Darkness, an expanse of nothing. Yet the visage of a door beckons El Mariachi forward. Guitar in hand, he plays as he moves towards the door.
♫ It’s getting dark, too dark to see.
Feel I’m knocking on heaven’s door. ♫
“John Says…”
“Deep within Arcadia there stands a door shrouded in darkness and legend.”
“Though many know of this door, few have been deemed worthy of opening it. To Arcadia, it stands closed. Behind it, untold secrets and power give rise to many who seek to open the door.”
He closes in on the door, but he makes no move to open it.
“Though you may knock, the door will remain closed. For many will knock, but are unworthy. The secrets the door hides remain locked away.”
“Many have stood at the door, but their knocks are powerless. There are those that believe themselves to be the key to the door and approach it with confidence, yet though they seek, the door will not open to them.”
“Every soul that has tested the door with their knock has been turned away.”
El Mariachi stops playing, reaching out and running his fingers over the door.
“Those with the confidence of self-righteousness have been tested and found wanting. Those with evil intent have been denied by the door. Those who seek the door as a weapon in their quest for power have been denied its riches. Even those self-obsessed tontos who view themselves as gods among men find the door locked to them.”
A strum of a chord on his guitar reverberates with power, yet the door stands firm.
“People try to kick down the door by force, and yet the door outlasts them all. Those who seek the door have been denied. Yet still, they knock.”
♫ Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door. ♫
“They say only the key may open the door so that people continue knocking in vain. For every door surely has a key.”
“People have overcome pain and suffering for their chance to merely knock. I know of this loss, for I too have give up much for my chance to open the door.”
Muerte plays, his song casting light that illuminates the shadows surrounding the door. Nineteen keys lie on twenty altars surrounding the door. All have been tested, yet none open the door.
Only one altar remains keyless. An altar covered in blood.
“So many knock, but the door remains closed. Yet legend tells that it will be opened, through the blood shed of sacrifice.”
“The door must be swooned, caressed. Danced with by the sacrifice of one’s very self. For that sacrifice is the key that opens the door. It is a song, sung by those willing to go through the slaughter as a lamb.”
“For behind the door lies only the chance to sacrifice more, in the hopes of glory.”
“I have given this door enough of myself. I am ready to dance, to maim and be maimed. I am ready to sing that song.”
“For only through its song may the door be opened.”