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Stacked Deck

Just like old times.

Spade liked the wheel. Felt right. When was the last time he got to play driver? When he was alive? Yeah, probably, back in the good days, the robbing days. Back when banks were as loose as a cheap street whore and your name commanded respect. Nobody was untouchable - anything was up for grabs. Now? Good fuckin' luck. You'd be hard pressed just to mug a guy for a zip of shitty crack or hope the vagabond you had at knife point was worth more than the horns on his head. Because in Pentagram City, you were a nobody.

The gangs kept a hard knuckle on profit, too. Nobody got above them, not if they could help it. Every major demon had their territory carefully carved up, and if things got messy, well. . . purge time. So how was a two-bit robber supposed to get back in the game? How could you be a career criminal when everyone else was?

Well, somebody figured it out.

The fat van hauled ass through downtown Pentagram City, making its way to a very specific target. Spade was on the wheel, familiarity setting in, adrenaline of past experiences spiking through him like a wicked cocktail. Clubs, one of the gunners, sat next to him, while Ace and Queen were in the back, prepping their weapons. It was gonna' be a good damn day - an easy hit with an easier take. Spade could feel it.

"What kinda' fucknut is dumb enough to get his dick wedged in all this?"

Clubs was nursing his Benelli like a child, eyes peeping through van window, scanning for trouble. There was none, of course, they were the trouble.

"You getting cold feet on us?" piped up Queen, strapping up a thin layer of specialty-demon Kevlar. Clubs said nothing.

"My kinda fucknut," said Spade. "Kinda' guy who sees an opportunity and takes it. Like somebody who _robs_banks."

"Don't start with that shit," Clubs barked. "We all did our piece, same as you old man. But I'm just sayin', some nobody wants to start picking fights with Pentious?"

"He's sitting it out, don't forget," Ace said. Clubs grumbled.

"Yeah, what the fuck is with that?"

Spade made a quick right turn, almost splattering a few pedestrians.

"Jee-zus, you sure you boys robbed before? He sets the mark and we get paid, simple as that."

"Puts us in hot water, you mean," shot Ace. "All the benefit and no risk."

"Defer to human resources," said Queen. "Or, shut up. We have a job to do."

"A job I can handle," said Clubs. "But this ain't a job. This is a turf war. Everyone knows that sack of snake shit is trying to make moves. And now we're getting tangled into it."

"Nobody's getting tangled," said Spade. "But you are getting paid if you just act like you've got a pair of fucking balls."

He shook his head. Spade liked the wheel. The conversations? Not so much. This wasn't his crew - not that he ran with regulars much. But even among thieves, there was honor and reputation. Respect was earned, clout gained. You could trust a cheap suit with a lot of moxy and heists under his belt, but when you threw a bunch of randos together? Things got dicey. Especially when the mark in question was arguably one of the biggest around - one of Sir Pentious' warehouses. Everyone knew the conniving, slur-spitting inventor was on the cutting edge of incredible technology. They also knew he liked to keep some of his toys stored away. Of course, no one was insane enough to actually rob the damn things.

Not until now, anyway.

But Spade liked that. He liked the rumors he was hearing on the streets, about how some dime-store thug sacked a bunch of gang hideouts in a fucking row and got away scot free. About how this thug was actually a calculating son-of-a-bitch seeking bigger scores. About how he needed to pull together a crew, just like old times. Spade liked this, and he liked the wheel.

He wanted more. He was tired of rolling bums for a few dollars and blowing it at the Sugary Chigurh. Tired of getting spit on by the Gadzooks or the Splinters, doing shit work for little pay. He missed the whistle of ACP rounds and stench of smoking muzzles, the aroma of stained cash and a whore's perfume. But this guy, this shadow from nowhere, he was gonna' change all that. Spade knew it. He had a feeling.

"Eyes up, dicks out," said Spade. On the horizon, washed in the violent pink sky of the Underworld, was the target: a seemingly mundane set of warehouses all fenced up, save for a gauche neon lit sign reading "SIR PENTIOUS' PRIVATE POWER STASH OF PRISTINE PARAPHENLIA."

"I don't see anyone. . ." said Clubs, clenching his gun. "I don't like that."

"That's why we brought guns," shot Queen.

Spade, in the meantime, kept a steady momentum. Shock and awe, that was the plan.

