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List of Characters:

• Sven the Ugly Schmidt: Hacker turned heretic, tangled in Torquemada’s chains.
• Klausi the Shithouse Demon: Mischievous demon, giggling through the rack.
• Murky Jan: Flamboyant manipulator, bartering style for mercy in irons.
• Crazy Pete the Fish (The Joker): Eccentric schemer, cackling at the strappado.
• Thomas: Drug-addled Prussian, dazed by torture and incense.
• Olaf “I Can’t Remember Anything” Amnesia: Forgetting why he’s screaming.
• Ms. Dumbo Bock: Ambitious politician, debating Torquemada mid-whip.
• Muschi Lie En: Syndicate leader, plotting escape from the dungeon.
• Fritz the Fozzler: Mysterious disruptor, mumbling through the gag.
• Dr. Z: Neo-Nazi propagandist, admiring Torquemada’s discipline.
• Walburga the Valkyrie: Mythical warrior, her Wonder Sword dulled by holy iron.
• Good Uncle Jochen: Lawyer, arguing legalities while stretched.
• Dumb Tom: Tinkerer, crafting escape from a thumbscrew.
• Dumb Beatrix: Baker, dreaming of torture-proof pastries.
• Godmother Erika: Enigmatic planner, scheming under the lash.
• Andreas and Edith: Wastepaper moguls, confessing to parchment heresy.
• Vigo, die Geisel der Karpathen: Sinister figure, spared to watch and smirk.
• Kanye West: Time-traveling rapper, spitting bars through the branding.
• Count Don Robert Quichotte: Dumbo Bock’s foe, tortured beside her with glee.
• Tomás de Torquemada (Torquemada the Terror): Grand Inquisitor, master of Madrid’s misery.

(Cue ominous Spanish guitar, the clank of chains, and the crackle of Torquemada’s pyres, as the crew tumbles from desert sands into the dark heart of Madrid, 1492.)

The Wonder Sword’s flash faded, and the crew sprawled onto cold stone, the air thick with smoke and the tang of iron. Gone were the Assyrian spears; now, hooded figures dragged them into a cavernous chamber beneath Madrid’s spires. Torquemada the Terror loomed, his gaunt face lit by torchlight, eyes glinting with zeal. “Heretics, blasphemers, and… demons?” he sneered, eyeing Klausi. “You’ll dance to my tune—or burn!”

Sven, shackled to a wall, tugged at his chains. “From honey to handcuffs—can’t I hack something less medieval?” His tablet was gone, replaced by a scribe’s quill he couldn’t reach. Klausi, stretched on the rack, cackled as the wheel creaked. “Stretch me all you like, baldy—I’m springier than your holy socks!” The guards cranked harder, unimpressed.

Murky Jan, dangling in a cage, adjusted his tattered velvet cape. “Darling, this aesthetic is dreadful—surely we can negotiate a silk-lined cell?” Torquemada’s whip cracked, and Jan yelped, “Fine, burlap it is!” Nearby, Crazy Pete swung from the strappado, arms wrenched back, laughing maniacally. “Why so pious, Torqy? I’m the real joker here—wanna see a card trick with your chains?”

Thomas, strapped to a waterboard, sputtered through a haze. “This… this is just like that bad trip in ’88… or is it holy water?” Olaf Amnesia, beside him on a spiked chair, blinked. “Did I confess yet? What’s my crime again?” A guard growled, “You’ll remember when we brand you!”

Ms. Dumbo Bock, lashed to a pillar, faced Torquemada head-on. “This is a diplomatic outrage! I demand a tribunal!” The whip snapped, and she winced. “Fine, a pamphlet, then!” Count Don Robert Quichotte, chained beside her, grinned through his own flogging. “Suffer, Bock—your end’s sweeter in Madrid!” She kicked his shin, earning them both extra lashes.

Muschi Lie En, in a spiked cage, sized up the guards. “Break me out, and I’ll run this dungeon—Torquemada’s got nothing on my syndicate!” Fritz the Fozzler, gagged and bent in a stocks, mumbled, “From racks to ruin…” Dr. Z, stretched on a wheel, nodded approvingly. “Such efficiency! A model for order—if only less Catholic.”

Walburga, her Wonder Sword confiscated and bound in blessed chains, glared. “Your faith dulls my blade, priest—I’ll cleave this age yet!” Torquemada smirked, ordering her dunked in icy holy water. Good Uncle Jochen, stretched beside her, wheezed, “Under Article—ow!—Spanish law, we’ve rights!” The inquisitor’s boot silenced him.

Dumb Tom, thumbs in screws, fiddled with a bent nail. “I’ll rig an escape… if my fingers hold!” Dumb Beatrix, tied to a hot grate, muttered, “Torture-proof bread—knead it with grit!” Andreas and Edith, branded as parchment heretics, whimpered, “We’ll confess to recycling—save our skins!”

Godmother Erika, lashed to a crossbeam, whispered plans. “Endure, my dears—this is our forge.” Kanye West, branded with a cross, spat rhymes: “Torquemada can’t break me, I’m gold, yo—Madrid’s my stage, watch me glow!” Vigo, spared as Torquemada’s shadowed ally, lounged by the pyre, chuckling. “Burn or bend—delicious either way.”

Torquemada paced, his voice a hiss. “Confess your sins—or dance in flames!” He twirled a branding iron, then signaled the guards. Chains tightened, whips sang, and the crew groaned in unison. Pete’s cackle pierced the din. “This tango’s got no rhythm—let’s rewrite the beat!” Walburga strained against her bonds, the Wonder Sword trembling on its rack, a faint glow pulsing.

As the pyres flared, Sven’s quill scratched a loose stone, Klausi’s tail tripped a guard, and Pete’s wild flailing snapped a rope. “Now!” Walburga roared, lunging for her blade. The chamber erupted—chains clattered, screams mixed with laughter, and the crew fought for one last leap, Torquemada’s fury blazing behind them.

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Call to Action: “Break Free from Torquemada’s Tango!”
“The crew’s chained, whipped, and roasting in Madrid—Torquemada’s got us dancing on hot coals! Sven’s hacking stones, Klausi’s tripping monks, and Pete’s turning torture into a punchline, but Walburga’s sword needs your spark to bust us out! Back our escape from the Inquisition’s grip—or we’re ash by dawn!
Join the heretic hustle: patreon.com/berndpulch
Drop a coin to dodge the pyre: berndpulch.org/donation
Save us from Torquemada the Terror—support now, or it’s flamenco in the flames!”

(End scene with the clash of steel and the flicker of Walburga’s sword.)

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Call to Action: “Snap the Chains of Torquemada’s Reign!”
“The crew’s rattling in Madrid’s dungeons—Torquemada’s whips are flying, and we’re one confession from the pyre! Sven’s scratching stones, Klausi’s mocking monks, and Pete’s turning the rack into a comedy club, but Walburga’s sword won’t swing without YOU! Help us dodge the flames and ditch the Inquisition’s grim tango. Support the breakout—or we’re toast!
Back the blasphemous escape: patreon.com/berndpulch
Toss a coin to defy the terror: berndpulch.org/donation
Act fast, or Torquemada’s got us flamenco-fried!”

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