SONGS, COMMERCIALS and other snatches of radio programs drift with the static until it stops on an objectionable voice reporting the news: "Father Dick Badden, the parish priest of the Church of Christ's Second Coming, is dead. He succumbed to a massive cardiac arrest last night at his private retreat house. He was 66."

The voice comes from the black sedan traversing the long road amidst scanty vegetation of Nirvañana's badlands.

"Christians are dying," the voice shifts from news reporting to an acerbic commentary. "One day ago, the dead bodies of the pastor and twelve members of a Christian cult were found. Police report indicated that it was a ritual mass suicide using a cardiac arrest drug."

The car turns to the Mary Immaculate Convent, a lone, middle-of-nowhere building in the badlands. Its eroded condition seems to evoke the mixed feelings of awe, shame and solemnity.

"Aw, give me a break, will you?" the commentary goes on. "Ritual mass suicide? Hah! Liars go to hell. It's nothing but the usual police cover-up."

The car parks in front of the convent's entrance.

"According to a reliable source, the name Infinit is being whispered in hushed, terrified tones in the police station."

A click kills the voice.

Police Detective Tomb Heap, a tall crescent faced man with a goatee, wearing dark designer three-piece suit, tie, wingtips and all, gets out of the car. He stares at the convent and pulls an apple from his side pocket, revealing a handgun in his holster and cellphone and radio clipped on his belt. He takes a bite at the apple and stares at the convent for a long time before going in.

In the chapel, Sister Teresa, in her complete nun's habit, is kneeling at the prie-dieu before the altar, praying.

Heap, half-eaten apple in hand, enters the church with the Mother Superior. The detective walks to the altar and stands before Sister Teresa with brazen effrontery seemingly born of innate superiority complex.

"Sir, you're standing between me and my God," Sister Teresa says.

"You're requested to come with me, Sister," Heap says. He puts his hands on his heaps to subtly display the handcuffs tucked into his waistband.

The Mother Superior gapes in surprise. "Detective Heap, are you trying to arrest Sister Teresa?"

"This is an official request from a duly constituted authority," Heap says. "Come on out to the car. I'll brief you on the way."

"You've got the wrong person," Sister Teresa says.

"Wrong person, my ass!" Heap says. He turns to the Mother Superior. "Oops, pardon the expression, Mother."

Heap squats and puts his face in front of Sister Teresa's face. "You're Detective Grimmilda "Grimmy" Reaperby. You're the so-called Demon Slayer. But after your controversial massacre of a gang of murderous wackshmucks they called you Grimmy Reaper."

"She no longer exists," Sister Teresa says.

"Hannibal Cromwell ordered me to bring you in alive even if you're dead," Heap says.

"Cromwell, huh?"

"Grimmilda Reaperby?" the Mother Superior says. "Sister Teresa, you said that your name was Mary Therese Smith! And that you were a librarian."

Sister Teresa rises. "I must confess, I lied."

The Rolling Stones sing "Sympathy for the Devil" in the car stereo as they drive away from the convent.

Grimmy Reaper, riding shotgun and still in nun's habit, prays the Rosary while Detective Tomb Heap drives and rants while eating the apple.

"I told Cromwell I could handle this serial killer. He said no. He thinks we have a demon in our hands. The chief is slipping. Just because he murders by numbers, doesn't mean he's a demon. And why always blame it on demons? Humans are much worse. I tell you, even angels can do nasty things. Read the Bible—who's the number one mass murderer of them all? God. Quick proof? Sodom and Gomorrah. What say you?"

"I'm prayin'," Grimmy says.

"Ugh! Will you quit that sanctimonious façade? You're makin' me nauseous! Beneath the penguin costume is a real badass killer."

Grimmy holds her breath for a few seconds and resumes praying.

A bend on the road, a long dusty turn, and they are now crossing Nirvañana's Mobius Bridge.

The old cantilever bridge glows with eerie Gothic luster in the after-light of the departed sun. It is as mystifying as it is squalid. Its state of bad repair is perceivable at a glance; cracking and crumbling in many points, the seasons have mercilessly gnawed the paint, its supporting framework of beams, struts, and other parts of the truss are rusty. All over the bridge it seems like an invisible power has cast a bewitching spell: enigma.

"They say, when the Department wants some guy put out of business—you get the assignment," Heap says. "Sooner or later, the bad guy disappears without a trace. Nothing beats a license to let go of one's homicidal instinct, huh?"

A low, fitful, mesmerizing music from a reedy flute breaks the mournful silence of the bridge.

"They say you hunt demons for sport and you kill them with silver knives forged by fairies," Heap says, laughing out loud. "Silver knives forged by fairies? Sounds like some bad B-movie stuff to me."

At the other end of the bridge a young sweet-natured teacher plays the flute. She is walking in the middle of the bridge followed by school children that seem to march to the hypnotic tune of the flute music.

Grimmy continues to pray with eyes closed.

"They say you're Nirvañana's best agent. Well, I tell it as it is. You don't impress me, so-called Grimmy Reaper. You're just a typical female to me."

The car slows down and yields to the peculiar parade of the teacher and the children.

The teacher gazes at Grimmy with a deadpan expression.

Grimmy opens her eyes, as if a loud explosion just stunned her. She stares back ambiguously at the teacher.

"Pull over," Grimmy says.

"What?"

"Stop the freakin' car!"

The car stops. Grimmy gets off.

Heap looks at the rearview mirror and sees a terrifying spectacle: the teacher is leading the children to a suicidal jump off the ledge of the bridge.

Grimmy raises the bottom of her robe to reveal a leather knife sheath strapped to her right leg that holds three eight-inch silver throwing knives. She draws one knife and points its tip at the schoolteacher. The teacher twists her torso body from the waist up 180 degrees and gives her a wicked look.

"Not another note, and drop the flute," Grimmy says.

The teacher stops playing the flute.

Heap gets another apple from his pocket and steps out of the car, grumbling. "Why can't women just mind their own business?"

Without the music, the children have wakened from the trance and are now screaming in fear. The teacher crouches and hides behind them—showing only her left eye to spy on Grimm Reaper. Then she plays the flute again, putting the children in zombie-like trance and taking them to the ledge of the bridge.

"What—you're a teacher and you can't follow a simple instruction?" Grimmy says. "Fail." She puts her left foot forward and bends her knife-wielding right arm at the elbow, raising the knife alongside her head.

"Easy, Reaper...mind the kids...the knife...you can't throw," Heap says.

Grimmy turns to Heap. "Throw?"

She swings her forearm forward from the elbow so that it is now straight out in front of her, releasing the knife without looking at the target.

The knife misses a child head by a hair's breadth and hits the teacher's left eye. The impact propels her more than one meter away from the kids before falling dead on the ground.

Heap's jaw drops. "No. You can't be true."

"True? Oh, I thought you said throw." Grimmy cracks her hands. She produces a pack of cigarettes from underneath her habit and gets one stick using her lips. From her wimple, she takes out a hidden lighter and lights the cigarette.

Heap's eyes are wide. Awed.

The body of the teacher bursts into flames.

"And that's your typical female demon," Grimmy says. "I suggest you call the Crucible to send people to take care of the kids."

The children awake from the trance, crying and shrieking. Grimmy approaches to pacify them as the demon vanishes.

Heap follows her, gripping his apple tight, his steps tentative.

"You're—you're crazy!" Heap says.

"No, I'm Grimmy."