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Great wheezin’ Jesus, the box was fuckin’ heavy.

A flurry of audible grunts erupted from your mouth as your wobbly legs took step after step, fraying about the dilapidated office hall like a tree caught in a maelstrom. Thwump. Side hit the wall, adding to your growing collection of bruise buddies. Framp. Oh nice, felt like something sharp pricked your shoulder! This goddamn package was gonna’ be an early grave! If you hadn’t died already, anyway. Hmm, how long does it take to recover from a snapped spine, you wonder? Does IMP offer sick leave?

Well, you’d laugh at the notion, if you could do anything but offer a sputtering of colorful phrases and swears. Heave ho, let’s go, one step at a time. Get this goddamn box to the boss, already!

Muffled, audible chaos thrummed throughout the walls and various office spaces you wandered past, a cramped family of failing enterprises all jammed into a seedy rental building down in the deep side of Imp City. Cracking foundations, graffiti, torn posters, flickering pale lights – oh this place had it all, baby! Real primo locale, top of the line shitshack. It just so happened to be the location of your second job, thus the whole “carrying a frustratingly heavy package in your arms” deal. Normally this would be, ya’ know, off your radar, but goddamn did you need the money.

C’mon motherfucker, just a few more steps…

Schwunk. “GuUUUUUhhhg.”

The obstinate cube fell on its flat ass with a dusty thud. You bent over, gasping and gulping down acrid, cigarette-stained air, hands on your knees as your vision momentarily blurred. One palm found purchase on the flat of the wall while the other whipped sweat off your brow, relief overtaking you. Temporary, but relief all the same. H-hah. Nice. You did it. Cheers mate, drinks all around!

You straightened up and blew a long, fatigued sigh. For the better part of, oh, let’s say a month and a half, this had been your second life. Before, your days were spent in the asshole of Pentagram City’s infamous ALL MEATS, a producer of provisioned protein sourced from. . . unique sources. But ya’ know how money gets tight and you need a second job to keep suckin’ what passed for oxygen Down Here? Yeah, that was this. This “job.”

You were under the glorious employ of IMP, the “Immediate Murder Professionals,” a little ragtag carnival of freaks offering clandestine assassination jobs to paying clientele. . . or something like that. You didn’t know the direct ins-and-outs because you weren’t involved with that particular limb of the business. No, you were relegated to the go-to errand boy, a lackey. Did IMP need something stocked? Ammunition, guns? Paperclips? Exactly fifty wax candles? Throw a party, that’s where you came in. It uh, you know. It was a thing.

Seriously, though, your choice of employer Down Here was slim, if nonexistent. You didn’t want a job? Well, a join a gang, ride a pole, deal a drug, die in a gutter, your choice, babe. Sooo, candoodling with the likes of IMP was really not the worst pick outta’ the patch, even if your boss, er whatshisname? Blitz? Yeah, even if he didn’t know your name, and your existence at IMP was regarded with well. . . relative indifference.

Like whatever, a gang of cross-dimensional killers didn’t owe you that kinda’ attention, not like you needed more of it, but goddamn Blitz, at least crack a shit joke when you finished lugging around a fifty pound death cube! But yeah, here you were, delivery dude at the beck and call of IMP’s most insane requests. It paid, at least. Sometimes. . .

Wiping your nose, you stretched as your back cracked with audible, pained pops. You gave the door a fair knock. Since you weren’t in the bidness’ of killing, just waltzing into the office was a no-go, that was for official IMP work and clients only. You’d seen the interior a few times when Blitz needed a particularly raunchy statue of himself riding a horse (not that way) dragged inside, but not much else. So, you waited, pushing your back into the wall, fishing into your jacket for a little pick-me-up. Oooh fishy fish, what did the hooks get?

A relaxing half-filled flask of. . . something. Liquid goodies. You knocked it back with practiced, rather terrifying ease. What might cause bigger and brawnier sinners to cough in audible protest was, to you, as easy as drinkin’ water. Wait, was this water? One more gulp. Oh, no no no, that was the good shit from home. Nice little time killer while you waited.

A moment or so passed, perhaps a few more. Finally, IMP’s office door shuttered open and a silhouette coalesced in front of the opening.

Your tall ears flicked up. Wearing a glance that bordered between “fuck off” and a total, absolute disinterest in her surroundings was IMP’s glorified phone attendant. She had about, oh jeeze, a foot or so on you? A rich coat of alabaster fur patterned by dark grey running along her back and shoulders, a matching crop top, and angry spiked collar complimented a pair of harrowing white eyes. Her long, silvery hair fell to her side, combined into the canimorphic shape of a young Hellhound woman who looked about “done” with everything and everyone in her periphery. Very pretty. Very silently, quietly, “kill you to death” angry. Right?

Her gaze was affixed to a black Hellphone, thumb skillfully navigating over the screen.

“Oh, Loona,” you rasped, stuffing away the now-empty flask in your jacket pocket. Once again, you stretched, an angry chorus of snaps and pops following the motions.

Here, her eyes snapped away from the phone and down to the box, then you, wearing a disinterested expression. She gave the box a small tap with her padded footpaw, a spark of realization settling over her. “What’s this bullshit?”

You rubbed your scruffy face and forced a grin. “That is your Boss’ bullshit. Fifty-six pounds of uh, whatever it is. I didn’t look.”

Her muzzle crinkled and her muzzle stretched with a growl. “Uuugggh, what now!? Goddammit Blitz!”

You rubbed your head, pulling out a semi-folded piece of paper. “Yeah, before you get excited, can uh, you sign for the delivery?”

You raised the paper in front of you like a frail shield. Loona was. . . not the type to piss off, not even remotely. You got the impression of her attitude alone, but you had witnessed, one occasion, how’d she royally fucked her boss up with casual ease. Not sure how she got away with that and still held a job, but Blitz musta’ really like the gal.

Again, she nudged the obstinate package with her leg, feeling its weight, before yanking out a small black pen. She took the pen and scribbled down a slash of marks before handing it back to you. You’d learned, on many occasions, to get the delivery signed for, even it seemed redundant as IMP’s lackey. Your boss, you discovered, had a. . . spontaneous, selective memory.

Here, now, she kicked open the door, leaving it ajar. She turned, before glancing back to you with an expectant stare. “Well? C’mon dude, I’m not pulling this shit in by myself.”

Oh. Oh, fun, again! Haha yeah again! Lift up the fucking package. Well, you weren’t one to be a bad employee, and you kinda needed to present the concept you were an invaluable asset to IMP. Even if was just a glorified carry boy.

“H-huh? Oh, yep, yep, no bigs, I got it. Lemme grab that, just tell me where to put it!” You turned briefly to shuffled out a backup flask of mmm, something. Hiding the swig, you went to your knees and, summoning what force you had left in your arms, lifted the cubey fucker with a pained, strained groan.

Loona stepped aside, watching as you struggled to get the package within the office interior. “You uh. . . you got it?”

“Yeahyeahnoproblem,” you wheezed through clenched, cracked teeth. “Yepjustellmewheretosetitdown!”

Loona shrugged, staring at her Hellphone again. “Wherever.”

Wherever did just fine, and despite the warring protests of your knees, the weighty box found its way to a merciless, nearby desk.

“Except the de- … ugh.”

It collapsed with an angry impact, gently wobbling the phone, computer, and random pencils and papers scattered along its wooden foundation. Something else, too.

Again, you huffed, leaning over the furnishing, your limbs and body strained from the sheer exertion of the delivery’s demand. You managed a raspy, gasping chuckle. “You know, I always figured I’d be like. . . ya’ know, grabbin’ coffee or laundry or some shit. . . h-hah.”

“Nnnnope,” came Loona’s monotone reply. She watched you slide and crumple, resting your back on the desk’s edge.

Her brow flagged. “Ever heard of liftin’ with your knees, genius?”

A wave of crushing fatigue momentarily overtakes you, but you force a grin. “I have heard that’s a good idea, yes.”

Her finger pointed and wiggled in circles. “Well, friendly tip, don’t sit there. Blitz just had it ‘waxed.’” She pantomimed finger quotes.

You’re a little too tired to understand. “Boss gets his desks waxed now?”

“Didja’ not see the dried cum stains, dude?”

Like a horse ramming its hind hooves into your back, you sputter and leap forward, bolting and tumbling away, yanking off your jacket and tossing it to the ground in abject terror. Your tall ears stood straight up and you nudged the clothing with an apprehensive foot, half-expecting one of the “stains” to manifest to life and lunge at you with amorous intent.

“Yeah. I don’t sit there anymore,” said Loona.

She watched you study the lifeless jacket. She also half-glanced at your exposed arms, your lean abdomen only covered by a frayed, plain white tee. A mosaic of fruitful bruises and cuts were visible along the limbs. She blinked. Then her eyes wandered away, buried back in the distracting noise of her Hellphone.

“S-should I burn this? This is like, my only jacket,” you say.

“Not in the office.”

How. . . comforting.

With a defeated grunt, you carefully pull the jacket up from its seated repose and inspect it for. . . remains. And as you did this, a creeping realization dawned on you. You were actually in the IMP office for a period longer than a few minutes! It was. . . it looked. . . it. . .

Huh.

Kinda figured shag carpeting and dilapidated walls were reserved for other parts of the rental building. Skewed pictures and scribbled post-it notes lined the walls, one closed door leading to the meeting room (you assumed) and another to Boss’ office (you also assumed). Weren’t these guys supposed to be a big deal? Transdimensional contract killings sounded like a big goddamn undertaking – he couldn’t even imagine how you could make a reality leap like that. Yet the interior was messy, a scatterbrained assemblage of visual indecisions, like the place was held together with duct tape and dreams.

“Hey, numbnuts,” came Loona’s low, grouse voice. “Tour’s over dude.” You blinked, snapping back to reality. Oh, h-hah, yeah. You were a delivery bun, you didn’t have business bein’ in here.

You cleared your throat, deciding to swing the jacket back around your shoulders, audibly hissing from a few sharp pains running along your sides. Loona frowned at the sound and shifted her peripheral vision away from you, her tail swaying in agitated fashion. Unknown to you, it wasn’t out of annoyance, more like. . . discomfort.

“Oh, heh, right.” A pang of disappointment ran over your tone, but you brushed it off. You forced a grin, looking at Loona. “Well, it’s been fun, but I should probably nap and call some doctors.”

Loona looked up from her Hellphone and shot you an unimpressed look, her bright red-white eyes catching yours. “You’re gonna’ walk home. Like that?”

You promptly covered your torso to hide the various, intrusive injuries, brushing it off like it ain’t no thing (but it was quite a thing), dawning the vision of reliability.

“Yeah, just the kinda guy I am,” you lied. Loona just scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“Yoooour funeral, man. Try Tylenol, cuz I’m not draggin’ your ass outside if you decide to die.”

Ah, her concern was so palpable. You were uh, used to it. “Duly noted.”

Well. . . that was that, huh? Guess it was time to go. Your legs didn’t really want to move – not from the strain and pain but, something else. This was as close to a “genuine” conversation you had from anyone at IMP, especially Loona. You searched your brain for something to say, something to anchor yourself a bit longer. Be nice to just. . . shoot the shit.

No man, time to go.

“Well. Uh. See ya?”

She didn’t say anything else, your welcome clearly overstayed. And besides, if Boss came back with the rest of his crew, you didn’t know what his reaction might be. So, you marched forward, joints crackling in protest as you padded to the open entrance door. You felt around in your jacket, scowling at the empty flasks of Dr. Goodtimes. Probably needed a pitstop on the way back. Well, couldn’t be worse, at least the delivery was done until you were summoned again for whatever insane thing Boss needed fetched.

As you did, however, your pocket buzzed. You froze. Your own Hellphone, a cracked, near-useless thing, hummed to life with a steady beat of whining brrrrs. Oh. Oh no. There was. . . only one reason it was goin’ off. Your jaw clenched, tired eyes snapping shut. Maybe it’ll stop, maybe it was a mistake. It’ll go away, just don’t move. It’s only a mistake. . . it’s not. . .

Bzzz. Bzzz.

Ohhh fuckaroo.

You sucked in a hissing, agonized breath and pulled out said Hellphone. It was a call. From work. Your other work.

Loona, who had perched herself on a non-waxed couch, crossed her legs and shot you an annoyed glance before resuming her endless hell-scrolling. As for you, you stared at the phone, an icon and number emblazoned with the word MANAGER (their idea, not yours).

With a shaking hand you brought to your tall ear as you grin vanished. “U-uh. Uh, hello?”

What poured through was a static-y, painfully, numbingly optimistic voice of such volume and false-positivity it made your head ring. Layered with electronic distortion and a tone some might consider charming, this was the voice of your boss, your BOSS boss.

“HI! Hey, hello! How the HECK are’ ya Mister Jakobson!?”

Your tone withered, dawning something akin to a weak, paralyzed animal. “Ohhhh heeeeey maaaan, hey. Hey Boss.”

Loona grunted. Even from where she sat the sickeningly pleasant overtones of the voice caused her irritation.

“It’s FANTASTIC I got a hold of you! ALL MEATS really appreciates your undying, unwavering commitment to our business model, y’know? NEVER missing a shift, that’s just plain commitment, right there!”

Oh god, oh no. It begins.

“Y-yeah.”

“Well I’ve got GREAT news! Zeb’s called out SICK tomorrow! Now ALL MEATS really values EACH and every one of our priceless employees, but we do have a strict necessary limbs policy! After all, how can you enjoy each hour of ALL MEATs service without your arms!? Ya’ just CAN’T!”

Your free hand went to your head. The fuck happened to Zeb?

“U-uh. Okay. Is he al-“

“But DON’T you worry, we’ve got him covered because YOU have him covered! Isn’t that great? A hard working employee like you pulling a double-shift! I can’t THINK of a better way to spend my whole day than providing excellent service to the ALL MEATS brand!”

Like a stone dropped in a dark, icy lake, your heart sank. The world vaporized around you. You stared into the wall, your eyes seeking a crack in the foundation as if focusing on it might allow you to become one with the fissure, to vanish and become so small you could LIVE in it.

You remember how to speak. “A d-double? I mean uh, hey, like, I don’t. I mean. Nobody else c-could cover? I don’t. . .”

The sardonic, crackling elecro-toned voice of the Manager went on, unyielding and uncaring to your pleads.

“GREEEAT! Your reliability really is something to admire, Mr. Jakobson! Oh, and don’t you worry about breaks! We wouldn’t want any of the pesky ‘rest periods’ to slow ya’ down, would we?”

You open your mouth again to speak but not a word forms, as if any could aid you now.

“Wooonderful! We’re EXCITED to have you on all day tomorrow, Jakob! Ta!”

The call ended, and you didn’t move for a moment. Your hand, still gripping the Hellphone, slipped and swayed at your side. Tomorrow. Heh. Hah. Alright. Hmm, yeah, of course! Of cooouurse.

You couldn’t say no. ‘Couldn’t’ didn’t punctuate the reality of things clearly enough. ALL MEATS did not fuck around. Never, ever, ever “find out” with them.

There was quiet, your brain switching back to life, trying to remember where you were. The only thing jarring you back to cohesion was a snort, snicker, and wry smirk from the sitting Loona.

“Your name is Jakob Jakobson?”

You could hear the fanged grin on her muzzle. You also realized she caught wind of all that.

Your tone was dead, dry, and monotone. “For what’s it worth, it’s not my real name.”

One couldn’t have drained the life outta’ you more if they’d smashed in your ribs and pulled out what passed for a heart. A double-shift after a day of hauling around Boss Blitz’s manic delivery requests. . . you felt tired in ways that didn’t seem possible.

Your back was to her, so you didn’t see. Loona parted her muzzle to say something, but nothing came. She studied you from ear to foot, wondering exactly how a ramshackle collaboration of injuries and meat like yourself still managed to move. Survive, even.

She then spoke, and for the briefest of moments, her voice touched on something. . . not friendlier, not kinder, not nicer. Just, not. . . mean.

“I’ll tell Blitz you’re not around tomorrow, or whatever.”

Your head lifted, and you turned. You forced the cracked-tooth grin back on your face. “Yeah. . . I might be busy.” She’d granted you a shred of mercy. Pretty unbelievable for a gal like her.

“. . .thanks.” You mutter.

You had nothing left, so wordlessly, you exited IMP’s office and closed the door. Loona watched you go, her pointed Hellhound ears flagging at an audible, muffled drumbeat of thuds on the outside wall, intermixed with a sequence of fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eventually, they stopped. Loona’s footpaw wobbled against her leg as the silence of IMP’s office fell over her, doused only by the muffled chaos of Pentagram City outside. Pfft. Damn. What an asshole, she thought, wondering what kinda’ freakshow “Jakob” was working for. Dumbass rabbit really landed himself a shit position, huh? Takin’ up with Blitz was probably the stupidest thing he coulda’ done if he was working for. . . what was it? All Dicks? Who cares. The fuckin’ lengths a dipshit would go just to survive.

Felt too close to home, so Loona shoved this uncomfortably familiar thought aside.

For a while, the only sounds were the audible feedback clicks from her incessant Hellphone scrolling, presenting her with a myriad of morbid news and endless social media feeds. Looots of images on her Sinstagram, plenty of images presenting her with, far, seemingly unreachable worlds of friends, parties, all the normal social shit you were supposed to do. Hellhounds in groups, Hellhounds drinkin’ together, laughing together – probably fucking together. Her lips curled into a quiet frown, the tiniest seed of fear burying itself in her chest, that nuisance of a feeling – the feeling of missing out. Fuck.

Oh Loona tried the social game before, on plenty of occasions, all of which left her feeling more humiliated than ever. Bitchy, waspy Hellhounds picked her out instantly as a deject loner when Loona tried her paw at a few parties, really driving home how she didn’t belong, how she was the outcast weirdo that couldn’t hold a drink. Fuckers. Guess it was better goin’ it alone, she’d already been doin that her entire fuckin’ life. Just to survive.

Must’ve been getting too used to the peace and quiet – the IMP office was suspiciously absent of irritating voices and obnoxious sounds. Because, with the loud, almost cartoonish slap-slam of the door, a trio of figures burst into the room, one marching in proudly, wearing a smarmy grin.

“See I told ya’? And that’s why a car wash jingle never works, babydick!”

Ugh. Blitz. Loona’s adoptive father, a big horned Imp with ideas as big as his imaginary cock size, his long tail whipping behind him in satisfied fashion, gobs of thick bloody viscera staining his already messy suit.

Behind him, another pair of Imps followed, equally small in stature – bright yellow eyes contrasting against their scarlet skin.