The job was straightforward. The contractor assembled Spade and his entourage of a few thieves for hire, and together, they would steal some of Pentious' tech. High grade explosives, loading machines, cutting tools, that sort of thing. Spade didn't get all the details as to why, but if he had to guess, it was to break something down, and it didn't take a genius to imagine what a thief might want to power through. Additionally, because Pentious' was tail deep in Cherri Bomb's territory, the planner assumed most of his attention would be spent there. After all, who'd be insane enough to rob Pentious at a time like this?

Who indeed.

As the enclosure came into view, Spade swerved to the side, out of sight.

"Get in through the side," he said. "We don't leave until we come out with everything."

"What are you, some kinda' fuckin loyalist?" said Ace, loading his weapon, apprehension tugging his tone.

"I'm a fuckin' professional."

Clubs shot him a look. "The hell are you doing?"

Spade revved the engine and shifted gears. "My job."

Queen laughed, tapping his wrist. "Ten minutes."

Clubs and Ace grumbled, but left with Queen, vanishing into the dark as they dashed to the side of the facility. The fencing was brittle in some areas, enough they could find a way through (or make one). As Spade watched them go, he placed the van at the entrance front. There was a reason this particular vehicle came with some extra juice.

With a mechanical scream, the engine roared as Spade pressed on the gas, bolting towards the front. Tires squealed and smoke belched from behind as the van sped forward, an improvised missile ready to crack through the entrance. In seconds, the van jolted from one street end and straight into the tall warehouse fencing, violently bashing it open as wire and fence scraped against reinforced glass. Spade howled with adrenalin-fueled delight, crashing forward as a chorus of alarms erupted around him. Tiny little figures - the Egg Boys - scattered around in dumbfounded panic as his wheels splattered a few, while the muffled crack of wayward gunshots filled his ears.

Just like old times.

-*-

"If we live together, we should have fun together!"

That was Charlie's excited, bubbly logic. Her infectious positivity radiated over the Happy Hotel in a siege of rainbows, songs, and frightening smiles. Normally, you'd decline, but uh, she was the daughter of Hell. You couldn't turn down your benefactor, either. Just as well, everyone was invited, making this the first time you were together as a group. Charlie's enthusiasm had waned since her television appearance, but she refused to give up hope for her project, and thus, wrangled you and everyone else into the little outing.

But with the Hotel guests, nothing about the outing was "little."

Much to Vaggie's protest, Angel Dust hinted he used to run a few stand-up shows before he delved into adult "acting," and by hint, it was more a slurred drug-laced blurb. Despite his intoxicated state, Charlie thought it was a marvelous concept, so agreed. Before you and the rest of the Hotel knew it, you were booked for the evening, out in the heart of Pentagram City.

The venue was classy - or as classy as the underworld could get. Zeeman's Demons, a classically styled nightclub featuring evening shows ranging from comedy routines to straight up watching vagrants disembowel each other on a dazzling stage. "Colorful" interpretations of classic plays were common, and musicals were raunchier than their mortal counterparts would ever have allowed for. A holiday special, you heard, had an active Krampus lookalike literally boil stage-hands alive in celebration, so, things could get. . . interesting.

"Ah, you ugly pieces of shit, I missed you all."

And then there was Angel Dust.

You and the rest of the Hotel were seated together at a massive circular table. Charlie and Vaggie were together, the former eyeing the stage with bubbly fondness, the other casting an uncertain gaze over the effeminate arachnid. Husk - the flying demon cat - was next to you, lopsided hat covering his squinting eyes, his breath carrying the fine odor of a cheap brewery. Razzle and Dazzle, Charlie's small, goat-demon attendants, were together, munching on a tower of blood-frosted cupcakes.

There was also another - a figure who appeared several days previous, wearing a gaudy gold-tooth grin and scarlet, pin-striped suit. He called himself Alastor. To others, the Radio Demon. You didn't know him, or his intentions, but after giving him a once over, you decided you'd rather not know him. He was a specimen cloaked in rumors, posh enunciations, and hidden intentions, a red flag to a master thief like you.

And as for you, you sat amidst them all, formally dressed, quiet and composed. You were bathed in an amused awe. Angel Dust was smirking out at the crowd, noisome cigarette in one hand, raw bourbon in the other, fondling mic as he chastised the viewers with coquettish flair. Despite his absolute disdainful language, demons rumbled with laughter.

"I didn't realize Angel told jokes," you said. Husk hacked with laughter.

"Wha? He doesn't. He just gets blasted and starts ramblin'." Husk burped, taking a quick draft of one of his drinks. He was on beer four.

"When he ain't dressin' like a she-he, anyway," went on the hybrid. "He's pretty clean tonight, haven't even seen his dick yet."

