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[Transcript]

        The lair of Davy Jones, his sprawling mansion, had long been a sanctuary shrouded in grim secrecy and shadow. From the depths of its posh darkness on the dim side of West Hill, Davy had pulled every string in Mayview... avoiding the crosshairs of the Cousinhood of Man, dodging the dupes at the Activity Consortium, and besting both of his ridiculous rivals in the Phantom Threat Authority. Davy had succeeded—seized his wish without a visit from old friends besides the Burgers—and now he could at last bask in his scheming’s dark reward.

        His dark reward, unfortunately, was a skin-searing surplus of sunlight... but Davy Jones was still considering basking in it, given how fang-gnashingly frustrated he’d been since dawn had broken over “Bayview”.

        “Mr. Jones, it’s your lawyer! He’s being sued too! Apparently he went full Renfield in the courtroom, started heralding your dark reign to the zoning board—”

        “Some punk kids tagged your statue at the Mega Mall, Mr. Jones, first with graffiti and then on social media! Everybody’s calling you Davy Jorts! It’s trending, sir! It’s viral!”

        “We got reports of three trenchcoat weenies and a laptop dork makin’ landfall on Nevermoor, chief! If it ain’t Cousinhoodlums, it’s the tax bureau. Permission to use the army surplus less-than-lethal-but-often-lethal-anyways bazooka?”

        “Sir, I need your signature on this!”

        “...This is a photo of me,” Davy doubtfully observed, squinting at the glossy printout he had just been handed.

        “I’m a big fan, sir!” declared the Davy’s Favey who’d delivered it.

        “That’s not what I meant when I said I wanted a fan in here, you fool,” sighed Davy. He autographed the photograph with slightly less enthusiasm than usual, though he still took the time to draw his face in where the camera had failed to capture both his good side (which did not exist) and his bad side (which did not appear on film). “I said this stuffy office needed better circulation, Officer Marshal. I asked for—”

        “My veins are clear and my heart is pounding, sir, don’t worry! I’m here to serve you and my blood ’til I collapse! Feel free to crack me open when you’re thirsty!”

        Davy sighed and waved his hook at a nearby office plant.

        “...Just pluck a frond and get to fanning, will you?” he said, loosening his tie before returning to his backlog of petitioners and paperwork.

        Davy spared a haggard glance up at his stunning view of Bayview, a sunlit vista that a handful of his mortal minions were currently attempting to conceal with hurriedly purchased blackout curtains. His mansion’s facade, like his own handsome face, now loomed triumphantly over the bright side of West Island, visible and known to almost everyone in Bayview. Davy had gotten exactly what he’d wished for... plus or minus a few minor details that were really no big deal. They’d only spoiled ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING!! 

        Davy had revealed himself to his enemies, put his location on the map, shattered the PTA’s alliance, and lost the trust and patience that had led the Great Unknown to take the bait and bite his hook. He’d let Razor Rex and Fauxbia escape (if only until nightfall) with the key and door he’d used to reach his wight whale’s wishing wellspring. He had reorganized his organization for an existence in the open, for open battle, and received a sunny archipelago where opening the blinds would blind him and then burn him down to bones. Now Davy was putting fires out all across Bayview—some of which had been ignited by the recent immolation of his most important thralls!

        The servants that remained had been left scatterbrained and scattered by his kingdom’s misspelled rebrand. The closer they’d been to the calamity’s epicenter, the more their minds were still muddled by the Great Unknown’s hypnotic wishful thinking. Some vampires had kept to old schedules and waltzed cluelessly into the sunlight. Other henchmen had suddenly accepted that they were months deep in legal proceedings stemming from Davy’s near-total takeover of West Island, and kept coming to him with forms and follow-ups from meetings he had no false memory of attending. Worst of all, though, was the total personality reboot that had reenergized—

        “The mayor, um, is here to see you, Mr. Jones! Again!”

        Davy growled and grit his fangs.

        “I ought to suck that sucker dry and make a proper thrall of him. Then he’ll need an invitation to annoy me.”

        “DON’T THREATEN ME WITH A GOOD TIME!” boomed a cheerful new arrival, who had thrown his barrel chest straight through the door like Donkey Kong. “Threatening an elected official is a Class D felony,” Mayor Spender added, dropping to a sober tone and pushing up his monocle. 

        “Mr. Mayor,” Davy grimaced, rising from his desk as any ghoul would from the grave.

        “BIG DAVE!!” laughed the mayor. “Smaller David,” he corrected himself—a much more logical nickname, since Bill was slightly bigger (when he wasn’t slouched and bloodless).

        “Billy Boy,” Davy grinned, reluctantly compelled to match his minion’s exuberant energy. “My favorite bloodbag! What a man! What a flavor!” He smooched his hook, which was conveniently curled into chef-kiss position at almost all times. “Full-bodied! Rich, at least at one point! And I’d say three-or-four-stars rare: B positive!”