“Sir!” protested Moxxie, the dweeby little pushover. “You threatened them after they refused to wash our van for free, after your terrible pitch idea!”

Next to him was Millie, Mox’s wife, a vicious little hellion despite her southern-bell “oh gee shucks” kinda’ nature.

Blitz rubbed the organic goo from his suit, shaking his head. “Mm, nope, dunno watch’er talking about Mox, they didn’t like it because the song was bad and it was your idea. Not my fault your terrible songwriting got us into a little fuck-me-daddy scrap!”

Millie wiped off a veiny eye from Moxxie’s stark white hair, flicking it away. “I thought the jingle was nice, babe. Buuut maybe folks around don’t really ‘preciate musical theater like you.”

Mox blushed but his eyes flicked down, grumbling.

“Listen to your ho’, Mox, sinners don’t want stiff-dicked flutes and violins, they want like, pop, and, and music about FUCKING, and drinking, and KILLING, they wanna’ cum on the vinyl.”

Loona, in the meantime, rubbed her muzzle, ears flattening in annoyance. “Oh my god.”

At once, spying his beloved adopted daughter, Blitz’s arms went wide, gaze sparkling as he wandered over to the Hellhound.

“Loooooonie, hiiii sweetie! Sorry for ya’ leavin you solo, honey, daddy had some shit to clean up,” he said, casting a glaring, mocking grin at Mox.

He started getting closer for a hug, entrails dribbling off his arms, where Loona proceeded to nudge then kick him away. “Eghg! G-get, get the fuck away Blitz! You look like you fucked a slaughterhouse!”

Blitz tumbled over, slamming into the wall. He raised a hand. “Sorry, sweetie, daddy forgot to clean up!”

Loona flinched, slinging her footpaw around, stained with a few crimson speckles and meat chunks. “Ugh, you’re so GROSS!”

Mox crossed his arms, shuddering in disgust. “Ugh, I think it got into my shoes. . . and, bwuhuh. . . other places.”

Millie curled her body around him in an affectionate hug, rubbing his cheek with hers. “Awww, I think ya’ look cute, hun! Besides, just means we’ll have to get really clean later, right?”

Mox purred, his once disappointed eyes glazing over with a fuzzy, longing love for his beloved wife.

Blitz, in the meantime, pulled himself back up, cracking his shoulders. Wanting to distract him and avoid his overwhelming affection, Loona gestured to the “waxed” desk with a single finger. “Hey. Your fucking, whatever, package arrived, or whatever.”

She could’ve left it at that, but for some reason. . .

“Your delivery guy,” she added, figuring Blitz would’ve forgotten about Jakob’s actual job like he did with a buncha’ other shit.

Blitz’s eyes blinked, switching his attention to the box. “Huh? My who?”

Loona threw up her arm in exasperated fashion. “Wuh!? Your- fuckin, the GUY you hired two months ago!? THAT guy!? Delivered. Package. Desk. Jeezus Blitz.”

Blitz started to ogle the obstinate package, putting his hands on his hips. “Ohhhh yeah. Oh, shYYIT, just another paycheck to sign. . .”

Millie tilted her head. “Didn’t you sign the hirin’ slip?”

Blitz waived his arm. “Ahbupbupbup, more important things right now. . . LIKE my package!”

In a swirl of motions, Blitz crawled and hopped around the heavy box like a cat playing with its food, sinking his teeth into the tape and tearing it apart like a manic beast. A debris of torn packaging littered the floor, packaging peanuts spraying about in a frantic rain, showering the other Imps and Loona in the process. Loona growled, swatting away the errant trash as Blitz excitedly ripped open whatever the fuck he’d got delivered.

“Ahahaha! FINALLY!”

After the dust settled, Blitz stood tall and content upon the desk, proudly looming over. . .

What appeared to be nothing more than a particularly shiny rock.

Mox’s head lolled to the side, staring in horror. “W-what. What is that?”

Blitz looked between said glowing stone and Mox, gesturing between the two, his features sagging with confusion. “What, what? The fuck you mean babydick, it’s a rock!”

Loona’s eyes twitched, gobsmacked. Millie proceeded to the study the shape with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

“YOU,” Mox said, hands splayed out. “YOU mean you spent all that money, A-ALL that, I. . . I did the budgeting, you said. . . you spent our money on A FUCKING ROCK?”

Blitz pat the shimmering stone proudly, waiving his finger in triumphant display. “A shiny rock.”

Loona, too, stared at the fucking thing. And, for some reason, a surge of anger swept up through her throat. She didn’t know why, exactly. Blitz was always annoying and doing unbelievably stupid shit with the company’s money, but this. . .

“You mean you had your fuckin’ delivery guy carry a giant GODDAMN rock!? Across town!? The FUCK Blitz!?”

Blitz hovered and hugged his new, beloved stone, momentarily ignoring her swearing. “It’s a SHINY rock! . . .sweetie.”

Loona dropped her Hellphone and pantomimed a choking gesture with her hands. Fuck, god, the hell was she getting so goddamn mad for? Not like she really gave a shit about where Blitz flushed IMP’s cash. Just, shit, if you’re gonna hire on some newbie that looked like he was held together with tape and staplers, don’t have em’ carry around stupidly heavy, stupidly useless shit!

“Sir!” protested Mox. “This, I can’t. . . how is this going to help us!?”

Blitz started kissing the stone, a little too intimately. “What? I cut out the middleman, see? No shipping charge!”

Millie crossed her arms, wide hips canting to the side. “Well. . . er. We could always. . . drop it on somebody?”

Blitz nodded after French face fucking the strange artifact. “Mmhm, yep, already thinkin’ with your head Mils! See? My plan, all along! Kill a fucker in STYLE!”

“That was not his plan,” said Mox in a low, bitter voice.

Blitz, ignoring him, ogled his new furniture fetish, looking around the office foyer. “Now where to put this beautiful testament to my masterful planning. . .”

With a few audible, frustrated grunts, Blitz attempted to move the weighty object, shoving his whole body into the effort. Curses erupted from his maw as he tackled, kicked, and scampered around the heavy stone, each of his attempts failing in spectacular fashion. “Gghgh, FUCK, shit! Bitch has a fat ass. . .”

“Sir, I don’t-“ Mox attempted to say.

Loona soured, crossing her arms as Blitz did what he did, ignore everything around him in pursuit of whatever his newest, brief hyperfixation was.

“Aw fuck this,” said Blitz, falling to the ground and yanking out his Hellphone from a bloody pocket. “Hang on, hang on, if delivery dick got it here, just gotta. . . have him move it again. . .”

Loona watched in. . . surprised shock as her adopted father started to fiddle with his Hellphone. He was gonna’ call him back!?

“Goddammit, what’s the number, fuck. . . no not that. . . nohoho, not Dicks Delivered. . . although. . .”

Loona leaned back on the wall. “Ya don’t even know his name do you, dumbass?”

Blitz spun and made a t-sign with his arms. “Awhowwhao, bah! B-uh! BLEEP! Language, sweetheart!”

She ignored him, growling. “It’s JAKOB. JAY. KOB.”

Blitz hopped down from the desk, glaring at Moxxie. “Okay we’re gonna talk about who’s been infecting my daughter’s head with that FFFILTH later!”

Loona rolled her eyes, glancing away, looking out the window into the horizon of Pentagram City. “Adopted.”

She spoke again. “Did ya’ even hear what I said?”

Blitz blinked, momentary realization taking possession of his. . . lucid concentration. “Huh? Oh, what? Jack?” His attention burrowed into his Hellphone, scrolling through the near-endless list of random contacts – most of which had his number blocked.

“She said the delivery boy’s name is Jackson, boss,” chimed Millie.

Moxxie scratched his head, pulling away a particularly thick piece of entrail from his hair. “Weird. I thought it was Parker.”

“Mmmnope, not seein any. . . jackoffs. . .”

Loona’s muzzle morphed into a scowl, her maw fanged maw snapping open to speak again. But then she stopped. Whatever. They weren’t listening. As usual. If Blitz hadn’t proceeded to rip apart the box like a particularly rabid cat, he might have seen the signed paper, with the runty rabbit’s name’nall. But that too was nothing but a shredded rain of tattered confetti on the already dirty floor.

Ugh, she needed a fuckin’ smoke. The trio continued to boomerang around names, even though she’d just explained it. Until, finally, Blitz’s impulsive mind flicked back to full function.

“Ohhhh yeah, Jaaakob, Jakob-Schmitty-somethin’-somethin’.”

Once again, no contact appeared in his Hellphone. With a grumble, Blitz stowed away the phone and rolled his eyes. “Alright fuck this.” His hands clapped together.

“Okay team, new plan: clean the guts outta your holes cuz’ we’ve got MONEY to make!”

Mox raised a finger, wiping off residual crimson slime from his suit. “That you blew.”

“Yeah betcha’ know all about blowin’, tootsie tits! Now enough chitchat, MEETING ROOM! Now!”

Loona growled, souring as she stowed away her Hellphone.

“Uhh, right now, boss? Didn’t ya just say to clean up?” offered Millie, flicking her tail of brain matter.

“It was a suggestion, Mils.”

Blitz kicked open the meeting room door, the uncomfortable duo following him, eventually tagged by Loona. For the briefest of moments, she stopped, stared at the rock, the remains of the signed-delivery, then followed.

You’re the all-encompassing machine swiftly turning his gears, a mechanical apparatus of bone-meat flowing from one arduous task to the next in a state of muddy delirium, the colors and sounds wading over you in unsympathetic blurs. The voices, the bodies, the machines, shapes and sounds and distractions, a waterfall of all-consuming sensory overlord. There is no tired, there is only work. There is no sleep, there is only work. There is no feeling, there is only work.

It's a hurricane, it’s a cycle, its madness, it’s endless, it goes on, hour by hour by hour by hour and. . .

There you sat on the exhausted greasy asphalt, a downpour of meat rain slapping the pavement with audible schplorts. Pentagram City’s horrifying mosaic of neon lights clashes against shimmering puddles, a blitzkrieg of inhuman hues forming watery, colorful wounds. The dull acid white of ALL MEATS sits behind you, the ambient factory buzz hugging your rabbit-like frame in a halo of factory standard lighting. You blink.

Uh. What time is it? Yestermorrow? Todesterday?

A handy bottle of half-filled Dr. Feel Good reclines at your side, of which you take an appreciative swig. Booze goes, never goes out.

You have, somehow, finished your double-duty, no break, no-eat shift at ALL MEATS. Mm, well, not somehow. Ya’ got ways. The entirety of it swam by you in a bone-crushing rush. Your eyes are deep pockets of tired black circles, but you’re wide awake. Your motions create an applause of pops and cracks. You feel. . . huh.

The drink, baby, the drink and the pills and the sweet vapor hits, that’s how! The drink keeps you level, the pills give you energy, the chems give you. . . hmm, tolerance? Collect your thoughts, fool, you’re not making any sense.

A sad hat sits on a crumpled, bloody apron. You ruffle your short hair. You drink, then you fish around for a modified mechanical apparatus, a sweet little vapor delivery system. It’s called “Deathwish,” somethin’ making the rounds around the innards of Pentagram City, concocted by. . . ah who cares, it’s good shit. You take a long, appreciative drag and puff out sparkling clouds of poisonous violets, clenching your fist and letting loose a hacking, smiling cough-laugh. It’s kinda the only thing that brings you somewhere. Like a high but not a high.

You survived, and survive, your shifts because of tasty drink and energy-granting pills. You gotta mix and match, see? The drink don’t work by itself. Ya’ know how Sinners and Hellborn are all manner of vicious? Like, they’re all secretly packin’ some personal arsenal of weapons or powers or super forms, shit like that? Yeah you don’t get any of that. . . what you do get is a frightening, terrifying lucidity when it comes to alcohol. You drink your bodyweight in it. You spend nights emptying bottles of glassy brown. Hail to the King, baby! An empire of ceaseless tolerance, your subjects an army of dry cans and lost memories. Mix that in with pills that double up as pain destroyers and pure, sticky-sweet energy, yeah, you’re good. 20 hour shift? Please.

. . .please.

You’ve had your fill of drink and work, pushing yourself up with your knees with an audible hiss. Whoof, baby, gonna’ be feelin’ that for the next. . . month. Only one way to douse that fire! With more drink, of course. It won’t do much, if it ever did, but it’s something to pass the time. You can go home later – assuredly your second Boss will probably have a whole plethora of bullshit things to collect. It’s funny, sometimes you get a call, sometimes you get a request by mail – like Blitz spontaneously remembers your contact information. But hey, he’s probably busy – can’t be easy running an interdimensional assassination gig, eh? You’re not even sure he knows your name.

In fact, the only gal on vaguely familiar terms with you, at this point, is Loona.

You pad and wade into the eerie freaklights of Pentagram City, your next target a local dive you sometimes buzz around in. The music is off and the company is worse but the liquid delights they offer are exquisite. It’s also one of the only stops you can strum up some of that fine, tasty Deathwish. If only, if only you’d stayed just a bit longer. Waited, maybe, a few more minutes. Because, as you vanish into the hazy clutch of Pentagram City’s neon-lit grips, someone else is makin’ a visit to ALL MEATS.

-*-

Loona, sweetheart! Daddy needs a faaaavor!

Loona wore a sour expression, footpaws dodging inky puddles and strange buildups of. . . viscera lining the exterior street, her nose wrinkling at the sour aroma of copper and salt. Ugh, she wouldn’t be OUT here if Blitz wasn’t such an absolute ditz, a wreckage of long-term memory consistently putting the “future” of IMP at the consequence of his own fuckin’ stupidity. Because he couldn’t be assed to remember where he put the delivery boy’s name OR number, he decided to relegate the task to his “logistics department.” Loona. So instead of doin’ something more important, like, not this, she was stuck havin’ to fetch -whatshisname – Jakob? Yeah, him. She was given the indignity of hand delivering Blitz’s next delivery order. And of course, because she was cursed with a memory that lasted longer than ten seconds, she knew where he was. Sorta.

Satan, she just had to open her mouth, didn’t she?

“ALL MEATS. He works at ALL MEATS.”

Her adoptive parent positively sparkled at the knowledge and shooed her off.

Loona you’re brilliant, you’re amazing, you’re the best! Make like a shark huntin’ teens with poor choices and fetch that delivery bitch!

She could’ve said anything else, anything at all. Or NOTHING. But noooOOOooo, she had to play backup for Blitz’s limited brain cells. Fucking fuck, whatever. Faster she did this, faster she could go home. Besides, if she didn’t, the problem would probably expand like a hellfungus infection with Blitz obsessing over his missing packages until it was the only thing he focused on, ultimately leading to him becoming that much more annoying. If he didn’t have his gimme-gimmes, he’d put less priority on IMP, make the company crash and burn at a faster rate than it already was.

If there was a modicum of salvation, it was that ALL MEATS was not particularly difficult to find. Kinda hard to miss. It stood like a boxy monolith, and unlike the majority of skyscrapers and leviathan structures in Pentagram City, it wasn’t coated in a serpentine orgy of shrieking neon lights. Quite the opposite. Its exterior was oppressively plain, bright acidic white lights painting its exterior parking lot like a morning migraine. Its only defining feature was a bright, crimson bold lettering crowning its front, proudly display ALL MEATS in bloody-red.

Loona’s muzzle frowned, rubbing her eyes, vision blurred from the outpouring of light. She approached it from across the street, shifting through pockets of random Sinners and Hellborn. As she approached, the tangy, dreadful odor of. . . something assaulted her senses, and here and there, gobs of meaty rain plopped on the ground. Atop the ALL MEATS building were two, towering smokestacks, tainted with a reddish glow, polluting the hellsky and forming hazy, miasmatic clouds above. Gross.

Welp, better find the dipshit, sooner the better. Hugging her frame, Loona dodged over a few clumps of pulsing viscera and entered the brightly lit ALL MEATS building. Within was a stoic, somewhat lifeless restaurant – and that was bein’ generous. It looked, in all respects, a place designed for bulk, bland efficiency. Dispense a massive quantity of product, nothing more, nothing less.

Given the absence of its inner “workings,” finding whatshisname – Jakob – shouldn’t be too hard, right? The place carried a bizarre odor of polished surfaces, metal, and. . . again, something meaty. She gave a short sniff, hoping to isolate the bun’s scent. But there was nothing. In fact, there was nobody in the store – no customers, no staff. . . the fuck kinda place was this?

She padded over to the front counter, a concrete slab of polished, lifeless grey. Beyond it, the steady thrum of churning machines was audible. But still no sign of anybody. Oh my Satan, did she just waste her goddamn time comin’ here!?

“Oh, HI, HELLO THERE, nice to meet ya’!”

A static, distorted tone erupted through the silence, a voice painted with obscenely misplaced optimism and cheery punctuations. Loona shot back as a figure coalesced before her, a tall, imposing thing of lithe features and. . .

A big, rancid, never-ending ugly toothy smile.

“Gah! The fuck!?”

Her hackles raised, frame switching to defense mode. Not so much the off-putting the grin buggin her’, more that whatever it was just coalesced behind the counter, like it clocked her entrance the moment she walked into ALL MEATS.

What appeared before her looked like a scrappy collection of autonomous parts molded to imitate a professional manager. What should be a business suit was instead the metallic molding of one, complete with hastily stuck-on tie, nametag, and robotic silhouette. A bulbous head sat upon the thing, features shaped like a rabbit, metal ears tall and pointed like knives. It bore enormous, cavernous black sockets for eyes, save for a single, visible crimson iris peering out from the vacuous holes. An endless, sprawling smiling plastered its brassy head, and yet, when it spoke, the smile never moved, only glowed like a bizarre, frightening intercom.

“Welcome to ALL MEATS!” said the ‘Manager,’ splaying out its long, tendril like arms in wide fashion. “Any meat, any time, any BODY! I’m the MANAGER, and I never leave! This wonderful slice of Hell is my HOME, and I can’t WAIT to share a little slice. . . with YOU!”

Loona reared back, her hands raised in cautious defense. “Uh. . .”

The thing stared her down, yellow tombstone teeth glowing with every spoken word. “I can SEE you’re a new customer! Well, that’s just AMAZING! New customers get a .005 percent discount on their first order! That’s the ALL MEATS guarantee!”

Ugh, GOD, this thing’s voice was grating. “No.”

The head spun around, jittering and twitching in erratic manner. “Wow, a customer paying FULL PRICE! Are you after my heart!? Or are you after OUR hearts!? We’ve got one for every occasion! Imp, Satyr, Sinner, Homeless, Nondescript Patented Meat Product (Trademarked by the ALL MEATS proprietary brand), even a Staff Special!”