You look at Husk. "You sound disappointed."

A growl. "Don't get snippy with me you little runt."

You chuckle. "I'm not judging."

"What are you, a Jerry now, smart guy? Shut up. Buy me another beer."

Husk rumbled with an agitated yowl, finishing another one of his drinks. You did your best not to laugh, but giving the old curmudgeon a hard time was funny. He reminded you of the old crusts you worked with, back in life. You decided you liked Husk.

"Shh, shh!" Charlie broke in, waving a hand. "You're missing his jokes!"

Your attention came back to the stage, where Angel Dust was swaying.

"You know when my dad was blackening my eye. . ."

You blinked.

"He'd say, 'see you little fuck, now we don't need an 8-ball.' And then he'd shake my head."

Angel Dust grinned, and the audience rattled with a chorus of guffaws. You looked around. Were you missing something?

"What's the punchline?" you whispered.

Husk spat. "Him getting punched."

Oh. Vaggie rubbed her eyes and Charlie looked nonplussed, while Alastor simply tilted his head to the side.

"A lot of degenerates paid to get fucked up, you know?" continued Angel, taking a long drag of his cig. "But my brotha, hah! He'd do it for free!"

More laughter.

"Birthday, it's my birthday yeah? And he says, 'ey, I gotta' new pair of shoes for you!' Yeah, I says? And he wasn't kiddin, they were shoes, concrete shoes!"

Angel Dust leaned, covering his cackling mouth, puffy cleavage in view. Again, the audience clapped and howled with approval.

"Couple of drunks pulled me out the river, haha! They thought I was a dog at first, you know?"

Husk shook his head. "He's getting knocked off his ass up there."

You weren't sure what to make of it. Granted, this was Hell, and Devil only knew what tickled the humors down here. But you were trying to understand all the same - were these memories? From when he was alive? It dawned at you, like a brick to the head, you didn't actually know when Angel Dust passed. The longer you stayed in Hell, the more you lost the original version of yourself, and by Angel's look the spider had been around a while.

As he went on with his "humor," Charlie turned to face the group, shrugging with a forced smile.

"Well, uh, at least he's making everyone else laugh!"

"He's a regular roaring twenties!" said Alastor, amusing himself.

Husk just groaned while Raz and Daz pursued their quest for more sweets.

"He didn't take any drugs up there, did he?" said Vaggie, glancing between Charlie and Angel. Charlie's eyes widened with frightened realization.

"He's always got drugs," you say. This was one of the first things you learned about him, aside from his tireless acquisition for more dick.

Vaggie swore in her native tongue. Charlie dawned an expression of uncertainty.

"But. . . _we're_having fun, right?" she said, looking to everyone.

"Everything's fun when the show's a disaster!" said Alastor. It was impossible to tell if he was genuine - his face was always twisted by a malign sneer.

You could tell this didn't satisfy Charlie, and probably made her feel worse. Considering she was trying to lift her spirits, you imagined a show going bad did little for her morale. A pang of sympathy ran through you. Why? You didn't know - you shouldn't care. But. . . you did.

"I am," you say with a nod. "Ever watched a car fire? It's fun."

Alastor chuckled. "Hohoho! That's the spirit."

Husk just burped, head falling on table. Even Vaggie managed a smile.

"I guess it could be worse," she said.

Angel Dust's slowly degrading grip on sober reality broke their attention.

"And noowww I suck dicks for money! So, who's laughin' now dad, eh!?"

Vaggie sighed. "God dammit."

This time, you laugh, but for different reasons. As you do, Angel's gaze roams over to the table, and for the briefest of seconds, his eyes meet yours. In that fraction of time, only you two exist. An exchange of knowledge, a silent passing of secrets. He knows who you are, what you intend, what you've done, but only him. It's thrilling.

While Angel Dust continues to debase himself with darker jokes, you check the time. Because, even here, even among "friends," plans are in motion.Your brief outing at the Sugary Chigurh proved one thing: you lacked the supplies to hit bigger marks. Rolling hideouts was one thing - cheap gasoline made easy work of basic brickwork. But the vaults in a casino laundering wealth from various gangs and unnamed clients was locked tight, and well beyond your reach. Unless, of course, you acquired the necessary resources. Well placed munitions and a variety of cutting tools could make short work of even the hardiest barriers, but that wasn't exactly common on the streets. Once more, your time in the Happy Hotel was for "therapy" reasons. Charlie - bless her heart - assumed you were trying to get better, when in fact, the Hotel made for fantastic cover. Because of this, hauling around expensive equipment wasn't subtle and attracted all the wrong kind of attention. But this didn't stop you. You were Anon: Master Thief.