        “I try to be, Dave, I try to be,” said the mayor, nodding in misunderstanding. “In trying times, that’s all a politician CAN do: try. ’Cause we sure as heck can’t ACTUALLY SUCCEED, can we?! HA-HA!”

        “Nonsense, nonsense!” Davy hummed, stalking to the mayor’s side. “The red tape binds the right hands, and the tub-thumping adds a nice authentic pulse back to the bloodbath. I’m getting my money’s worth from you, Mr. Mayor, never fear... but do continue to fearmonger.” He flashed his terrifying fangs. “Even an easy sell needs proper marketing!”

        “ANYTHING for MY BIGGEST DONOR!” beamed the mayor.

        “Anything for mine,” grinned Davy, offering a generously inclined measure of their relative heights with his hand (which conveniently left his hook level with the mayor’s major neck arteries).

        A cheerful Mayor Spender, meanwhile, thrust one arm out and held it there expectantly, as if waiting for a warm hug, while his other arm launched forward, as if it had expected a businesslike handshake. The combined result made it seem as though he was attempting to communicate in semaphore, which did seem somewhat plausible: though he held no flags to speak of or to speak with, the mayor WAS dressed to resemble one. His custom-made, red-white-and-blue, star-spangled tailcoat was divided down the middle like the mayor’s personality (and the country, which is what he’d told the tailor when they’d asked him if his order was a serious request). He wore a matching top hat at a rather jaunty angle (an angle that kept changing, as if both sides of his body had been fighting for control of it) and on one eye—his logical left side—he wore a perfectly sensible monocle. 

        Davy looked the mayor’s new suit up and down.

        “...I knew you were a man of classic taste, Bill, but this look takes the cake without eating at all. Most mayors don’t project Mr. Monopoly on purpose.” Davy tapped his hook against Bill’s monocle. “Why, you’re starting to cross over into Mr. Peanut territory!”

        Davy’s burn was brighter than he knew, since Mayor Spender was currently two nuts in one dapper package and taking a chance that could send him directly to jail (if his opponent bought the waterworks and spared him execution). The only burn the Hijacks cared about, however, was burning Davy in the sunbeam streaming through the room’s bay window. The angle was perfect this time, and he looked more deceptively mayoral than ever. The sun was just one awesome wrestling move away!

        “What, these old rags?” the mayor laughed, tugging at his lapels with asynchronous effort. “They’re brand new! Just bought ’em with campaign funds. Don’t worry, I left a short and very obvious paper trail. No one ever thinks to investigate clear evidence of fraud. Oh, and you paid triple for the turnaround... so, here!” The mayor did a little catwalk spin. He’d been working on his balance since his struggle with the last catwalk he’d stumbled down while puppeting Bill’s body. “Feast your eyes—but not your fangs! I’d hate to waste your money getting bloodstains laundered, hm? It’s usually the MONEY you want laundered, right, Dave? Blood money? That’s a crime we do together?”

        Davy narrowed his eyes.

        “...Are you wearing a wire or something, Bill?” Davy asked him, narrowing his eyes. “You do know that I own the police, right?”

        “There is wire involved in what I’m wearing, yes,” the mayor answered matter-of-factly. “You don’t get lift like this with flab and cheap fabric alone!” he laughed, wrapping an arm around Davy’s shoulders to set up some kind of headlock suplex stunner.

        “...Yes, well. Let’s hope the price tag pays off when I need a political rodeo clown in the next few days. You do look primed and ready to monopolize the media’s disdain.”

        “A politician’s got to look the part!” said Mayor Hijack, sweating as he led Davy still closer to the window. “Whatever it takes to pass as Bill—er, pass a bill. That’s, um. That’s what I always say, most likely—”

        Their tandem waltz came to a sudden stop. Davy had dug his heels into the carpet of his office. One failed tug was enough for both Hijacks to realize that they had no hope of making him budge without getting all veiny, which was not a feature safe to show when dealing with a vampire. 

        “Mr. Mayor, have you slept at all?” asked Davy with (undoubtedly sincere) concern and sympathy. “You look awful, and not just because of your outfit. Did you have too much to drink last night? Did I? Have you even been home yet?”

        He had not, since he did not know his address or how to drive.

        “Are things okay at home? One of my men told me that you sculpted a statue of yourself out of butter in your garage last month... and then ran over it on purpose. Was that cathartic? How’s Nicole?”

        “Who?” the mayor asked, since he did not know he was married.

        “Mr. Mayor, you’re a lark, but I am not the jealous type—”

        “...Should I, like, leave?” a third voice grumbled from his slouched seat in the shadows. 

        In addition to the many thralls and servants who were flitting in and out of Davy’s office, there was one other guest besides the mayor who’d been waiting in the wings while Davy finished up his work. He’d been told to make himself comfortable, but seeing as Davy and the mayor were now actively sabotaging his efforts by making him deeply uncomfortable, the guest began to rise up from his seat to slink away.

        Davy Jones held out a hooked hand to stop him.