Loona’s ears flattened and she growled. “I’m not here to buy your shit, dude.”

It froze, the Manager staring her down. “. . .you. . . No? Hah! That’s OKAY. We can always offer FREE SAMPLES, if you need a little convincing!” it said, nudging the air while its bulky, metallic eyebrows lifted in suggestive fashion.

The grating, erratic tonal shifts of this “Manager” unsettled Loona enough she wanted to leave as soon as fuckin’ possible. Whatever ‘ALL MEATS’ had for inventory, she wanted nothin’ to do with it. Then, slowly, she realized. . . the voice was familiar. Was this the freakshow that called the delivery bun earlier? This thing was his boss?

Through grit teeth, she answered. “Not. Gonna. Happen.”

She took a hesitant step back, glancing behind her. “I’m just. . . lookin’ for someone who works here. Rabbit dude. Looks like shit. Er. Jakob?”

The Manager affixed its single, visible iris on Loona, tilting its brass head at an unnatural angle. Satan fuck, what was with all the goddamn rabbits!?

“Jakob? JAKOB?”

It paused, momentarily. “Jakob. Jay. Jakobson.” It spoke the words like it was reading off a barcode.

It folded its clunky, cracked metallic hands together. “Wow, I feel REALLY bad telling you this. We have an ethical staff recapture and retrain policy, you see, buuut. . . aahhhhh. . .”

It sounded like it was sucking in air through its unmoving, rictus façade.

“His SHIFT ended a while ago, hahah! Imagine that? Wanting to leave a magical place like ALL MEATS? I never do, it’s basically my WHOLE world!”

Loona blinked. The dipshit delivery dude wasn’t here? Goddammit man! How hard was it to find one lousy rabbit!? She rubbed the bridge of her muzzle, conceding defeat to an annoying, frustrating night.

“Oh but DON’T worry, he’s easy to find! We track everything our beloved staff do! EVERYTHING! Where they sleep, where they go, and soon, probably what they think! Isn’t that amazing?”

Loona’s head flicked back up, visibly perplexed. “You. . . huh? You what?”

She really didn’t like how the thing kept its unblinking gaze affixed to her. Like it was thinking about something beyond this “polite” conversation.

“In fact, haha! It’s a GOOD thing you showed up! Wow, how lucky am I! Someone ELSE keeping a close eye on one of our most valuable products! I’d be HAPPY to tell you exactly where he is, miss. . .”

She kept silent, no goddamn way would she tell the “Manager” what her name was.

“Miss?”

She opened her muzzle to speak. She wanted to say: “just tell me where he is.” But, for the briefest of moments, she paused. That was just a little fucked up. Shit, whatever, it made tracking down Blitz’s newest plaything a helluva lot easier. She rubbed her arm, frowning. Oh, fuck sake, whatever. So, Jakob could be found by his freakshit boss. At. . . any time. Anywhere. Meaning, no matter how “far” he was, the boss was always on his back, creating an overbearing, overwhelming, inescapable cage. So. . . what?

She mentally hissed. Dumbass Jakob, couldn’t have just stuck around. . . HAD to be a pain in the ass to find!

“Yeah. Fine.”

The Manager’s head twitched and shook. “Oh, Miss Yafine?”

She growled. “NO, dumbass, I mean. . .” she grunted, hesitating. Fuck it, just ask. “Tell me where he went!”

This was already a massive goddamn pain. Blitz’s absent-minded stupidity had her running around on a wild-bunny chase and now she had to dash out, AGAIN, just to get her adoptive “guardian’s” next fuckshit deliver order.

“NOT a problem!” said the Manger, proudly slamming its clunky, robotic fists on the strange faux-suit hips it wore. “Now, I’ll just – “

For a moment, it ceased moving. Absolutely and completely still. Frozen in place, Loona waited. . . and kept waiting. She looked the thing over, up and down, taking a small step forward, thinking to nudge it with her finger. “Uhhh. . .”

Then. . . for the briefest of moments, she felt the floor tremble. A quiet, mechanical groan rumbled the walls, like a great, unseen lung took in a long, gulping breath. The windows warped, bent inward, then “exhaled.”

Loona pounced back, her eyes flying about, half-expecting the shitshow of a building to fall on top of her. Yet, as suddenly as the motions occurred, they ceased. Like nothing had happened, the Manager continued. Same pitch, same voice, swinging its arms in an excited gesture. “-get you the location metrics of our invaluable employee!”

Its voice blanched, a series of radio beeps contrasting against a flat, monotone enunciation. An abrupt, whining screech consumed its once patronizing, “kindly” voice, a distorted high and low note punctuating its voice. Grainy, blown-out tones replaced the sinister smiler’s voice.

“THIS. IS A STAFF. LOCATOR. BROADCAST. PLEASE. STANDBY. . .”

“AT THE REQUEST OF: GUEST. SINGULAR.”

A pause. Loona drew back, hackles raised.

“JAKOB. JAY. JAKOBSON.” The tone was deep, irreverent. A complete shift from the obliterating, ceaseless optimism of the manager, sounding more like an emergency alert than a faux-friendly face of ALL MEATS.

“Last. Seen on. ALL MEATS. Premises. At, eleven oh-one, standard time. Direction. North, northwest. At. Eleven. Thirty-two. Standard Time. At. Location. Premises. Alcohol provisioner and subsidiary. Name. Chlorine Gargoyle. Interior. East by southeast. Table. Multiple. Shift: Not current.”

The Manager’s cracked, thick metal teeth flickered with every word, until it “snapped” back to life, entire frame twitching and jittering back to attention. “OOOH! That sounds fun, huh?”

Loona, wordlessly, took another step backward. She’d come across a lot of deranged freaks in her lifetime, but this one. . . made her guts churn, ears flatten, fangs flare. The erratic display was nauseating enough she barely processed what the Manager “said.”

“I feel REALLY bad I can’t get Mr. Jakobson myself, but my shift isn’t over! Then again, I’M not complaining! Who wants to leave ALL MEATS, anyway?”

She didn’t respond, massaging her temples in circular patterns. What’d the fucker say? Something about a gargling gargoyle?

No. Chlorine Gargoyle.

Yeah okay fine, whatever, good enough. Shouldn’t be hard to get wherever that was. . . hopefully. She had better things to do, like nothing. Furthermore, Loona didn’t want to spend another second in this rabbit infested shitshack!

The Manager watched her, noting her shifting motions. “OH! It looks like you want to leave! Well, I’d LOVE to stop you, it’s so much FUN here! But then again, you’ll get to meet one of our most essential pieces of inventory! Jakob really does add a personal touch here! It should be. . . . ahhhh. . .”

It strained. “Interesting! _YEAH. . ._interesting!”

Then the Manager straightened. “Before you go!”

One of its flexible, tendril like arms raised, clunky, chomping hand holding a small object. “HERE! Have a little memento! At ALL MEATS, we’re smiling! ALL the time!”

Loona frowned in agitated disgust as the appendage extended straight over the counter before affixing a small button on her crop-top, depicting a grinning face with the distorted features of – yep – another rabbit.

“Hey!” Loona barked. “Keep your greasy little drumsticks to yourself, freakshow!”

The arm retracted, and the Manager’s head tilted at another unnatural angle. “Freakshow? Oh no no, that’s the other one!”

Loona scowled, ignoring it, ears pinned down, spinning around and sauntering towards the exit with angry paw-falls.

“OKAY!” said the Manager with a proud posture. “Well, until NEXT time!”

Loona held herself and hastened her pace, shuddering. Ohohoh fuck no, there wouldn’t be a next time. Why Jakob stuck around in that literal, meat infested hellhole absolutely baffled her. There were easier ways to make money – working two jobs for two absolute idiots though? Jakob must’ve had a brain made of cement. She could still feel the unending gaze of the Manager, even as she slipped out of the hissing, sliding doors. The shadow of the ALL MEATS structure loomed over her, casting an ugly shape, still churning out billows of flesh-tinged smoke, poisoning the air with its industrial wheezing. A fat little gob of bloody something fell on her shoulder, causing her to grunt in rage and shake it off.

Ohoho that fuckin’ bun was gonna’ pay for this.

-*-

Honestly, what kinda’ name was fuckin’ Chlorine Gargoyle, anyway?

Loona sniffed it out with her Hellphone, a cursory Sinmap search revealing the location several buildings away from the ALL MEATS structure. Loona sauntered along the streets, the blitzkrieg of nauseating neon surrounding her as she shuffled pass random Sinners and Hellborn. With every step, however, the environment proved. . . more erratic, irregular, worn down. And by Pentagram City’s standards, that was a lot. Random glances and encountered Sinners demonstrated an innate fatigue, a beat down exhaustion. They weren’t the upbeat, horny, hot, hungry kinda’ crowds you found in the bigger parts of the Pride Ring. They looked weathered – more than usual.

A random, rat shaped Sinner approached her and offered her faux-teeth. Another gang of fucked up Hellhounds crowded around an alley, one of them belching out a nauseating, poisonous liquid. A crumpled, dazed Sinner with serpentine features sat dazed and stupid, his eyes a violent pink as a cloudy, sparkling vapor left his mouth. Ughg.

She continued on, continuously distracted by the unfamiliar territory. She held her arms close, realizing she was. . . really on her own. Didn’t like it. Loona was more than capable of fending for herself, she did that shit all her life. But, she was very aware of the kind of freaks that gave her a long, uncomfortable stare. Every time a random set of eyes came her way, she averted her icy white eyes.

Must’ve been so distracted she didn’t see the leather-clad, lumbering oaf right in front of her. She crashed into him, a stalwart frame knocking her backward. The figure turned. A ferocious, shark-like beast towered over her, brimming with piercings and a collage of biker fetish and leather.

“Uh. Sorry,” she mumbled, not meeting his stare.

“Eyes up, numeat,” groused the creature. Flinching, she looked up. . . and blinked. His head was more like a knife, as though the center of his skull was replaced by a big, curved blade. Shit.

Still, the collaboration of muscle and meat didn’t move, save to bend down and pick up an object. “Dropped this, numeat.”

It was that weird button from ALL MEATS. Deciding not to press her luck, she offered a bland ‘thanks’ and absentmindedly stowed the button into her pocket.

“Uh huh,” he replied, tone laced with disinterest. “You here to mod up, numeat?”

His tone was confusing. He looked vicious, like a walking, talking killer knife jammed into a shark. But there wasn’t a hint of aggression, just. . . ‘whatever.’

Obviously, Loona didn’t understand. Her eyes squinted, realization taking her. Green, oozing lights poured over her, mixed with the hazy, vaporous smoke created by an exterior building. As her eyes continued to wander, she could see a name: Chlorine Gargoyle.

The shark-thing tilted his head, opening its mouth to say something else. Though, before he could, another figure dashed behind him, grabbing his attention.

“Hey, HEY! C’mon man, Stitches is up!”

The knife-shark turned away from Loona. “Oh FUUUUUCk yeah!”

“See ya’ round, numeat,” he said before rushing off with is cohort in crime. Loona straightened herself, grumbling. Yep. This was the place. The outside was littered with equally strange, uncanny Sinners or Hellborn, all of which appeared like walking, talking collaborations of violence. The actual fuck was Jakob doing here?

If he was here. Could’ve been another wild rabbit chase. Fuck it, if bunboy wasn’t around she was callin’ it. If he never showed up again, well, whatever.

No bouncer at the door. Loona padded up a few grimy steps, palm pressed against the sleek, ugly door. The immediate thrum of the interior shook her bones, her ears snapping back. Oh fuck, it was gonna’ be noisy, wasn’t it?

An utter an absolute delirium of dreamy, violent images crashed down on Loona in an avalanche of a brutal sensory feedback feast. The interior of the Chlorine Gargoyle was a dimly lit interior, a massive wide room with dull green lights crashing against hazy, fuzzy smoke that made the Hellhound’s eyes water. A deluge of nightmarish figures populated every corner of the bar, Sinners and Hellborn a ghastly combination of their bodies and intricate, brutalistic implants that turned them into. . . something. LED eyes, long spindly spider limbs, meat grinders for teeth, cables pulsing through torsos like thorny veins, buzzsaw skulls, exposed steel-spines, spikes and leather and lace and collars and chains and FUUUUUCK.

Then came the driveby assault of angry, guttural roars interwoven against enraged guitars and pounding drums. Far in the back was a lit stage where a beastly, ugly brute of a Sinner rampaged on the set, thrashing his head in carnal release, spewing unintelligible vocals with an equally raging “song,” if you could call that death metal orgy “music.” He was pampered in gobs of blood, his scaly almost-nude body dribbling with crimson ooze, lost in a performer’s fever dream.

Loona winced, clamping her hands around her ears and outright buckling against the sensory smashing. She could feel it in her goddamn TEETH, like the noise was drilling deep into her thoughts. “FUCK!” she screamed, muffled completely by the noise of the bar.

Fuckingshitfuck she needed to find Jakob and rip his dumb, useless ass outta’ here. She centered herself, taking in a few breaths, only to cough out whatever the horrendous vapor was filling the interior. She’d seen chaotic shit before, seen wild-ass parties, watched her adoptive parent get fucking LOOSE tryin’ to show up the Queen of the Gluttony Ring. . . but this?

A pair of Sinners nudged past her. “Scuse me,” they said, barely audible above the deathly ambient screeches.

“Over there!” one of them said, wearing an excited expression (if a fuckoff beartrap jaw counted for excited, anyway).

“He’s fuckin’ drinkin tonight!?” responded the other as they hobbled through the crowds.

Loona raised her head, following them with her gaze. Drinking?

She attempted to move, dodging bulwark bodies and lithe frames, taking care with every step. Didn’t wanna’ fuck around with this crowd, even if none of em’ really paid her any mind. For a moment, she managed to locate a normal looking Hellhound, breathing a sigh of internal relief. He leaned against a wall, glossy grey fur painted by the greenish hue of the interior. His own attention was affixed to something occurring in the middle of the bar.

Taking a risk, she tried to get his attention. “Uh. . . hey!” she bellowed. “I’m tryin’ to find somebody!”

He grinned wide, glancing at Loona. “Eh, huh? What’s up?”

She boggled, muzzle sagging in an annoyed frown. Half his face was missing, the other an exposed, metallic skull. Oh. Great.

“I. . . uh. . .”

He nodded in excited fashion. “Ohhh yeah, you’re bettin’ too!?”

“What!?” she yelled.

“Yeah dude! Stitches is fuckin’ trashin’ tonight!” said the modified Hellhound, tail wagging in quick, jittering sweeps.

She could almost make out what he was saying. . . and it wasn’t related to her question at all. “W-wha. . . NO, I SAID, I’m LOOKING for someone!” she screamed again, cupping her hands around her muzzle.

“Yeaaaaah!” said the Hellound, pumping his fist in the air. “Came to the RIGHT place, he’s over there! I’m makin’ out like a bandit tonight! AROOOO!”

Ugh! Dumbass wasn’t any help at all!

In the meantime, as if granting her a small sliver of mercy, the wild, thrashing metal came to a rattling halt, met with grinding cheers and thrown devil-horns. Loona sucked in a harsh breath, rubbing her head as the dull ring in her ears settled. She wiped her long, silvery bangs to the side, casting a leer out into the crowds.

As she did, the modded Hellhound dashed away. “Fuck yeah, fuck yeah! Let’s go!”

She watched him go. And, as she did, another scene caught her attention. On a large, circular table, lit by a single ray of pale, ghostly light, sat a pair of figures, surrounded by the eager crowd of devilish freakshows. Must’ve been what all these weirdos were so excited about. Whatever.

At least the music stopped. She didn’t wanna spend another second in this fuckin’ bowel movement of blood and mechanical sound. Find the dumbass bun, then go.

More sinners waltzed past her, Loona giving a brief, annoyed growl. Again, there they went. The fuck was goin’ on?

And then. . . she saw it. Two tall, pale white ears, sticking out like sharkfins in a sea of angry flesh. She squinted her eyes. No way. . . Jakob?

In disbelief, Loona wandered closer and closer. His features clarified in an unmistakable silhouette upon her steady approach. Tired eyes, black sclera, white pupils, small frame – especially contrasted against the terrifying beasts around him. And in front of him? A tank of a wolfish thing, easily double Jakob’s size, his bulging LED eyes wide and furious, serrated steel teeth poking out from his muzzle, muscular trunk-like arms resting on the dingy table.

What the actual shit!?

A great, ugly barrel thwumped next to the table, carried by another bulwark Sinner. The barrel fuzzed and hissed with a greenish, poisonous liquid, while two pint glasses were sat in front of both Jakob and the Sinner. Loona watched the scene with confused, yet dawning, realization.

The dumbass was crashing out, wasn’t he? He was about to drink himself dead, right here and now! Her muzzle fractured in pitied disgust.

“Alright!” said the Sinner between Jakob and his ‘opponent.’ “Ere’ we go boys, ya’ know the fuckin’ drill. Our boy, Stitches, and the newbie, er. . . whathisname!”

The big wolf scowled. “DAZOG, motherfucker!”

Loona watched, then shifted her body. This was stupid. She should go, she was wasting her time. Delivery boy wasn’t gonna last and she just wanted to go home.

“Yeah whatever,” continued the ‘judge.’ “Rules is simple: knock em back’ until you’re KNOCKED OUT! Bahaha!”

The challenging wolf wore a cruel, malign sneer, leaning towards Jakob with a predator’s confidence. “You ‘bout to get fucked up, runt.”

Loona, in morbid fascination, still watched. Hell she had half a mind to yank out her Hellphone and record this guaranteed disaster.

She briefly studied Jakob. . . he was just kinda there. Quiet, unbothered. Stable? As the hissing, acid-like alcohol poured into each respective pint glass, Jakob tapped the rim, but never said a word. His eyes wandered away, like he was here, but not really here. Loona clenched her fists. He was giving up, wasn’t he? She was about to watch some fuckin’ loser take his final swig and by proximity waste her whole night!

And yet the crowd cheered him on. “Yeahyeaaaah Stitches!”

“GO! GO! GO!”

Loona looked around. Huh? Wait, he was “Stitches?”

Drinks poured, drinks down. Once the judge gave the go ahead, the competitors went for their first draft. Jakob sniffed, pulled the pint to his lips, and gulped. And drank. Annnnd kept going. And kept going. Dribbles of the venomous liquor poured from his lips, colliding with the table and providing a sinister hsssss. And yet, he didn’t waiver. He didn’t stop. He maintained the drink with frightening ease and lucidity. No coughs, no sputters, just a steady, practiced gulp after gulp.