If things were going well - and they should be, the crew you picked up was already "acquiring" the equipment in question. Four goons for a simple score: steal the impressive tech locked up in one of Sir Pentious' warehouses. You had no affection for the snide snake, but you couldn't deny the power of his technical arsenal. His machines could level entire streets with ray-guns and heaving mechanical claws, the kind of power you needed to break into something like the Sugary Chigurh. Just on a smaller level.

You so desperately wished it was you taking charge. These were your plans, after all, and the more variables you introduced the likelihood of failure increased. The goons you picked up were demons looking for a quick cash-in, hungry for work. Only one of them struck you as having some semblance of a code, where the others were only loyal to profit. Not that you blamed them, but the integrity of a thief could make or break a mark. If you could help it, it'd be you. More specifically, you and Angel Dust.

Applause and laughter brought your attention back to the stage. Right now, the effeminate arachnid was your most valuable asset - more so than the ill-gotten gains you possessed. Trust, loyalty, and reputation were the true currencies of the thief. Without those, you were just another cheap hood robbing convenience stores.

You had plans. One involved the acquisition of powerful tools. Another involved Angel Dust.

He blew a kiss.

"So nice seeing you pieces of shit again! Thank you! You've been horrible!"

He grinned, waving his free hand to the crowd, sauntering off the stage. The lights brightened and a rumble of conversations broke out among the audience members. Food and harsher alcohol was served soon after.

"He didn't shoot someone this time," grumbled Husk, head wobbling. "What a rip off."

"He's getting better," remarked Charlie with an approving smile. "I think."

Vaggie sighed, relieved. "At least we don't have to worry about him wandering off again."

"Not quite like the shows of my heyday. . ." said Alastor.

"Well," continued Charlie, "It shows the Hotel therapy plan works. And that's the important thing!"

That was quite a liberal definition of therapy, but the show hadn't ended in murder, a high bar to set for Hell. As for you, there were things to do.

"I uh, think I should check on him," you say, standing. "He's always got a secret stash of blow."

Nobody asked how you knew this, or perhaps they didn't want to. Either way, Charlie nodded.

"Good idea, Anon! But don't stay gone too long, your food will get cold."

You thank her, but aren't in any rush to return. The various entrails served alongside the strange concoctions places like these came up with didn't sit right with you. So, you dashed off, sneaking your way through crowds of various monstrosities, past the back halls leading to the prep rooms for stage actors. Nobody stopped you - probably because they didn't care. Angel Dust had roomed up at the end of the hall, his door emblazoned with an especially elaborate star blaring his name in fanciful pride. Even here, he refuted subtlety.

You knocked. "Angel?"

You didn't hear a response, so you pressed on. Entering, Angel Dust as at the edge of the room in front of an enormous gold-trim mirror, patting his face and applying eyeliner.

"Hey, hey, no fuckin' fans! I don't do backroom auto-"

He spies your frame through the reflection. "Ohahey!"

His frame spins around, arms spread. He's a little wobbly from the drink. "Pockets! My favorite degenerate!"

You close the door behind you, locking it. You'd rather keep free of intrusions.

"This coming from you. Should I be flattered?"

He flips you off. "Shut up, bitch, and give me some love."

You oblige, coming to him and pecking him on the cheek. The scent of exotic perfume lingers over him, along with the stench of hard bourbon. He smirks, giving you a strong kiss.

"Mwah. Cooouuuldn't resist coming to see me, eh?"

He turns around again, returning to application of eyeliner.

"Came to check on you," you say. "Had to make sure you weren't murdering the staff or doing lines of coke. Or both."

He snickers. "Baby, by now you should know I'm at least twenty percent drugs at any time of day."

"So, nobody's dead?"

He glances at your reflection. "Not yeeeet."

For a moment, there's a pause, and you watch him. He reminds you of something, like a jewel, ripe for taking. Something about him has been alluring, lately. You don't see him as a "quick fix" to your sleeping urges. You have desires, yes, but they're starting to escalate. Maybe it's just the thief in you, the innate greedy beast which, above all, desired to possess. Maybe you were just excited because of your plans. Or, maybe you were starting to like Angel Dust.

He notices. "Look, babe, if you wanted to stare, just see me on the pole."

You focus. "Oh, sorry. I was thinking."

"You do that too much."

You don't want to reveal anything, not yet. So, you try to map the conversation to something else.

"Can I ask you something?"