Meanwhile, Dazog, the big fella, waivered – just a little. He finished his first draft too, wiping his huge maw and managing to force a smile. He coughed, once, taking a few short, rancid inhales. Loona, meanwhile, blinked, her eyes widened and ears flagged.

She muttered. “Whoa.”

Jakob, again, remained quiet. He sat his empty pint down, staring at the glass, like he was having a quiet conversation with it. Another drink was poured.

Dazog licked his muzzle. “Ooohoo, little shit’s got some fight in em, heheheheh!”

Round two. And it went exactly the same – for Jakob, at least. He casually slurped it back, maintaining a bizarre, pure lucidity. No wavering, no wobbling. Dazog, meanwhile, coughed and gagged, his breaths intensifying. He grunted, his frame started to loosen, soften.

Round three. The crowd kept chanting Jakob’s apparent nickname. Only this time, Dazog couldn’t take it. He wheezed and fell backward, then leaned over, belching out driblets of the unforgiving liquid. “G-gagh, the f-fuck is this shit!? You assholes poisoned. . . me. . . ffmmskkk. . . oshsh mannsh. . .”

Voice like slurry, legs jelly. The crowd erupted in mocking laughs and cheers as Dazog fell over, ass in the air, blacked out.

The crowd jeered, celebrating Stitches – and their own – victory. Some others soured, swearing obscene curses as they shuffled in their pockets for cash, producing heavy stacks for an apparent bet. As for Jakob, he was downing his fourth glass, an island unto his own.

His eyes wandered. . . until he spied a shape, a sweet silhouette, a body uncompromised by invasive metal.

He froze. The half-drunk pint glass stayed still, and his exhausted eyes boggled. Loona?

-*-

You douse the rest of the drink and sputter, pounding your chest with a few astonished hacks. “Bwuh! C-cwuh?”

Standing, you’re briefly engulfed by the crowds of cheering Sinners, most of them roaring in appreciation for the easy cash they just scored. Hands swat your pack, palms shake your shoulders, compliments abound. . . all rolling off you like distant white noise. Your entire focus is on Loona, flabbergasted. Your quite clear and lucid mind races with a barrage of questions. The biggest one though: the hell is she doing here?

You push through bodies, forcing on your cracked, weary grin. Loona’s giving you a long once over, like she watched a dead man stroll up to her. And yeah, by all accounts, babe you oughta’ be out cold. You open your mouth to speak, interrupted by a tall Imp.

“Fuuuck yeah Stitches you TRASHED em’ bro!”

You don’t look at him. “Hehayeahthanks.”

Another one fists your shoulder, adding another proud bruise to your expansive collection of ‘artistic’ injuries. “Fuckin STITCHES dude, easy ass money!”

“Mmhm, yepyepep.”

You approach Loona. “Heeeey, Looonaaa?”

You’re confused. She grants you a perplexed, very annoyed expression. “Stitches?”

Your eyes stay wide and open. Okay, exit: stage NOW. “IDEA! Let’s get some air, ya’ know!? Good ol’ fashion H2O, yeah? Like, outside, like, right now, hahaha!”

“That’s water, dumbass,” grouses Loona. Frankly, bun coulda’ used it.

You try to speak again, once more interrupted by a sinner with a set of quad-implant eyes. “My man, I was NEVER a doubter!”

Said sinner flicked his attention between Loona and you. “Whoa!? Ya’ know Stitches, numeat?”

Loona growled, raised her hands, and spun around. “Okay. YEP. I’m outta here.”

Quickly, you follow, forcing a nod, smile, and polite “uh huh” to every tangled mass of arms trying to congratulate you. The horrifying scream of death metal begins to play again, growing distant as you follow Loona outside.

As you leave, a small crowd of Sinners gives a knowing look in your direction. Not one of rep, mind, not in the kinda’ “street hero” sorta way. More that you’re a known, invaluable commodity. You’re losin’, everybody’s winning.

“Better, right?” you say, stumbling over your words. “Fresh, smoggy. . . air. . .”

Loona stops, then turns her head. She looks at you. She doesn’t get it. You are concise, clearly functioning. You don’t slur, you don’t wobble. And, still, you are absolutely baffled why Loona was here and how she found you.

“Hey, hey, look, don’t worry about all that!” you say, splaying your arms out in apologetic fashion. This had to be about the job, right? Oh Satan! Shit! You were still good for it, still good!

Loona’s muzzle curled and she raised a hand. “Agh, shutup.” She was rubbing her head. Ah. Yeah. Chlorine Gargoyle fuckin’ came at you like one of Valentino’s porno vids. You tag her visible annoyed anguish and seek to remedy it.

You instantly shuffle a hand into your spiked jacket. “Oh! I’ve got something. . .” You produce a pill, but then pause. Uhh. No. Maybe not one of yours. “Nevermind.”

So, instead, you wait. Quiet and calm, as calm as you can reasonably be. Where everything around you is a constant humdrum of unstoppable noise, you, on the other hand, are a figure of bizarre calmness. Almost unnervingly so.

Loona straightens back up, one hand on hip. “You’re a real pain in the ass to find, ya’ know that?’

You tilt your head, ears perking. Find? You? She was looking for you? Your teardrop tail gives a small, timid twitch.

“I’m. . .” you hesitate. “Normally off the radar after work hours, heh, hahah. W-why? What’s up?”

This had taken way longer than Loona ever wanted it to, and she was ready to go fuckin’ home. She was gonna’ sock a new hole into Blitz’s head for makin’ her run around like this!

“Yeah. Well. Whatever. That big ass box you dragged over? Blitz wants it moved.”

You pause, frame rigid, and your arms sorta. . . slide back down. You clench your teeth and maintain the wide, people-pleasing grin.

“Heeee. . . didn’t like the delivery?”

She grumbled, a low ‘tsh’ leaving her black lips.

“It’s a dumb, big, rock and he wants you to move it.”

She didn’t look at you while she spoke, yanking out her Hellphone and skillfully thumbing over the screen, texting that she’d found you (finally).

Your voice rings hollow. “Oh.”

Then, you adopt a proud, ready-to-go stature. “Huh! Never figured Boss for a geologist. . .”

You felt your heart sink. Then, you shoved the feeling aside. Hah, ahh, of course! It was job stuff. Like, you barely knew IMP and this was, what, your second “real” encounter with Loona. Naw, it was silly to think she was here on your behalf! H-hah!

“Rock schmock! Guess if Boss needs an interior decorator, I can. . . level up my resume.”

You kept smiling, hiding a wince. One of your hands drifted to your shoulder while you attempted to muffle a sharp inhale of audible pain. The 20-hour shift and night of stoic “drinking” were catching up. Huh, when did you last sleep? Ohhh well. Nothin’ some Deathwish and pure, heart-pumping adrenal pills couldn’t handle!

“H-heh, shall we?” you said, stifling an audible ‘ow.’

Loona stopped her typing and stared at you. Was he bein fuckin’ real right now?

“Dude, it’s late.”

You blink. Oh. Hm! So it was. “Well, ah, nothin’ wrong with a little overtime!”

How was he doing this – how. The booze he guzzled, the injuries he clearly sustained, the shift he just finished. She figured the dumbass could’ve been high outta’ his mind, but everything about his mannerisms and speech implied a stone-cold sober mind or a frighteningly high tolerance to everything. Her mind briefly flashed to ALL MEATS, the uncanny Manager, and the sustained observant cage they put Jakob in.

Standing there. Surviving. Fighting to just exist.

She threw out her hand. “Aaaand you’re not tired? At all?”

You shrugged. “I can powernap later.”

Ugggh! He couldn’t even be real with her, could he?

Yeah, well, you ain’t exactly bein’ honest either, she told herself, recalling that, even right now, he was probably being tracked.

She opened her mouth, then paused. Thinking. Then she spoke again: “I just had to find your lousy ass and got a migraine outta’ it! We’re not doin’ this tonight. Just. . . be at the office early. Or whatever.”

You let your frame sag, your subconscious mind screaming at you to just stop, just take a moment to breathe. “Well. . . if it’s okay with the Boss.”

Then you let off an earnest chuckle. “Damn, Loona, I better watch it, eh? No hidin’ from you, hehe.”

She paused. Loona’s eyes flinched and she shifted to her side, hugging her stomach. Pfft, like she gave an actual shit, but. . . it didn’t feel right to lead him on. Fucker had it bad enough already.

“Office. Early. Tomorrow. Bye.”

She sighed, turning to walk away. Momentarily, she paused, her muzzle visible as she spoke. “Jakob Jay Jakobson.”

You watched her go, waiting for her to leave before you exhaled with a long, hefty sigh. As much as it pained you to admit, you needed a sec’ to rest an- what the fuck did she just say. Your body snapped up.

H-hah, ha? No, heh, no you were crazy right, you didn’t hear that. That wasn’t your full “name,” right? Jakob Jakobson, that was all she knew, not the whole thing! Like a rabbit staring down the striking hawk, you were paralyzed, watching as Loona faded into the street.

Only one “person” ever knew your whole name, because it wasn’t your real name. It was your goddamn barcode, the sticker on the packaged meat. She was at your workplace, man. She met him.

You managed to move, a hand coming to rest on an uncomfortable flank of tiny metal in your neck. Why didn’t IMP just call you? Or text!? Hell you’ve taken’ a rock with a note on it! Of all the people that had to hunt his ass down, it had to be her?

No, hahah, no, no it’s all good, right? Don’t goddamn panic. When you jump in for your next shift, you go in hard. You ensure that THE boss knows you’re as focused as ever. No distractions, on task, always on ready, always working, no biggie.

You decided in an incredible moment of self-preservation, an actual measure of common sense rattling the neurons in your brain, to go home. You could at least close your eyes and pretend to sleep. And that way, he couldn’t follow her with you, keep eyes where eyes shouldn’t be thanks to that plug of metal resting comfortably in your neck.

Dude. Why do you care so much, she barely knows you.

Because. She bothered to remember your fake ass name.

So, fine then, home it was. It was just too goddamn bad you never noticed the button memento Loona absentmindedly carried with her.

“Just gonna. . . glue here. . . paste there. . .”

Blitz’s tail wiggled in swinging, metronome patterns as his wide, sparkling eyes ogled his newest shimmering position with obsessive joy, the sound of ripping tape followed by the messy plastering of “ears” onto his newest masterpiece. Button eyes and unnecessary glitter created a powdery mess until he leaned back, staring at his shiny stone with paternal pride.

“PERFECT. Fuck, forget the killin’ gigs, I’m a goddamn Pisscaso.”

Loona, at a brand new unwaxed desk lifted her bored eyes from the eternal scrolling of her Hellphone, frowning. Blitz had ‘transformed’ the shiny rock into a conglomerate of horse-features, glitter, pasted nose and cut ears crafting a hideous mosaic of equine imitation. Blitz’s lips extended like a tube, smooching his beloved, unmoved “sculpture.”

“Whattya’ think about THAT bitches!” bellowed Blitz, keeping his eyes affixed to the furniture fetish. No one answered, since it was only Loona sharing the dreadful space with her adoptive parent.

“I shall name you Sparkledick, mmhm!” said Blitz, petting the misshapen object with affection, his tone taking on a doting candor.

“You’ve got a big sparkly dick, don’t you! Mmhm, yes you dooooo!”

He then gasped, like a serious affront had been committed. “Oh, GOD! Does my baby need his coat brushed!?”

He wiggled his hand behind him in Loona’s direction. “LOONIE, I need a brush, STAT!”

She growled, his wide, bellowing voice growing more obnoxious by the second. Without looking she ripped open the drawer, her hand shuffling around through all the uncategorized bullshit. Staples, broken pencils, sticky notes, some old photographs, that stupid fuckin’ button from ALL MEATS, a lighter, until she found said brush. Long, curly hairs were stuck to it, and she yanked it up by its handle with a pair of digits, shuddering at the implication. Blitz felt the brush pelt his head, before, in an excited rush, he grabbed the grooming item and proceeded to scrub ‘Sparkledicks’ nonexistent coat.

So obsessed, so lost in his current fixation, Blitz didn’t peg the sound of IMP’s office door opening. Loona sniffed, expecting the boring breeders. But, nope. Instead, her ears perked. A scent of soft fur hit her nostrils, cut against worn black leather and the implied aroma of recently downed booze.

She glanced. Oh. Huh. Just bunboy.

Jakob was here, sharp, right at the asscrack of the morning. Could’ve shown up anytime, not like Blitz would really notice.

Loona gave the entering delivery boy a studious gaze, longer than she expected to. Surprisingly, didn’t look like he was falling apart at the seams. Mostly. Psh, well. Congratz. Dumbass must’ve remembered the importance of sleep.

He turned to her, and for a split second, their eyes meet. He gave a small smile – not that weird, forced grin he pulled, like what that freakshow fucky “Manager” did. She thought to say something, but didn’t. Rather, she tilted her eyes down, then back to her phone, waiting on Blitz to notice.

Who. . . did no such thing. Jakob, watching the event unfold, turned his attention to his Second Boss. Seeing as how Blitz was clearly preoccupied, the bun said nothing, though, his long ears flattened back at Blitz’s continuously expanding verbiage regarding. . . equine “endowments.”

Every word made Loona growl. She groaned, rolling her eyes, staring at the back of her adoptive guardian. Still nothing.

“Blitz,” she finally said. Nope, Blitz was crafting a bizarre limerick about riding Sparkledick into an orgasmic Hellsun afternoon.

“Blitz!”

Jakob crossed his arms, looking away, ears going red at how erotic his boss was getting. Finally, Loona pushed up from her seat – slamming her paws against the desk, rattling some of the objects on said furnishing.

“BLITZ!!!” she barked.

In a sort of irritated head twist, Blitz finally snapped his angered gaze to Loona. “WHAAAAT, Loonie!” he yelped, tone shifting to a softer, appeasing one.

“Boss is busy with his precious baby boy, seeeee?”

Without moving, she pointed a claw towards Jakob. “GUEST. Delivery kid.”

Blitz warped his head to see the standing rabbit.

At once, your features stretch with that employee-satisfying cracked tooth grin.

“Mornin’ boss!” you say, stapling your hands to your waist.

Blitz slow blinked, squinting, studying you hard. “Delivery?” He straightened up, patting glitter of his frayed suit.

“Did I order somethin’? Fuck, was that the industrial strength lube!? I thought I cancelled that! LOONIE, check my receipts! Then BURN them! I never bought that, y’hear!?”

Your eyes tilt in confused fashion. “Uhhh. . .”

“You don’t keep receipts, dumbass!” charged in Loona. God, how fuckin’ short-fused was he, anyway!?

She yanked out a clipboard, emblazoned with the delivery confirmation, flinging it against Blitz as it pancaked his face.

“It’s JAY. KOB. The guy you gotta pay!? The one you had me crawling through Hell’s asshole to find last night!?”

Blitz yanked off the clipboard, turning it around to stare at the papers. “Ohh. Ohhhhh yeaaah. . . huh. Fuckin’ weird. Coulda’ swore it was a Jerkson or Jerry or somethin’. . .

You wave your hand, providing a nervous chuckle. “That’s me, Boss!”

“Greeaaat,” he said, clearly not understanding your presence.

Silence. You clear your throat. “Um. You wanted me to help move that very nice rock ya’ have sir?”

Blitz gasped, eyes wide and alarmed as he crawled atop Sparkledick in protective fashion, clipboard falling to the ground. “WHAT!? NO, nobody touches my precious Dickz! SHE’S MINE!”

“Who SENT YOU!?”

Your sleek grin wobbles and weakens a bit. “Ehah, ahhh, you did, sir?”

Loona leaned over, looking to add an extra blow. “You owe him money.”

Blitz’s eyes side glance, climbing down from the “rock horse” before falling on the ground. “Owe money? That’s, mm, no. Haha, why would I owe anyone money?”

Now, Loona offered a mocking smirk. “That’s what bosses do. Pay their fuckin’ staff.”

Blitz offered a shocked gasp. “Abwuah! BLEEP! What have I told you about that FFFILTHY language, Loonie?”

You, in the meantime, were starting to feel out of place. Did uh, you not need to show up? This was awfully confusing.

“Besides,” continued Blitz, raising a victorious finger. “I remember ALL my staff. Babydick, Murdertits, my sweet pwecious Loonie-woonie, Sparkledicks, and the delivery guy!”

His eyes widened. “Oh shit.”

Loona crossed her arms, hips canting to the side. “You don’t even have the check, do you, dumbass?”

Blitz sucked in his mouth to create a forced smile, nodding his head quickly while beads of sweat formed on his head. “Mmmhmm, mmhmm. Mmmmoney.”

You maintained your grin, side-eying Loona. Wow, she really gave her Boss the shit, huh? You could see why she was responsible for, like, the logistic aspect of things. Also, Loonie-woonie? Was there some. . . corporate favoritism here? Huh. Still, pretty cool of her to keep the impulsive Imp all focused-like, cuz hooo baby you really needed the extra scratch.

It was Blitz’s turn to offer a forced grin, his leg swinging to the side as he led his body towards his personal office. “Leeeemmmme just get that riiiiight now!”

He dashed away, door slamming. Loona scoffed and gave a loooong roll of the eyes while the muffled sounds of crashing and shuffling were audible.

Your ears perked at the sound, grin vaporizing the second your boss left. You could make out one thing: OH FUCK WE’RE BROKE.

An additional thrashing tsunami ensued, a breaking wall, a desperate search.

You cough. “Um.”

Without a Boss to momentarily please, your frame sags. Wheezing hints of pain channel through your arms, a few small pops emitting from the slightest shift in limbs. A seed of dreary realization blossoms in your head. . . Boss was broke? Aw fuckity fuck. Ya’ kinda’ needed compensation of the monetary variety.

“I’m not getting paid, am I?” you grumble, to no one in particular.

Loona, meanwhile, has her eyes buried in Hellphone, smirking at something on her Sinstagram video. One of her ears flicks towards you.

“Chill dude,” she says, eager for some momentary quiet. “He says that shit every week.”

You blink, switching to Loona, who – like nothing had happened – perched herself back on the office desk, legs dangling off the furnishing. She says nothing else, more or less preoccupied with her Hellphone. So, you decide to keep it that way as Blitz’s audible raucous continues. You find a spot on the wall, resting on it. . . then you slump to your haunches. Your fingers violate a pocket for some of that sweet good-good, a handy flask of just-guzzle-me-for-the-fuck-of-it always available. She don’t do anything, that drink, but you can pretend it does. You’d hit some Deathwish too, but, office was probably a no-smoking zone. Probably.

Loona’s half lidded eyes wander to you for a split second. Gone was your weird, painted grin and smile – the obnoxious, if not unsettling, grimy expression uncomfortably similar to your “Manager.” The act dropped.

She let off a bothered growl with the rush of noises still emitting from Blitz’s office. Fuuucking hell that was gonna’ go on for a while, wasn’t it? And now the delivery doofus was here, ready to assail her with a barrage of questions regarding his pay, probably.

. . .but he didn’t.

Again, just quiet. Like in the feedback loop of death metal vomit and poison liquor, he remained calm – or something like calm. Everything in Pentagram City was noise, constant and irritating, an amusement park of figures and people demanding attention. Especially Blitz. A ceaseless battering ram on the mind, made worse by Loona’s sharpened Hellhound senses. But this guy? Huh. Had the decency to just, well. Chill.

Though, when he slumped, his fatigued eyes withered shut and his head wandered down, like someone pressed the off switch. Wow, out like a light, despite Blitz’s irritating carnival of noise.

Here, she smirked. Pfft, hah! Well, well, well, gone was all the forced people-pleasin’ shit and endless display of a tireless worker. Amused, she shook her head, flicking up her Hellphone and snappin’ a pic of the resting bun. Might come in handy later. . . and it was just funny as shit to see “Stitches” finally pop a snooze. She was lookin’ at the real him, wasn’t she? Or at least a side of it. Just some tired, overworked, dumbass who had the bright idea to hitch it with Blitz’s endless delivery demands. Heh, if Blitz caught a peep at this, he’d probably toss the bun out pronto. . .

Hmm. Yeah.

There was a loud, audible KURCRASH that shook the ground, Blitz’s desperation to find money growing more apparent. Unlikely for the benefit of Jakob – bein’ broke just meant a new scheme was brewing. Ughhhh. Welp, tough luck, bunboy. That’s the way it rolls.

Except.

She looked at the snapped pic and saw his stillness, the very clear, pained expression caught by the picture. She grumbled, swiping away. Hit a little too close to home. She tapped her finger against the desk, head lulling over to stare at a computer monitor no doubt filled with oodles of additional distractions. UGGH, oh my Satan. Fine, FINE. He was gonna’ owe her for this one, big fuckin’ time. And now she had a little backup in her Hellphone, eh? Heheh. . .ehh. . . yeah. Stowing the Hellphone, she gave an annoyed, conceding sigh, snapping her hands on the table, pushing up and marching over to the limp bun.

His white fur caught the dull light of IMP’s interior. Black studded piercings complimented a scruff of short cut hair. She approached, looming over him, arms crossed in expectant manner. Huh. She could kinda’ catch the hint of a tattoo underneath his shirt.

“Hey, numbnuts.”

Her footpaw came to nudge his chest. Nothin’.

“Hey!”

Nope! Still, lifeless, limp.

Loona growled. Okay dude, you asked for it.

She braced, ready to howl in his tall sensitive ears. . . then paused. Her eyes caught somethin’ else. A dull, pulsing, barely visible light. Blink, blink, blink. Like a little red heartbeat, a flashing torch of electric crimson. On the left side of his neck, a tiny, metallic stud could juuuust be made out beneath his fur coat. Uhm. What the fuck was that? Blink. Blink. Blink. That wasn’t there before. Was it?

A rushing, creeping realization crawled back into her thoughts.

We track everything they do! Where they go, where they are, even where they sleep! Pretty nifty, huh?

Wait, no, the fuck? That was legit?

Blink. Blink. Blink.

It was. . . a tracker. That freakshow “Manager” wasn’t just spittin’ bullshit, they really meant it, didn’t they? Well, hold the fuck on then, why was it happening now?

Was it. . . was it because Jakob was sleeping? Loona’ would’ve pegged some weird ass light the second she clocked Jakob and the bar, and all the times he briefly arrived to deliver bullshit for Blitz. So, on assessment. . . this had to because Jakob decided to do the normal thing and actually grab a nap.

Something compelled her to fish out her Hellphone again and snap a pic of the blinking metal nub. Self-preservation, blackmail, she didn’t really know. She just didn’t like it. Besides, if by some fuckin’ longshot this ended up gettin’ Jakob canned from this other “job,” he’d be around here more, and that meant a siege of new orders from Blitz meaning she’d probably have to stack useless bullshit on top of worthless junk! Hell no.

Or, what then? Let his ass get fired? It was his fault for drinkin’ instead of going home. Theeen he’d be around at the office more, boring her with stories about stupid fuckin’ bosses and she’d have no choice but to spill the beans on how much of an idiot her own “Boss” was. Yeah, as if. Like this dumb bun could even compare – Blitz was always in her goddamn face, Hounding her, obsessively protecting and cock-blockin’ chances to have more friends or do shit, trackin’ her every fuckin’ move, all for the sake of the “family business.” Honestly, who the fuck wanted to swap war stories about terrible, dumbass bosses? Gross.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

A red, pulsing image, always in your face. Just like him.

Fuck.

She leaned down, smacking her hands together, wearing an angry scowl. “WAKE THE FUCK UP, DUDE!”

Jakob hissed and his head bounced up, the back of his skull slapping the wall with an angry thwud. “OGHG!” At once, he buckled forward, grumbling in agitated pain.

. . .the blinking stopped.

Your head spins. Ohhh saint mama bloody mary, did ya’ finally pass out? Did the drink work? . . .ah, no, the white flashing in your eyes signified pain, intermixed with the callous pull of reality, tearing you away from precious minutes of warm slumber. You just conked out. Boooo.

You mumble a curse, rubbing your head, looking up to see. . .

“Loona?”

She was towering over you, muzzle sagging with a frown. Okay, well you’ve had dreams about shit like this and a part of you was kinda’ into the whole vibe here, but, your braincells churned into cohesion, remembering where you were, what you were doing. Not one of those dreams, bunny boy.

“Ohsheewhoa,” you exclaim, scraping yourself up, pushing off from your popping knees with internal winces and wheezes.

She quirks a brow. “Sleepin’ on the job now, Jakey?”

In defense, you pry your mouth wide with the uncomfortable grin. “Sleep!?”

“Noooo,” you stumble, shuffling through your head for a barrage of excuses. “Ehhh call that like, focused meditation, I just really concentrate on the most important thing and, ehhh, ya’ know. . .”

Unsurprisingly, Loona wasn’t biting. Not in the fun way, at least.

You cleared your throat. Loona stared at you while you straightened up, your customer-servile grin stretching your features. She was waiting. Theeen the grin vanished, your bun nose wiggling and lips cascading into a sodden expression.

“Not buyin’ it are ya’.”

“Nnnoooope.”

Your ears flicked up – Blitz was still seeking some measure of monetary discovery, but the sounds were clearly slowing, fading. He was gonna pop outta his office any second.

Licking your lips and dawning nervous smirk, your posture took one of pleading. “Ohohokay. You wouldn’t mind just lettin’ that one slide would ya?”

Your brain flashed to the Manager. That corkscrew facsimile of a never-ending rictus grin swam into your head, imagining the protocol you'd violate if you were ever caught snoozing at All Meats. Didn't figure your second Boss was any different. . .

You managed a forced, totally-not-worried chuckle. “I meaaaan he’s got enough to deal with, he don’t need to know about my little, uh, shuteye? Righighit?”

Loona watched your forced act melt away in place of the real you, or at least a side of it. She checked her black fingerclaws. “Dunno’ man, seems like somethin’ I should mention. . .”

Here, she smirked. And this was, you believe, the first time you saw her muzzle do anything besides growl or bare fangs. She wasn’t being serious, right?

“Come on dude, cut a fuckin’ guy a break!” you say, tone fracturing between attempted confidence and genuine plea.

Gotcha, she thought.

“Hmm,” Loona said, pantomiming a sarcastic claw tap on her black lip. “I might give ya’ some breathin’ room.”

Oh, ohhh. Uh huh. Okay. She wanted something. Aw fuckaroo, what was this gonna be?

Her free hand pointed behind her. “See that fucker?”

It was a filing cabinet, or the imitation of one, because what should be a furnishing of pristine organization was instead a mass of disorganized papers and folders oozing out of half-opened drawers, visual food stains (or so you hoped, PLEASE be food) splattering its green exterior.

“Y-yeah?”

“Fix it.”

You blinked, staring at the mess. Oh. “What, you mean like. . . screw it back into place?”

“No,” she said, tone low. “I mean fix Blitz’s goddamn mess. He’s been on my ass to get that shit organized and. . .”

She threw her hands to the side. “No. Hell no.”

Aw, huh. Well. You rub your head again. Paperwork? Definitely lighter than a goddamn fuckin’ rock. Then you kinda. . . snort laugh. Veeeery funny, Loona.

“Are you blackmailin’ me?”

Her visage takes on a sinister expression, head wobbling in mocking fashion. “WeRe yOu slEEpiNg oN the jOB.”

Then she responds with a surprising snicker of her own. “Blitz can barely keep track of his last piss, and he expects ME to be the one with a functioning brain. Just fix it, dude.”

She then side-glances towards Blitz’s office door, rolling her eyes with an annoyed huff. One hand raises a finger while her eyes dart back to her Hellphone, seamlessly tapping away, as if expecting something.

The door crashes open, Blitz tumbling out in a furious tumble, his head plastered with sweat and his suit covered in a patchwork of sticky notes, pulled pockets, and empty, bloody wallets. Yeeep, there he was. As he did so, the entrance to IMP also parted open, a pair of small figures taking a single step into the foyer. Mox and Mil finally arrived, carrying a pair of coffees and sharing a bright conversation about the finer nuances of stage play, or at least, what Moxxie chattered on about.

Loona’s features tug with an annoyed growl.

When the two entered, they spied the frantically standing Blitz. Moxxie tilted his head in worried but realizing fashion, while Millie offered a small handwave. They also spied Loona, and in proximity, you.

Blitz yanked his head towards his “beloved” staff, then back to Loona, then a brief glance to you. “EM AND EM!” he said, a cracked megaphone coalescing from his side.

“GET YOUR DICKS AND TITS OUT, BITCHES! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!”

They barely had time to process what was happening. Moxxie’s lips tugged downward. “Uh, sir?”

Millie chuckled. “Mooornin’ boss!”

Her wide, yellow eyes scanned the room, spying the faux-equine project, then Loona, then you. They seemed, for the moment, indifferent to Blitz’s abrupt howling.

“Ya’ tryin’ arts and crafts today, boss?” she added.

Moxxie took a studious look at the occurrence, mentally processed what had happened and what was about to happen. “Oh. . . crumbs.”

Blitz charged forward, placing the megaphone directly against Moxxie’s head. “NO TIME FOR SHITCHAT, BABYWEEN!”

Moxxie stumbled backward, clamping his clawed hands against his head. “GAGH! SIR!”

Moxxie watched her husband fall, patting his head as she gave her boss a once over, soaking in his tattered suit and visual display of monetary displacement. She blinked twice, tilting her head to spy the “artsy project” Blitz was obsessively working on.

“Aw hun, ya’ didn’t blow a load on another pony project, didja?”

Blitz kept his sucked in smile with beads of erratic sweat causing his crimson white-spotted flesh to glisten. “Nnnnnnot the point, murdertits!”

Mox gave an appreciative smile to his partner while she lifted him up, returning his attention to Blitz. He crossed his arms. “You spent all our money again, didn’t you?”

Blitz soured and pushed his finger into Moxxie’s chest. “Only because you FFFFUUUCKED the invoices, MOX!”

Then, he swirled his attention to Loona. “Sweeetie, daddy has to run a little eeny-teeny-baby-weenie errand! HOLD ALL MY CALLS!”

Loona responded by canting her hips to the side, crossing her arms. “Yeah? What if it’s Stolas?”

A wave of panic spread over Blitz and he threw the megaphone against the wall, creating a new crack. “ESPECIALLY if it’s STOLAS! Tell em. . . fuuUUUUCk, tell em’ his favorite face saddle has to get a cleansing today! ALL DAY!”

Moxxie rubbed his temples in aggravated, circular motions. “I can’t fucking believe you, sir.”

Blitz grabbed his cohort by the suit and shook em. “Stop with the fucking potty mouth in fronta’ my CHILD!”

Loona’s hackles raised. “ADOPTED.”

“She swears almost as much as you!” protested Moxxie, pushing his boss away.

Blitz appeared to ignore this before grabbing both Mox and Mil by the wrists, yanking them towards the door. “No time to debate your eating disorder, chubs! Get your HO and let’s GO!”

Millie took on a wild smirk. “Go? Where!?”

Blitz tugged his employees along in frantic manner, practically lifting them into the air as he dashed towards the door. “TO THE HOMELESS GRAVE! GET YOUR SHOVELS!”

Watching the scene unfold in a hapless state, you nudged past Loona and raised an arm. “W-wait! Wait! Boss! Boss!? W-what should I do?”

As if remembering the fact you still exist, Blitz cracked his head towards you, giving a slow blink. “Huh!?”

His selective brain momentarily recalled your existence. “JERKSON!” he bellowed. “Inventory my glitter stash! ALL OF IT! Sparkledicks is lookin’ a little patchy on the side. . .”

Mox tumbled loosely against Blitz’s grip, muttering protests in response. “. . .but doesn’t he deliv-”

SLAM. As soon as the chaotic surge of energy and confusion rose up like a storm of financial anxiety, it ended the moment Blitz dragged his two murder professionals along for his next “need-fuckin’-money-now” hare-brained scheme.

You stood, head lulling to the side. Your arms went wide, asking a question that nobody would answer. “What the fuck just happened?”

What did he say? Inventory his glitter? Sooo. . . guess Boss had better ideas than moving around a giant, malformed horse-rock, huh? Like, getting more money. Money which you desperately needed. Thinking, back, ya’ did notice invoices for Blitz always took a little time getting handled. Ugh. That was a lot of info to process in the span of a few minutes.

Loona, relieved to have her peace and quiet back, sauntered away past the desk to fiddle with something in the room’s corner – probably a secret hoard of personal snacks or Hellhound treats Blitz didn’t allow her to have “on the job.”

Feh! Well, alright. You had two options: dive into Blitz’s impossible, onerous task which – if even completed – he probably would have no direct memory of. OR help Loona, and “help” was a liberal use of the term considering she had you on a bit of a leash. Not that you minded, really. Filing papers was perhaps one of the least laborious tasks you could think of, free of pulsing viscera or shifting around inordinately heavy inventory. And, hey, she actually noticed what you’d done for the IMP office, even had the decency to know what to call you, even if it mostly “dumbass.”

Surreal relief took hold of you. No need to perform or force a smile, just complete a simple task. And simple it was, honestly. While Loona busied herself doing whatever, you wandered to the absolute thrashed state of the filing cabinet, fingers deftly running over its edges and sifting through the fat wads of disorganized papers, folders, and. . . objects stuffed hastily into it.

Your body shifted, your mind snapped to focus. Old, forced habits took control of your frame. With blunt, mechanical efficiency, you began to wade through each and every one of the papers, setting them aside and scanning them over, like a machine sapping data into its memory banks. A quick, practiced rhythm orchestrated your every little movement while you sorted them into a variety of small, growing piles.

Categories: invoices, clients, names, dates, signed writs, moldy magazine clippings of horse pictures, Blitz’s bad poetry, scribbled mementos. . .

Color code. File, excise, exhume, extract. Alphabetize. Coordinate by importance.

Erroneous: bad doodles, receipts from a derelict coffee shop, an old sandwich(!?), fruitless ideas for financial endeavors. Trash. Keep. Dispose. Prioritize. Update. You kept a managed, precise stream of thought, all hard-focused on details. Organize, adapt. Efficiency. Key word was efficiency.

So lost in your seemingly autonomous state you barely registered the appearance of a Styrofoam coffee cup appearing at your side. You stopped, blinking, like you snapped out of a haze. Glancing down, there was indeed a freshly brewed serving of coffee, set there by. . .

Loona? No. She was back at her desk already, cheek resting on her fist while she stared at the computer monitor in a half-interested state. Huh.

You almost said “thanks,” but decided against it. Focus on your task, sir. Though, a bit of a “get up and go” might help. You took a sip of the produced coffee. . . aaaand. Yeah, not quite. Quickly your hand shuffled into your pocket of “good times” and produced a pill of pure energy and adrenalin, your go-to buddy, your compadre at arms for the shifts at ALL MEATS. It vaporized and hissed into the black, hot liquid before you took a careful snip, taking an appreciative shudder once it hit your system. Oh, that’s that good shit.

With renewed, intense vigor, balancing out the files became a seamless, factory-standard project. It was nothing, it was absolutely nothing. The sheer level of procedures, protocols, and processes you had to accomplish at ALL MEATS beyond meat-cutting labor made this particular task a game.

Reserve, restore, remove, recalibrate. It was just a metaphorical tangle of wires needing some fine tuning. Dispatch, delete, detail.

With your seamless, precise handling of the papers, Loona’s ear flicked at the sheer momentum of your movements. She looked over, blinking. Not an annoying peep, not a grumble, not a blare of curses or loud noises, just the oddly calming sounds of papers tucked neatly together as the filing cabinet looked more and more like its actual purpose.

Almost done then, huh? There was just a few more crammed, needless files that required disposing of. You reached into the empty stomach of the last drawer, pulling out. . . ah?

You froze for a sec. You didn’t pull out a document or one of Blitz’s erotic songs about riding demonic equines into an orgasmic Hell horizon. . . what you discovered was, instead, a picture. And not a pictorial of one of Blitz’s strange fetishes, it was instead. . . a photo. A family photo? Or something like it. In the image was Blitz, Moxxie, Millie, and a younger Loona, their heads crammed together, all wearing bright, excited grins – save for the Hellhound who looked passively amused – bright red ink etched on the bottom: FIRST JOB!

Hmm. Observation? Asset retention anxiety. Hypothesis? Abandonment driven hoarding. . .

Like a twitching gear, it clicked. Oh. Ohhhhh. Your brain recalled what Blitz shrieked a moment earlier: she’s my child. She wasn’t just the secretary for the Immediate Murder Professionals, she was yeah, adopted. You barely registered the detail with all the canoodling chaos from before. Your eye twitched, remember your first “staff” photo at ALL MEATS, when you wore a frantic, forced smile expression with the Manager towering behind you. In the photo of IMP, there was a chaotic sense of familial warmth - disjointed sure, but still there. At ALL MEATS? Brrrr.

Sooo. . . file? Delete. No. . . necessary.

You placed the picture, carefully, into its own space, separate from the now neatly stacked files, papers, and folders. What, perhaps, could’ve taken Loona and company weeks, maybe months of sorting and managing to form a sense of statistical cohesion, you’d done it in about, eh, less than half an hour?

. . .did this count as overtime?

“All done,” you announced, dusting off your hands and stretching your back, downing the last of the coffee. “Am I off the hook now?”

All files were neatly tucked away into their respective drawer, starting with critical importance, highlighted by color, arranged alphabetically, and ideally immune from Blitz’s chaotic shenanigans. Your other hand grasped another folder, a single file with a very important picture contained within.

Loona’s head snapped up and she shot a surprised gaze at you. Her eyes went wide, tugged with confusion, tilting her stare past you in disbelief: the once unassailable labyrinth of printed records were now, finally, in their appropriate, designated places.

She checked the time on the monitor. “Wha. . . what? You’re done?”

You walk forward, putting the file on Loona’s desk, offering a silent nod. “Keep that one.”

Loona eyes the file then pushes up, shoving past you. Her taller frame leans over the filing cabinet in bewilderment. “No fuckin’ way. . .”

She opens every drawer, rolling her fingers over the neat assemblage of papers, then closes it, then opens it again like it’s some magic illusion. She looks behind it, around it, over it, half expecting to find some secret hole or pocket where wayward papers were lazily crammed. But nope. All there.

Then she glares back, squinting her eyes and studying you with cautious alarm. “. . .ooookay dude, what the actual shit? Are you some kinda’ fed?”

They got feds in Hell, now?

In any case, you are admittedly confused. Was it that hard to believe? It seemed like fairly standard paperwork organization. . . to you, at least. You absentmindedly rub your neck, where the hint of the metallic nub pushes through your scruff of thick bunny fur.

“Musta’ been the coffee,” you smirk. Then, you clear your throat. “Ahm. Sooo. . . you won’t tell Boss then, yeah? About the little uh, bun nap?”

Loona blinked again. Oh, yeah, that. “Huh?” She pushed her fingers against her head. “Yeah, whatever man. Wasn’t gonna’ do it anyway.”

Like, how? How did this Sinner held together with a forced smile, staplers, and acid-booze manage to decipher the entirety of Blitz’s haphazard corkscrew codex? In less than a day? In less than an hour!? Even the little chubby dweeb, Mox, had taken a few swings at it and completely broke down every single time.

You smile, creating that eerie rictus grin. She wasn’t? Neat!

“And quit doin’ that shit!” scowled Loona. It conjured images of the animatronic thing back at ALL MEATS. Fake and fucky-freaky.

“Do what?”

You rub your jaw, realizing the ache in your stretched features. Oh. Kinda’ like a little switch, at this point. Bosses do love a smile, right?

Yeah, but she’s not your boss, man.

Hmm. So she isn’t!

“Sorry! Baaad habits, I guess.”

Wordlessly she held out her hand, waving it between you and the pristine filing cabinet, waiting for an explanation.

You hesitate to answer, partly because you don’t want to answer. You know why you’re “good” at it. And yet, being good means all the brutalistic methods of that place work. And you’re tired of it all just being work.

You shrug, downplaying the efficiency. “Ahh ya’ know, first job is paper work and people pleasin’. It’s nothin’.”

Loona crossed her arms, tilting her head. “What, ya’ do that bullshit at ALL MEATS?”

You flinch and glance away. Oh, that’s right, she’s been to your place of work, you kinda’ forgot. And, frankly, you’d rather keep the distance between here and there as far as possible, even if the tracker makes it moot. “It’s not that important, is it?”

She scoffs. “Dude, even Blitz is gonna’ notice, and that’s just. . .” she starts to mutter. “Fuckin’ impossible.”

“He’ll wanna know how,” she added.

You look back at her. “Eh?” Your tall ears twitch like a pair of contemplative antennae. “I dunno. I’ll say it was you.”

Once again, she’s perplexed. “Scuse’ me?”

You put your hands on your hips. You don’t really care, it’s nothing. “Heh, why not? That is the tail end of blackmail, right?”

She throws up her arms. “Oh my Sata-, DUDE, it was a fuckin’ joke.”

Oh. Um. Hahaha?

“You’re seriously not gonna’ take credit?” she went on. “For any of that shit?”

Okay, now you’re getting confused. “Fooor. . .” You look back at the pristine filing job. “Routine paperwork?”

What, precisely, was so praise worthy about that? It was a very mundane goal. . . for you, anyway. You rubbed your arm in uncomfortable fashion, ensuring it was still meat and bunbone, not mechanical.

Routine? At this point, Loona could see acknowledgement of his own personal “skillsets” was nothing if nonexistent.

“Really, Loona,” you went on. “I don’t care. Boss seems like, ah, a lot? Maybe he gets off your back or somethin’.”

Loona’s ears flicked forward. The dumb bun genuinely, actually meant that, didn’t he? Like, no motives? No goals? No hidden sneers wanting a favor? Cuz’ that was just about every other asswipe in Pentagram City and beyond. She shook her head. Didn’t believe it. . . no way this rabbit was bein’ honest. Right?

“Ohoho fuuuck no, nice fuckin’ try, Jakey.”

Nah, she wasn’t fallin’ for it. “I see what you’re tryin’ to pull now,” she said, leaning forward. “Blitz thinks I did it then he’ll dump all his bullshit. On. ME.”

Your eyes widen, realization settling over you. “W-what? No! No way, man!”

She wiggled her clawed finger at you in circular patterns. “Yeeaah, I get it now! Make me out like a goddamn prodigy so you don’t have to deal with more of his shit!”

You flinch again. She wasn’t being serious, right? Did she really believe you were tryin’ to offset some laborious workload on her? You wagged your hands in front of you in defensive protest.

“Like fuck I’m gonna get stuck here all damn day!” she howled on.

She could hear it in her head, Blitz’s ringing, gooey-sweet voice: Sweetie, can you organize daddy’s Exotic Equestrians of Excellence for me? Ooh, ooh, and do it by the prettiest ones, AND by my favorite color!

FuuUUUUUUUuuuck no.

“Hey, okay, okay!” you speak up. “Just relax! I’ll say it was me, see? No problem!” you start to grin again, but then snap if off. Don’t do that, she doesn’t like that.

She growls. “I AM relaxed.”

There’s a momentary pause. Loona blinks, realizing she’s panting with heated, near-furious breaths, then straightens up. She flicks up her Hellphone, tapping into it – or pretends to. She’s not looking at anything.

“Tall nail gets the hammer,” you offer with an attempt at a genuine smirk.

She doesn’t respond, but stops faux-tapping.

“I get it, I get it. Good work equals more work. You already look busy with your, ah, ahem, desk duties.”

Her tone takes on a low, almost inaudible grumble, though your tall rabbit ears pick it up easily. “Tsh. Got that right. . .”

Now Jakob had no choice but to take allll the blame for his uncanny ability to organize Blitz’s childish excuse of file management. He’d have no choice but to take on additional tasks beyond delivery, if the Imp boss felt so inclined. No more constant nags from her adoptive guardian to “pleeeease Loona, please put at least one file in the right spot,” or some other shit. She was off the hook. AND Jakob would have to show up more, keep her load lighter, be around more.

Be. . . here.

He was still way too relaxed about this though. She turned now, going back to her desk, plopping down in front of the monitor while she set the Hellphone at her side. Again, she stared, but at nothing in particular.

“Don’t expect any overtime,” she chided, like she was fishing for something, a motive. But this time, she didn’t hear him respond. Aww, was the little bun all angry now, giving her the cold shoulder? She cast him an annoyed leer, only to see his back turned, staring at the perfectly pristine filing system, his hand on his neck where the metallic nub lie nestled like a bloodthirsty bleeping tick. He was still, quiet, and motionless. His posture sagged, indicating a subtle discomfort.

She parted her black lips to again speak, drive the knife in more with an additional snide comment, but she stopped. The strangest, fuckiest thought pushed into her head.

. . .just. . . lay off em’.

A quiet sigh left her. Her eyes wandered down, to the desk, spying the file Jakob put there. With a half-interested motion she flicked it open, and saw the photo.

FIRST JOB.

A moment of revulsion took over her, then the deepest roll of the eyes. Ew, wow, what a keeper. Another huff. She tugged open the desk drawer and. . . carefully placed it inside, pushing aside a few pens and that stupid-ass ALL MEATS button. She. . . nudged the drawer closed, stowing the irritating memory away.

Safely.

Getmeoutgetmeoutgimmeoutgimmeout.

Cold confining room with walls that enclose around you like a boxy cage, heaving tremors underneath, above, around, everywhere, thrum of grinding machinery muffled by a closed, sliding door. A desk, a suggestion, an imitation of normalcy. Monitor: count one. Maybe for show, maybe used, feels unnecessary, but it’s there. White, acid light pouring above, dizzying, buzzy, washing your sensitive tall ears in a miasmatic, hypnotic noise.

Pictures on the wall, blemished and gray. One large, framed image: it’s you, thick clunky hands resting on your shoulder with a looming, overwhelming figure behind: Rictus, endless grin. Surrounded by an armada of policy procedures and ALL MEATS protocol. Snippets of “helpful hints” scattered about.

Safety is a suggestion! Smiles are not!

Remember, ALL MEATS requires ALL LIMBS!

Be a star! Ask about overtime, all the time!

Your hands sit at your side, rigid. You clench your jaw. You’re looking but you aren’t looking. The tacky, red-striped button shirt feels uncomfortable with the bloody crimson tie snug around your neck.

There he sits, brassy complexion shimmering against the aching lights. Fat, ceaseless grin, endless dead gaze with those pitiless sockets. Still enormous, still looming, his knife-like ears grinding with frustrated twitches against old mechanical parts.

Satan where is your booze, you need a drink, you want a drink, just to pretend to feel something. How long has been ambling on? How long has this “meeting” taken?

“. . .wraps up the EXCITING rundown of our newest products! BOY, what a bargain, huh? Who knew the demand for Imp product could SPIKE so much, right?”

You don’t move. “Yes sir. Good product. Great product.”

The Manager will not let you go, won’t let you breathe out of order, won’t stop staring.

“What’s that AMAZING new pitch you’ll give with the brightest, ALL MEATS smile, Mr. Jakobson?”

Every “spoken” word lights up those gravestones called teeth, static-y distortion laboring over every syllable and sound.

Your eyes wander up a moment, glancing at that goddamn photo, the younger you plastered with an uncertain but vaguely optimistic expression. Like a voicemail, you spit it out.

“Would you like to try our new ALL MEATS, All Purpose Slurry with your choice of flavoring?” you blurt out, monotone and flat.

The Manager makes a fraction of a forward movement. “And the hook! Remember that wonderful, customer satisfactory hook!”

You close your eyes. “Now with twenty percent more authentically sourced meat and meat byproduct. . .”

It splays out its arms, and you’re expected to keep rhythm. You both say, in a violent harmony: “At ALL MEATS, it’s ALL YOURS!”

The Manager goes on in that chiding, high-noted overly positive tone, coated with so much oily false charm and malicious kindness. “WOW! You remembered after twelve consecutive tries! That’s even better than LAST time! You’re one HECK of a product, Mr. Jakobson!”

Your jaw clenches harder. “Thanks.”

A pause. “Sir.”

“Oh don’t SWEAT it, Mr. Jakobson! Just while on the job, HAH! You’re getting closer and closer to that PROMOTION, I can FEEL IT!”

No, no thank you, none of that. You want to scream it, to say NO, but you. . . just can’t. Mortal safety, for one thing, compels you to keep your wits.

“And this REALLY is the perfect time for our latest, tastiest meat treat!” ambles on the Manager, who now stands, his looming, lean autonomous body towering over you. Never let the lankiness of the machine fool you, the fucker was big.

“Processed Imp carcass and offal got BIG on the markets!” it says. You look away. You really don’t need the details, but you’re gonna get em.

“Lucky for US, huh?”

. . .lucky why?

“You’re a valuable set of eyes and ears!” it said, clanking forward with deep, metallic thuds. He stood over you, that single scarlet iris burrowing into your features. “You’ve been spending SO much time in the Imp City district, right!?”

It jabs your stomach with a sharp, spiked elbow. You wince but don’t make a sound. Wait, what? Whyyy was he asking you that?

“Sometimes,” you mutter, your body tensing and breath holding. “Just a place to drink.” You can see the narrowing of the scarlet, bloody iris burning into you, like its sapping all your strength just to stand there.

Fucking fucker. Fuck! As if you could forget the tracker keeping a parasitic pulse on your every move, especially where you’d been over the past couple of months.

The Manager ignores this. “Oh I’m sure the watering holes are full of DISTRACTING fun! But they’re also full of IMPS! So, HEY, why not do your part and keep an eye on some prime estate, ehhh?”

You freeze like a rabbit facing down the diving talons of a predator. No, don’t even think it, don’t think of them, don’t remember their names, do NOT, because you’re half terrified even a mental image of your other job is enough for the Manager to know.

“Plenty of homeless,” you rush to say.

“Oh no no no! The homeless we get by the handful! We need inventory that’s unspoiled! Fresher, livelier!”

It was so close now, you could scarcely make out what sounded like breathing, or the heaving, rancid imitation of lungs.

Again, you attempt to deflect. Just get out, just get ouuuuut.

“I’ll uh, keep my eyes peeled.”

It rests a sharp, enormous hand on your shoulder, the frayed metal threatening to dig into your skin.

“Eyes OPEN! What a TEAM player you are! Really, you should try it MY WAY some time!” it says, its free hand tapping at the brassy fixture it called a head, causing you to glance at those unblinking, endless sockets.

“I think mine are okay,” you deflect, shuddering at the suggested implication. “I’ll. . . I’ll let you know.”

At this, the Manager releases you, it’s tendril limb sprawling and extending back to the desk, around it, then under it, procuring a wad of fat documents before shoving said papers into your chest.

“Exactly, YOU WILL! Fill out these Inventory Assessment Forms with a complete arrangement of itinerary! After all, memory is a FUNNY thing, so your ORGANIZATON aptitude will be perfect for this! Give it your ALL MEATS best!”

Your stoic frame sagged, gripping the papers with sickened disbelief. Shit. He was gonna’ want an actual report, not just random guesses or hints. You weren’t gonna ask what happened if you didn’t get the ALL MEATS brand tangible, usable reports. You knew.

You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “W-what are you looking for?

The Manager folds its hands together. “ALL MEATS Incorporated is a magical, amazing place, so we’ve got the heavy lifting down! Mass production is easy, but CHOICE Imp cuts are the specialty product!”

You closed your eyes.

It continued. “Determine and assess with that wonderful ALL MEATS training, at your discretion! You’ve got those KEEN observation skills, Jakob!”

What passes for your heart sinks into your stomach. You quickly build a fortress of mental escapes, ways out. Assessment? Botch reports, generate erroneous details, create junk data. Formulate excuses, damage the paperwork. Delay with. . . additional overtime.

“I’ll try my best, sir,” you say, the words like acid on your tongue. Now you force a fractured grin. “But it might be hard if I’m doing all that extra work around here.”

The Manager makes a cheery whistle. “Ooooh! Overworked at ALL MEATS? No such thing! Wow, now you’re getting into the spirit of things! I can clock you in for a full weekend, pretty nifty huh?”

You’re already tired. “Suuuure is.”

Again it clams that vice of a hand on your shoulder, in proximity to the tracker. “Well, those Imps aren’t going anywhere! There’s a whole DISTRICT of them! Juuuust review those itinerary reports, top to bottom! It’ll be, ahhhh, challenging! Yeah! CHALLENGING.”

It taps the fat stack of “Inventory Assessment Papers” with expectant demand.

“Keep those peepers wide! You never know what you’ll find, Mr. Jakobson!”

With the “meeting” finished, you stifle a lurching shiver and turn to make your exit past the sliding door, groaning at your footstep, like it knows where you are, where you’re going. Couldn’t make an exit: stage Hell fast enough if you tried. The exterior is doused in the rancid smoky aura of blood-tinged clouds, creating a miniature poisonous atmosphere of vaporized carnage. Blood rain soon, you weren’t gonna stick around for the viscera shower.

Sooo, overtime to keep the Boss busy, figure out these reports later. You stifled the implications, shoved them into the back of your head. Fine, fine. Nothing you couldn’t handle. With your jacket hung around your shoulder, you sneak out your “after work” flask and knock the whole thing back. It does, of course, nothing, but it’s the thought that counts! Then you seek out some of that sweeeet nectar, old lady Deathwish.

“Heey good lookin’,” you say to the silvery-pen shaped object between your fingers as you waltz away from the towering ALL MEATS conglomerate. “Ya’ miss meeee baby?”

You go for a hit and. . . nothin’. Nothing!? Oh, fwuh, she was runnin’ dry! Shit! Well, pit stop time. An eerie Hellrise eats up the horizon, the sprawl of morning spreading its reddish fingers over the landscape of Pentagram City. Oh, huh, you forgot the time. Well, whatever, sleep could wait for another time. First things first, Chlorine Gargoyle.

Same general spasm of sights, modified freakshows galore dotting the exterior, even during a virgin morning. You shuffle in, keeping your frame low and out of sight. No need for another Stitches showdown right now. Instead, you slip over to the barkeep – your metaphorical vending machine for the good shit.

Here. . . towers a familiar. She is, you’re pretty sure, the daughter of a wolf and a fucking tank. Great, shifting tectonic plates of muscle pulse from her every frame, rockin’ abs as hard as concrete with a thundering of height of, mm, say about ten goddamn feet? A black spiked cap covers a wild, frantic sprawl of angry, sharp bangs and long, violent cascading black hair. Gunmetal grey fur with a rough outfit torn at the seams, custom for her size. All anyone ever saw of the gal’s face was her fuckoff beartrap muzzle with an equal arsenal of steel slicin’ teeth. Big, ya dig? Big everywhere. She had zero humility about it either, flexing her body, arms, backside, front. She knew what she had.

O’ natural, too, not a single hint of implant on her Hellhound body. Guess ya gotta have fists that can clobber asphalt if you’re gonna host a dive like the Gargle.

You sit. “Dezz.”

This is how it goes. You see her, she “senses” you. She crosses her arms under those goddamn tankbusters she calls “tits” and sneers.

“Stitches.”

Accented voice. Pleasantly rough.

Her muzzle points down, her tall, pierced ears flicking towards the stack of assessment papers. “No fahkin’ skin mags on my table.”

You look past her, at nothing. “Work stuff,” you explain.

She rumbles with a mocking yet, oddly, understanding chuckle. “Work stuff.”

She keeps her words quick, succinct, and necessary. She sees you, without seeing you.

“Usuals?”

You rub your chin, eager to shake off the Manager’s newest demand and prepare for the onslaught of overwhelming workdays no doubt ahead.

“Gimme the Gangbang,” you say, tapping the documents in rigid rhythm.

She lets off a gunshot cackle. “Bah! Aha! Ya’ got fahked.”

You return a dry laugh too. “Like a Valentino special.”

Despite her seismic frame she makes a disappearance that’s alarmingly quiet, returning only to give you the Gangbang (her nickname, not yours). It is a spread of your poisons of choice, a stock of sweet Deathwish and one bottle of 20mg supplemental pills, count 30, Adrenalcine-5. Dezz calls it “Thumpfucker.” You just call it “get me through my goddamn shift.”

You fumble into your pocket, takin’ about, ohhh, just about all of your paycheck’s worth to pay. She snorts.

“Nah,” she says, jamming a finger behind her. “Backroom. Ten minutes. Rough and raw.”

Now you snort, rolling your eyes at her voracious implication. “Dezzzz.”

Snarling grin, hand comes down to ruffle your charcoal hair.

“Loosen the fahk up, Stichy.”

She tries that angle with you from time to time. She likes. . . rabbits, apparently. But, you are at present moment, in desperate need of your spine and overall skeletal structure. Instead, you wiggle a clockwise finger in the air and then pay the tittybeast.

“Loosen me up, then.”

Ploink. Fat glass appears before you. Something something possibly whiskey something. Down it goes!

She sticks around in your proximity, creating this. . . quiet barrier that bounces off other wandering patrons who wager ol Stitches is here for a cashcow drinkin’ session. You thank her with your steady, solemn company.

A sprawl of monitors hung behind her offer a blitz of Pentagram City’s ad campaigns. There are, at moment, a dominating sprawl of VoxTec products and headlines by Channel 666 news. Royalty is abuzz, Hotels are open, something about Exterminations may be happening. You sit, you listen, you imitate thinking.

Dezz waits, shoving the glass forward. “Just one?”

Yeah sure, just one. You only came by to grab your survival gear. Before you respond, however, another ad plays, the exciting, jubilant jingle of the Immediate Murder Professionals. Your eyes snatch up and you affix your gaze to it. Mox, Millie, and Blitz perform a barrage of beatdowns and violent guarantees promoting the identity and client satisfaction guarantees of IMP.

You scratch your neck, massaging the hidden tracker. Dezz can hear your subtle, physical shifts and the concoction of discomfort and, what you believe is a feeling of concern. You see a few, flashing hints of Loona.

Eh. Just two drinks.

The blank assessment reports feel heavy under your hand.

Juuust. Three drinks.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

How about five, buddy boy?

Dezz keeps em’ rollin in. She isn’t concerned, this is your freakish normal. By now, the big fellas would start droolin’, seesawing on the barstool.

Eight is good. Ten’s better. Hey, you like thirteen, that’s a lucky number, right?

C’moooon baby, just gimme’ somethin, gimme a buzz, give me a feeling. Heh, nope.

The rough, wolfish voice cuts in. “Tent’s in the alley if ya’ doin’ this shit today.”

Huh?

You return to reality, glancing down at the empty shot glass in your hand. Wait, the fuck? “Oh. Oh shit, what time is it?”

Dezz leans forward, her “ballistics” flattening on the table, slamming one hand on the bar while waving a hand in front of her bangs in aggressive manner.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

No sight. Instead, you yank out your Hellphone, battery depleting. Sweet wheezing Jesus it’s noon. And worse, WORSE! You have a text! . . . a text? Your fingers stumble along the screen. It’s from Loona.

Hey. Blitz wants food.

“OhfuckIgottago!” you sputter, stumbling off the barstool, grabbing the Gangbang offerings and your newest assignment from ALL MEATS. Your mind flicks in a different direction, the brooding blocky building of work vanishes in your mind, drinking is no longer important, nothing else matters, ya’ just gotta get.

‘Bout a week after the ‘filing cabinet fiasco,’ your terms with IMP are. . . reasonable. Moxxie, upon seeing the pristine placement of documents, was in stupefied disbelief, if not frustrated, given his attempts to solve Blitz’s filing fuckery were beyond even him. Blitz, meanwhile, had paid it a minutia of attention, grateful in that he could finally categorize his favorite equestrian magazines and associated orders at his whim. The only one to even acknowledge the deed, even if it was on a level seeking personal relief, was Loona.

This evolved, at the very least, in her remembering your number. Nothing came of it, no casual messages were tossed between you and her. She, rather, found it convenient to have you on a “phone leash” instead of chasing you down like before.

Sure, technically it was a work text, but you preferred it. As you ducked out of the Chlorine Gargoyle, darting toward the Imp District, you fumbled a response.

Can do! What’s on the menu?

You stagger through the streets, pausing. Your tall ears flick up and feel the weight of the ALL MEATS documents clutched at your side. Gritting your teeth, you fold them up, stuffing them away in your interior jacket pocket. Didn’t wanna’ think about that right now.

You waited.

Bzzzzt.

Lol not typin all that shit

Come to office

Ah, well, okay then! Whatever, no biggie, at least it got you faaaar away from “work.” Well, as far as the tracker let you feel, anyway.

-*-

“. . .just sayin’, roundabout, little salad won’t kill ya!”

Mox grumbled at the meeting table, mouth sagging with a frown. He pantomimed his hands in front of him, protesting.

“I’m. NOOOT.”

“Why ya’ afraid of veggies, thunderthighs?” egged on Blitz, wearing a sneer. “Is it because they’re greeeeen?”

Millie was next to him, pecking him on the cheek with a sweet kiss. “Aww, Moxxie, you’re cute with a lil’ belly!”

Mox was shocked, gazing at his wife, though softening in a perplexed smile. “O-oh, you think, I mean. . . hey, wait, but I’m NOOOOT FAAAT!”

She giggled, curling her tail around him.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say pebblenuts,” Blitz went on, his backed turned to IMP, doodling a poorly drawn, very rotund Moxxie on the whiteboard.

“Wugh, speakin’ of eats, I’m starvin’ like a gay guy in a lez bar? Where’s our delivery duntz?”

He grinned, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he drew a particularly round Moxxie and then himself as a buff, cash-drowning buff guy. “Feelin’ pretty good after that last job, pockets are about as big as Moxxie’s waist line, hah! And I am paaarched.”

“Hungry,” snarled back Mox, Millie still holding him in a loving embrace. “The word you’re looking for is HUNGRY, sir.”

“Yeahyeahyeah, in a minute Atkins bar,” ignored Blitz, tilted his head toward Loona, who was muzzle deep in her Hellphone.

“Sweetie, didja’ get daddies special order? Tell em I wanted in a shape of me riding a horse surrounded by bags of money!”

Loona didn’t look up. “Uh. No?”

Mox turned his glare towards Loona. “Why is she the one asking for our luncheon?”

Loona had to stuff down a chiding snort. Luncheon? Oh my god, fucking dweeb.

“Isn’t she supposed to be manning the desk?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be manning the treadmill?” she said, in a sardonic, mocking high pitched tone.

Blitz grinned and sauntered towards his beloved daughter. “See Mox? Even Loonie sees it. Besides, my pwecious baby is the only one I trust with my specialty meals, right honey?”

His eyes sparkled at her, and she growled, leaning away. “I didn’t type all that shit.”

Millie titled her head, giving a soft frown. “Aww, really? I had mine raw! Aaaand cook to order.”

Moxxie sputtered and waggled his hands around. “Dagh! D-do! D’you SEE!?”

Blitz raised a finger. “Mox, stop pissin’ your pants, my smart, brilliant, genius daughter has a perfectly good reason.”

He blinked at her. “Uh. What’s the reason, honey?”

An eyeroll. “Adopted.”

She shoved Blitz an arm’s distance away, muzzle fracturing with another growl. “And because I’M the only one with our delivery guy’s fuckin number and name.”

Moxxie’s eyes twitched, staring at Blitz. “Sir, you don’t even have Mr. Jackson’s NUMBER!?”

Here, Loona’s eyes rose up from her Hellphone and affixed Mox with a narrow, quiet but furious stare.

“JAKOB.”

She burrowed her fingers into the bridge of her muzzle. “JAY. KOB. Fuck, he’s been working here two months and you still can’t remember his goddamn name!?”

Mox blinked, drawing back in his seat, if only for a moment.

He said the name aloud, like it sounded wrong, like he couldn’t possibly misremember it. “Jakob?”

Blitz slow blinked, tapping his chin. “What, really? Coulda’ sworn it was Jinglehimer or Schmitty. . .”

Her eyes snapped shut, an early headache clamping around her skull. “You signed. His paycheck. LAST. WEEK.”

Blitz shrugged, nodding. “Mmhm, mmhm, great! Sooooo, that gets us closer to lunch hoooow?”

Mox was muttering with his wife, asking in pleaded questions how he could’ve made such an oversight. She returned with another kiss, whispering ‘aw that’s okay, I didn’t remember neither!’

Loona grunted, shoved up from the table, and marched outside the meeting room door. Blitz called after. “Loonie! Looonie, baby waaaait, daddy’s hungry! Nums and noms, remember!? LOONA MY STOMACH!”

Yeah, she was good, needed a break from the dumbass twins starring one anger-management issue wife. She hopped to her desk, deciding the Hellnet would provide a welcome, mundane reprieve from the sheer, mind-obliterating incompetency of IMP. She sniffed. UGH.

One thing about working at IMP, and in Hell in general, was the offense of odors constantly present. Especially here. From mold to fungal-infected bloodstains to rancid, hidden food to hump-horny hellrats to the pungent rank of ever-present spunk, it was an assault on her senses. Everything was. Loud, buzzing noises. Blitz’s shrieking tones, the endless growl of Pentagram City. Pounding, sensory overload. Finding some goddamn quiet was impossible, but when she found it, it was a welcome oasis. Still, she got used to it – had to.

Speaking of irritating odors and unwanted noises, the office began to thud, thump, and vibrate. The ambiance of spongy tongues and sloppy kisses erupted from the meeting room, intermixed with Blitz’s approving chuckles. Nice. Breeders were back at it, again. God they fuckin’ reeked when they did this. She thought to light a cig so she could breathe in something like acrid nicotine, but Blitz specifically forbade it, like it really was the most offending thing to do.

Blugh. She rubbed her nose.

Huh. Wait, what was that. Her acute sense of smell picked up somethin’ else.

Something. . . not fuckin’ terrible?

It was kinda like. . . a smooth glass of freshly sipped whiskey, patterned against a bizarre mix of cig smoke and fur. But not like, an actual glass of bourbon, it lacked the harshness of a clipped open bottle. It was soft, in the background, subtle. Fragrant, kinda? Of all the things she had to forcibly“drink” with her nose, this one was passable. Fucking weirdly nice, even. Aaand it was getting closer?

Door parted open. Loona’s muzzle curled into a frown, ready to receive an obnoxious client.

Oh.

Snug in his haggard spiked jacket, Jakob eased through the door’s parting, his expression still, his footfalls measured, his presence quiet. Loona’s frown evened out.

He spotted her, but didn’t erupt in a loud hello, dash over to her desk and demand her attention, didn’t even force on that freakshow fucky grin. He just kinda came in and existed.

Cool.

He stopped, however, ears perking right up, ashy white fur blemishing with a hint of scarlet. His eyes boggled, very aware of the horny, humping fuck-raucous Mil and Mox were currently up to. Said ears peeled back, mimicking Loona’s irritated swivels.

“Yeah. I know,” she said in a low, muttering tone.

He gave an aghast, but understanding nod. Then: “Uhhh, heeeeey.”

Loona kept her eyes on the monitor. “Hey.”

Jakob’s expression continued to morph at the utter bangarang of sloppy sex sounds filling up the meeting room like a perverse orchestra. Loona smirked. Yeah, see, fun ain’t it, bunboy?

“Ahh, um, so, the lunch thing?”

Loona followed with a visible shudder. She pawed at the desk drawer, pulling out her choice brand of cigs, a little black carton box with a white pentagram on it.

Nooo thanks, she wasn’t goin’ back in there. “Dude, I need a fuckin’ smoke.” ANYTHING to get away from that spontaneous fuckery.

He winced at one of Moxxie’s. . . moans_. GREAAAT. Now I've got THAT to remember._

Well, er, cigarettes could pass for an easy meal. “Is. . . is that the lunch order?” asked Jakob.

Here she finally looked at him, granting him an expression that said "REALLY?", and the spark of a small laugh colored her voice. “No, dumbass.”

She jammed a thumb towards the married couple’s carnal conference. Her gesture said it all: _In there. _

From the open drawer, she fished out a pen and flicked it toward him. “Go get it, delivery boy.”

He caught it, conceding a sigh. Not two minutes in the IMP office and he was already havin’ to dodge cum.

“What about you?” he said over the animal cries of one Millie and a surprised OH SHIT from Blitz.

Loona grabbed her cigs and a lighter, nudging past him towards the open door. “Tell ya’ later.”

No pleading sputters, no chasing after her to bargain for a better deal, just a shrug of the shoulders and a deep breath that said “well, alright!” As for Loona, relief. Didn’t seem like much, but a small, separated moment from IMP, a spare set of several minutes she could have to herself, not have Blitz waggle his finger at her about swearing or smoking, not have Mox pelt her with annoying, chiding remarks. . . that was almost good as an acrid hit of Hell-standard nicotine. Almost.

As for you, braving the orgasmic orgy was a true test of company loyalty! Not that you’re particularly squeamish about demon semon, fuck sake every other corner store in Pentagram City and beyond was a suggestive sex shop. Just, y’know, at ALL MEATS you had a butcher’s apron, and here? Look, you have fur, and spunk really likes to fuckin. . . crust. Gawdamn, yeah, you can see why Loona needed a puff if she deals with this on the reg.

You fiddle with a flask in your inner pocket and take a habit swig, approaching the office door. You feel your footpaw step into something with a sticky, ominous squelch.

Ohhhh.

-*-

Well, Loona wasn’t wrong, IMP went from broke to “not-broke” faster than a blowie at an all-you-can-eat Succubi sex club.

A cavalry of discarded wrappers, half-slurped soda cups, and partially eaten dribbling “burgers” dots the exterior of IMP’s rented building. The meeting room, currently, is. . . off limits, so the killers and co. conceded to easy street food instead of dine in. Less. . . hair. Blitz stretches open a sandwich, the imitation of ketchup forming a gooey strand between bun and meat, inspecting it carefully for his “special” demand (which was to arrange the condiments in the shape of a horse’s head). Moxxie and Millie share a box of fries, while a small bowl of self-conscious salad rests next to Mox, touched at with a fork. Millie snarls and slurps down quadrants of thin steak, or what passes for steak, seasoned with the colors of home – AKA spices that insult the concept of medium rare, but whatever, it was her order.

Loona has. . . a small armada of empty chip bags, a mix of “Hellcrisps,” “Dog’s Danger,” and “WHAT THE FUH-LAVOR,” accompanied by an extra-large fully sipped drink of choice and two servings of rare-served ribs, extra bloody. All gobbled down without so much as a blink, her back against the building’s side and nose once again pointed directly into her Hellphone.

When food was afoot, this dysfunctional mass calling itself a “family” managed to simulate some concept of normalcy. They ignored the midday traffic, Moxxie even thanking you when you returned from several foodtrucks worth of delivery demand. Mil gave a southerly “’preciate it sug!” and Blitz only eyed his delivered sustenance with suspicious scrutiny. He flicked you a couple of quarters as a “tip.”

For Loona, once you produced the packets of desired snacks, she whipped up a self-satisfied grin and a victorious “YES,” as though said snacks were a pain in the ass to find. That’s about as far as her courtesy went, but hey, you’ll take it.

The sounds out here are audibly worse than IMP’s interior, the muffled blasts of Pentagram City’s migraine-inducing raucous free to drill your ears with no filter. Your ears flick and pin back, but it’s made bearable by the shared proximity of the “Murder Professionals.” Hell, even Loona appears less bothered by the affronting noise (and smells, god we cannot forget the smells), but only just so. You can stomach it because, well, your stomach - a meal can make anything tolerable. Where one might expect you to match Moxxie’s order, with an herbivore friendly salad fit to the delicate specifications of a rabbit, instead, you grabbed your go-to, “Thing of a Wing,” which are several fat pieces of ‘meat’ dipped in coagulated sauce that’s more like a brackish black-red blood coagulation, gobs of jiggly jello surrounding the imititation wings.

You sit on the sidewalk, eyes wandering about the streets. You don’t see it, but Loona grants you the quickest of glances, distracted by your audible, sloshy CRUMCH. Her brow raises, a quiet “the fuck” as she watches you part your mouth. . . which is not just a cascade of a few cracked teeth, but a deeper layer of pointed, cutting incisors, like a carnivore's razors. Casually, you dip the meaty foot into your gob. You don’t leave the bone, either – it’s got so much healthy protein! Right? Cronch, crunch, crumch, you slurp down the gooey, gelled flesh of the “wings,” which – as far as your expert opinion goes – is a hodgepodge of unnamed slurry and parts, then go for the bones like they’re a side of fries.

It's a ritual that simulates living, close as you feel you can get Down Here. You’re not even thinking about the muss it makes on your scruffy neck fur or face – why would a wild animal care about that shit, anyway? It's a distraction, and it pulls your mind away from the weight in your pocket, the fold of papers that, though lighter than air, seem like they’re an anchor towing you down. Even as you eat, you keep your eyes away from Loona and company, because you don’t want to assess, analyze, report. It’s not easy, because even when you suck gobs of bloody sauce from your fingers, you vacantly hone-in on random passerbys, subconsciously analyzing their “stock” quality, how many pounds they could yield, what makes good product. . . Blrugh.

You think to drink, but, maybe not in front of Second Boss, eh? You just sit, sip the scenery, let its nauseating, obliterating noises fwack your ears, like it's a giant, heaving, clumsy animal clumping about. Not a machine, not a precise, mechanical set of cutting devices shredding carcasses into specific cuts. It sucks, it’s awful, it’s a stank-ass homogenization of the absolute worst, run by power-hungry Overlords and gang boss sociopaths, under threat of angelic Exterminations or thieving scheme-freaks knocking over elaborate casinos, subject to psychosexual violence and casual substance abuse. But it’s an ugly, meaty bundle of pulsing nerves. Baby, it ain’t ALL MEATS!

Hah, hehea, for the tiniest fractions of moments, you are bizarrely content. Even as Mox and Mil share a cut of steak, even as Blitz waggles a lettuce-stabbed fork in front of his coworker, even as Loona records some doof falling over themselves on the opposite side of a street, even with all this vile odor and painful ambiance. . . it’s nice?

“YOU.”

It was nice.

“Bwwm?”

That voice sounded big. Like really big. It’s a really big dude, isn’t it?

You flick your head to the side, suckling on a nondescript bone. You see knees. You gotta look up. And up and up and up. . .

A triplet of ugly LED eyes barrels down on you. Wide stocky figure, a semblance of fur and scales mashed together. Hideous stink of diesel-scented slobber running down an ugly set of chompers. Voice distorted. Clear as a hangover morning.

Those fists are clenched, metal bones seeping out of digits and knuckles. You don’t make a pose like that unless you’re very, very mad.

“Scrubby little fuckin’ RUNT, I knew I’d FIND your bitch ass here!”

Um. Familiar. Not a good familiar. You don’t stand, but you recognize the physical features – barely. You might’ve figured him for Dezz, but he’s missing some large, round components, and Dezz don’t chase ya’ down like that.

He is. . . not happy. Hypothesis: upset customer? Analysis: no, too rough. Theory: you owe him something. Conclusion: incorrect, you don’t gamble, you have other habits.

Recollection: Wait, waaaait, wait. You rub a few brain cells together, assemble a patchy memory. It’s that guy!

“Mmmf, heyymf?” you say, the bone still stuck between your lips.

Dabbers, Dirtgog, Dombly. . .

Crumch. “Durndest?”

The wolfish creature heaves with an enraged exhale, smoky exhaust erupting from his snarl.

“DAZOG, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Uh huh. Oh, oh shit. What was your typical night at Chlorine Gargoyle – another empty night filled with emptier drinking – is now a thing. Big, burly, none-too-happy thing.

Loona’s ears flag at the abrupt, irritating howl-screech of Dazog, her eyes forced to look away from the Hellphone screen, growling. Oh THIS fucker? Take the goddamn L, loser.

A few questions: How’d he find you, and why’d he find you?

Assessment: disarm, now. You pull the bone from your mouth and stand, patting off your knees and forcing the painful, customer service grin. “Riiiight, right, Dazog.”

New question: What does he want? That’s the important one. He is a curling, stomping mass of muscles that move like a truck with one of those annoying lift-kits. He is rank like used motor oil. He decided to seek you out.

Smooth it out. Your voice has a low rumble some might consider charming, so, lean into that bunboy. “I can see. . . you’re upset, and-”

Like a shotgun cocking, Dazog’s trunk like bicep flexes, his arm pulls back, and he cuts you off with a heavy, bulldozer sized fist, the resounding impact CRUSHING against your chest. To say you go flying back is an elegant, theater kid’s interpretation of the impact. Flashes of red white stagger your vision and you are hurled backward, a vineyard of red, hot pain blossoming throughout your torso, your body scattered across the sidewalk, crashing against the table of eaten food, thumping against the cracked ground in. . . ah, one, two, four, no, seven angry slaps. Seeeveeeen. . . shots. . .

Hmm, mmhm, wheeere are you? Coughing, are you coughing? Moving? Shockwaves, spiky hot electroshocks of agony consume every limb. Some kinda gurgling, bubbling sound leaves your mouth. Mmm, hello, is that the sky? Mind is. . . where is that. Are you blind? You see a cellular structure mimicking lights. Breathing, try that. Uh no, you find that very hard to do.

You can hear. . . things. It’s all mud, every sensory input is mud. Thump, thump, thump. Brain, please assess? Conclusion: Dazog is getting closer. What is the procedure for this?

Dazog is laser focused on you. He shoves past IMP, flinging the table of food away, careening it into the trafficked road.

Moxxie is toppled to his side. “My salad!” he shrieks. Millie goes to him, picks him up, and her charming, southern hellion visage warps into an enraged growl.

Blizt’s precious equine-arranged half-bitten sandwich is sent scattered to the wind. Dazog pushes Loona to the side and she erupts into another seething growl. “MOTHERFU-”

The only attention Dazog pays, even to Loona, is hocking a fat, greyish dollop of grey spit right into her face, which stinks of rotten exhaust.

As for you, well, a proper gauge of things – the only summation your scrambled head can imagine – is Dazog is likely gonna put his fat, ugly stomper right through your chest. So, great wheezin’ Jesus, move, if you could.

Well, you can’t.

The freakshow, apparently, is more merciful than that. . . because once he towers over you, he yanks you up by the scruff of your jacket, his free, bulky hand procuring what looks like a rusty fuel can. What earned you this level of violent fervor, anyway? The drinking “game”? Couldn’t be. The shame of defeat was painful, yeah, but regs at the Chlorine Gargoyle had short-term memories they sooner eviscerated with their choice of poison. Something else was on the line for ol Dazog.

“You like to fuckin’ drink, don’t ya?” he snarls, rivers of his icky spittle splattering your bloodied face. At once, he jams the tube-like appendage of his cannister straight into your mouth, deep into your throat. You gag, cough, and choke as he tilts the thing and starts pouring a burning, viscous, thick oozy liquid into your esophagus. Your eyes water and your arms, still SCREAMING in absolute agony, writhe around his wrist in a pointless attempt to push him off.

What the fuck is THAT? Dazog starts wearing a cruel, victorious snarl as he force-feeds you this abysmal tasting. . . something. It’s black and brackish and thicker than molasses. Rejected vomit and saliva bubble from your mouth and chin, your body uncertain if it should drink or resist.

You’ve got a practiced tongue and. . . that is. . . huh, the one conscious element of your thoughts not fractured by compounded towers of pain pick up on it. Oh, oh that’s fuckin monkey pump. Turpentine, gasoline, paint thinner, and the absolute worst tasting whiskey you’ve ever had the enchanting company to parlay with. This was the kinda’ thing the dregs of Pentagram City slapped together when they couldn’t afford beer, right before they went on to fuck a diesel truck’s exhaust pipe.

Well it goes down, somehow, Dazog ripping the tube away as he keeps his vicegrip fingers clenched around your ripping shirt.

“Nothin’ to say now you cheatin’ little SHIT!?”

Now he takes his own swig, and for him, it goes down clean, he doesn’t sputter or cough. The triplet of LED eyes flash angry yellow over your smoky white fur, and you can’t respond, feeling that heavy, syrupy death drip down into your stomach. Yeah, you’ll be sick.

Might’ve really killed ya, this one. Buuut. . .

Second Boss wore a suit of calm, ceaseless rage. Gone was his constant, schlocky attempts at poorly planned sex jokes or his loud boisterous voice. All he had seen was some galumphing fuck ruin his meal and proceed to spit on his child.

You think you hear Biltz’s voice. “Oh shit kid. You fucked up.”

Those still ears are good for somethin’, at least, but. . . man. This is the first time you have ever heard such contained, casual fury from Blitz. The dangerous kind, the kind that staples together why he’s been running a small pack of interdimensional assassins-for-hire. Sounds of clicking and unsheathed metal also accompany his promise of his execution. And Loona? You can’t see her but oh my fucking god you can feel her. Like the spiritual second-sight when sensing a predator, that “annoyed with everything” bitchy demeanor transformed into. . . something else.

Well, this got fucky.

A partition of “your world” has now collided with IMP. Like an icky, oozing scab, slinking out from the hazier parts of Pentagram City. Dazog, even by the standards of the Pride Ring, couldn’t have looked more out of place if he tried.

Of course, he paid them no mind, prepared to suffocate you with his ‘monkey pump’ (oh god this wasn’t a fetish thing for him too, was it?) until a loud, sharp crack caught his shoulder, a single shot round cutting through his shoulder and creating a small geyser of sickly blood.

The fucker is pissed, less so because he feels ‘pain’ but because his victory lap just got interrupted. His trifecta of ugly eyes swivels and he’s forced to engage with IMP, and to him, they’re obnoxious bystanders, completely beneath his focus. He drops you with a loud thwunk and you provide a coughing ‘gurgle oof.’

Millie’s brandishing a frantic axe, Mox has shorn off his “petite and petulant” façade with a narrow, concentrated gaze and polished handgun at his side, while Blitz twirls a fancy flintlock. “If ya’ wanted to fuck your twink, shoulda’ rented a room,” sneers Blitz.

Dazog stands, spits, and his muzzle wheezes with acrid, black, exhaust smoke. He procures what appears to be a fucked up muffler chained to. . . another muffler? He barrels down at the trio, relying on size and ferocity to get the job done.

When he takes a big ugly swing at no one in particular, the clumsy weapon strikes the ground, creating a dusty belch of debris and smoke. Millie, far too agile and experienced, responds in kind by spinning her axe, building momentum and weight and swerving her hips to form a precise, crescent slice, separating Dazog’s lumbering arm from the rest of him. Dazog roars, though again, not in pain, just additional, distracted fury.

Loona. . . Loona is a shifting, shrieking silhouette of calculated violence and raw, focused instinct. The lost appendage to her is opportunity, her blood running hot and her Hellhound brain blinking a single, rhythmic thought: revenge, revenge, revenge, FUCKING REVENGE HE FUCKING SPIT ON MEEAAGHGH! Her footpaw kicks open the clenched hand, whips up the ugly muffler, and, like a club, swings it upward to collide the rusty, ugly metal underneath Dazog’s wolf-lizard jaw. The impact is enough to send a spray of bony teeth fluttering about, the dislocated molars and canines raining on the ground with mocking tippletaps.

“DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!” she bellows again, swinging in a clean, but brutal, horizontal motion, Dazog stumbling to the side, a meaty ca-twhump resounding from the impact Sensing opportunity and representing a startling cohesion, Moxxie takes aim with both hands, kneels, and squeezes his trigger, a few well place .45 calibur shots finding center mass and inflicting an additional set of wounds. Again, Dazog falters, but less so because of new, grievous injuries, more that his mind is processing the sheer audacity his revenge is getting interrupted.

“YOU FUCKIN’ CHEATER!” he belches out, insisting that, once again, his “drinking foe” is only succeeding thanks to exterior sources. His remaining arm takes a foul swing, at anything, fist colliding into the IMP’s place of business and creating a spiderweb of cracked, ruined brickwork.

“GrrraaaGGGH! STOP MOVIN’ AROUND!”

His resilience, momentarily, surprises the squad, but only in the sense that “oh shit, we need to hit this fucker HARDER.”

Loona’s frame goes feral, and like a wild beast she bounds to the building wall, her powerful legs creating enough momentum to leap and push from the ancient brickwork. Gravity compels her downward and she uses the weight of the stolen, improvised bludgeoning tool to thwack Dazog atop his dome, sending him to his knees. Fat heavy puddles of bloody saliva pour out from his chomping maw, pooling onto the ground.

Something akin to an engine revving roars from his throat, his trifecta of LED eyes burning hot red. “YOU FUCKERS WANT IT SO BAD, HUH!?

He manages to tear out another object from his ragged jacket pocket. . . but it’s not another weapon. Rather it’s a cylinder, a small, fat metallic tube, of which he jams into his mouth and takes an abrupt, seizing inhale. A poisonous vapor consumes him, trickles into his mouth, his lungs. . . and he proceeds to cough and hack. Fire heaves from his nostrils, a burning, angry orange glowing from his throat, his chest, revealing his warped skeletal structure. His exhale creates a nauseous, orange-pink sparkling cloud, a cascade of garbled, mindless words following the puff of. . . Deathwish.

Blitz swaggers forward, spinning his custom flintlock and pointing it directly at Dazog’s head. “Aww, no sharin’?”

As for you. . .

Gurgle glug blub. Your head lulls to the side. There’s no sense of a buzz, the shitty excuse for booze does nothing, but you do feel sick. And. . . now you feel sicker. Dazog didn’t just deliver a crushing blow to your chest, he knocked something loose. Not teeth, not a bone, something worse. In your blurred, slowly returning vision, you see the scattering of something at your side. Something like. . . papers. Documents. Inventory Assessment Forms.

Something new besides pain wells up within you, a guilty fear. Bad enough something from your “life” stalked you all the way out here, but worse if something from WORK was snuffed out too. Laid bare like a sinful deed, your mind propels to a single, cognitive purpose – get the goddamn things back. Loona and company haven’t noticed, putting a streamlined, cleanly executed beatdown on the thrashing, losing Dazog. You didn’t need them to see. Hell, you didn’t want to see.

You heave to all fours, vomiting globs of ugly black ooze from your mouth as you crawl towards the small scattering of papers. Every movement is agony, every shifting muscle and aching bone is Hell. But you manage. Your trembling hands manage to collect the stained documents, another wave of oozing vomit escaping your bowels. Bluuuuuugh.

You manage to grab them, fold them up again, and stow them away. Your shirt and jacket are scuffed and ripped, but you’re alive. Your long ears flick towards the violent scene behind you. Dazog is, decidedly, not. Your hand finds comfort on something, a blood-slicked piece of the IMP’s rented building, and you stand. Crack-cricka-crack.

“YEAAAAH, WHO’S THE DADDY NOW!?” Blitz roars in triumph while Millie proceeds to continuously stab a now limp, lifeless hulking shape on the ground. Mox nudges the carcass with his fingers, checking for signs of life. Loona snarls, huckin’ a spit right back on Dazog’s bloodied features.

With an assassin’s flair, Blitz pockets his precious flintlock and wipes off his mussed suit. “Well. Shit. Now I’m still hungry AND horny.”

“That was aggressive,” mused Moxxie, rubbing his chin in assessing fashion. “Sir, this wasn’t an. . . ex of yours, was it?”

Blitz scoffs. “God, Moxxie, even I have standards.”

“No you don’t.”

“Oh fuck you,” he chuckled. “. . .but fair enough. Look I’d remember if I did the dirty with a bod like THAT. Nnnooot one of mine.”

Then he twirled, beaming at Loona. “Oh Loona sweetie baby! That was INCREDIBLE. I’m so PROUD!” He leaps at her, traveling around her body like a skittering lizard to hug her in a fatherly embrace, smooching her cheek.

She growled. “AGH! Blitz, get, GET OFF!” Loona grabbed her adoptive guardian and proceeded to throw him into the ground.

He rubs his head, shooting a fingergun. “Hehe, nice throw Loonie!”

Mox continues to study the body, running a finger over dead-Dazog, scanning him for visual clues and details. His wife is still stabbing at the limp carcass.

“I think ya’ got him, sweetie.”

She grumbles, hopping off the body, her short, curvy torso covered in viscera. “Rude little bastard.”

Mox grabs her hand and helps her down. “Well, he wasn’t here for us. . .”

A collective realization possesses the group. Loona, “normalcy” returning, lets her eyes wander up. Where was bunboy? Pfft, probably still on the ground, like a dumbass, needin’ a kick to the groin to wake his ass up.

No.

No, in fact, quite the opposite.

His back was to them, leaning on the wall. He audibly lurched again, body shuddering as it evacuated the horrendous "monkey pump" concoction he was forced to gulp down. And yet, despite the thrashing, crushing punch he took, despite the pattern of injuries he visibly sustained, he stood. Right there, quite straight and lucid. His shoulder and neck were more exposed, clothes and jacket torn. Standing, not because he demonstrated some unseen, hidden brute resilience, but because it looked like he was being propped up. On the nape of his neck, barely visible behind his coat of welcoming smoky white fur, appeared something metallic. And, whatever it was, it seemed to hoist up his body, force a physical, cohesive posture that demanded a tidy, upright presentation.

He froze. He noticed the pocket of quiet behind him amidst the hounding chaos of Pentagram City. Slowly he turned, shoving on the customer-service rictus grin. He tugged up his torn shirt, but not in a way that demanded a sense of perseverance. His movements mimicked a tightly wound coil, a set of frustrated gears forced back into place.

Blitz noticed too, side-eying the standing Jakob. “Ohoho, well excuse you, didn’t know ya’ could take a fisting. You single, delivery boy?”

Loona shot her adoptive guardian a disgusted scowl. “Fuckin’ GROSS, dude.”

She crossed her arms, ears flattening back in uncomfortable fashion, side-stepping the enormous body, approaching Jakob. Her muzzle wrinkled. Gone was that rather pleasant ambrosia of gently sipped whisky amidst a background of cigarette smoke, doused now by the noisome stank of motor oil, exhaust, and blood. More so, gone was Jakob’s usually relaxed posture, timid tremors visible throughout his body, like his entire frame was being clenched.

She looked down at him, frowning. “Way to drag your dipshit here.”

Jakob glanced at her, but he didn’t speak, he kept grinning. Little grunting, strained noises escaped his lips. He was holding his breath. Oookaaay?

“You uh. You okay, dumbass?”

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The metallic tracker gave a series of dull, warring blips. Slow, like a heartbeat. Then, as quickly as they erupted to life, they ceased. At once, Jakob buckled over, vast, desperate inhales and exhales escaping him, hand clutching his chest. Haggard breaths rattled his silhouette, eyes dilated and unfocused, fluttering about in spasmatic shifts.

Loona took a step back and tilted her head. Uh? Hack, wheeze, cough, all the things he’d never done before – at least in front of her. Kay, fair enough, he did take a slobbernknocker of a fuckin missile fist right to the chest. He managed to straighten again, though not in a way that indicated he was being “yanked” up. His breathing normalized, and he closed up his jacket.

“Not how I imagined spending my lunch break,” he uttered out.

Loona glanced away, tapping her fingers on her crossed arms as Jakob let off a few more gags and gasps. Once he full straightened, his body sagged with unseen weight, audible pop-cracks drumming across his body and joints.

He fiddled about and pulled out a flask, turning it downside to see. . . nothing. “Awww maaaaan. . .”

Loona’s lips curled in an expression of flabbergasted disgust. Fucker wanted a drink? Really!? NOW? After all that bullshit!? Then her features muted.

“Maybe try water, Jakob.” She pinched her nose. “Ugh, fuck, you reek.”

Jakob looked down. Yeah, blood and turpentine oil made for a rancid perfume. “You got a shower?”

“We have a hose.”

Jakob said nothing, his studious, observant silence returning, the kinda’ thing Loona preferred. Maybe even liked.

His eyes cast a weary gaze on the unmoving Dazog. “He’s dead? Fuck I hope he’s dead.”

Producing her Hellphone, Loona raised it above herself and gave a satisfied smirk, taking a selfie of herself and the bloodied carcass that was Dazog. “Yyyyeeep.”

Jakob provided a relieved sigh, unmoving. Despite his physical state and his offending odor, Loona felt. . .

He was still alive. Good.