He turns his cheek, eyeing himself closely in the mirror, powdering it. "Eh?"

"Those uh, 'jokes' you made. . ."

He sneers. "Funny shit, right?"

You're not so sure. "Well, I mean. They were just jokes, right? Those things didn't actually happen, did they?"

He stops, turning around. He leans back, spare arms reclining on the table. "What? About what?"

"Well, you know, about your family. All of that."

Here, Angel Dust dawns a perplexed expression, like you've asked him something absolutely nonsensical. But not for the reasons you think.

"Huh? Pft, of course they happened. That's how jokes work, or some shit. 'Draw from life experiences,' that's like, in the comedy commandments."

He pulls a smaller mirror from the table, looking at it, picking at his teeth, massaging his gold canine. You, on the other hand, are at a loss for words.

"Angel. . ." you say, tone laced with concern. More so because of his nonchalant attitude.

"Hrnmn?" he's hardly looking at you, more concerned with his oral hygiene.

"So, your brother tried to kill you?"

He shrugged. "Sure, all the time. Dad just hit me. His buddies though, they got their yucks in, sometimes. Roughed me up if I got too uppity or something."

Satisfied, Angel Dust set the mirror down.

"God." What else can you say? You're flummoxed. The effeminate arachnid looks no more troubled describing his experiences in a matter-of-fact way. He's not bothered by it, so why should you be?

Because, you think, he _should_be. But you're in Hell, this is all par the course. There are those who've likelier experienced worse, or done worse.

"Away on business," remarked Angel. "Got the next best thing though."

He gestured to himself, adjusting his black bowtie. You managed a chuckle. Part of you wants to prod further, sift through the vault of his memories. You don't want to believe his stories, but why would he lie? Suppose then, you want to know why. Why his own family would treat him so poorly. You weren't an altruistic hero by any means - you were and always would be a thief. To reach your ends by any means wasn't a concept that bothered you. Yet, the idea that people would hurt others just for the sake of it. . . even in the underworld, that concept didn't sit well.

Or maybe you just didn't like the idea of Angel Dust getting hit.

"You liked it, right?" said Angel Dust, grabbing your attention again.

"What's that?"

"The show you dumb bitch. Did. You. Like. It?"

Despite the black humor, seeing Angel Dust on stage was nice. He was a natural entertainer.

"I really did," you said. He beams.

"I'm glad you suggested it."

He shrugged. "Everyone's acting like they've got a steel cock up their ass. They need to lighten up. Especially you."

Your arms cross, feigning a frown. "Me?"

He nudges your chest with a finger. "Yeaaaah you. You've been such a mope. All quiet and surly, locked in your room. Probably jackin' off with a bunch of shitty socks. Whatsamatter, get tired of poor little me?"

It was true, the previous week was spent mostly alone. Gathering contacts and plans for what you had in store took time.

"Of course not," you say. "I've just been. . . planning."

He rolls his eyes. "Ah, not the casino thing again?"

"You should know by now how serious I am."

He grumbles, other hand coming to your tie, fussing with it. "Why can't you be serious with other things."

"Like?"

His gaze wanders away. "Goin' clean ain't as bad as it sounds, you know."

Coming from him, it's the last thing you expected to hear. For you though, it's not an option. Your palms go to his shoulders, squeezing there.

"Come on now, Angel. This has to be getting old."

Beyond your motivations for grandeur and robbery, you had another. Angel Dust was transitioning from that "one hooker who sucked you off" to "a reliable friend." He kept you supplied, he got you places, but you wanted_more,_ always more. Preferably, you wanted him in tandem with your schemes - but the problem was the effeminate arachnid was trying to keep his nose dry.

"People know you. They respect and fear you. You're still one of the biggest crime lords in the city. Don't you miss that feeling, on the streets? The rush? It's like a drug."

"What are you trying to say," says Angel in a low, challenging voice. "I'm a bad person?"

You pause. Then: "I'm saying you should live for yourself. We're in Hell, after all."

He smirks. "You didn't answer me."

"We're all bad down here."

Tempting fate, your hands drift to his waist. He doesn't resist, but you don't try anything more.

"Angel," you continue, "I'm not going to stop, you know that. But I can't do it alone, I want someone with me I can trust."

He snorts, laughing. "You trust me? Pockets, you're a dumb fucker."

"Probably."

His hand goes from tie to your cheek, patting. "You're really cute when you're trying to act all serious."

You chuckle. "You think I'm trying?"

He doesn't respond. Rather, his free arms slip around your back, and his black sclera eye stares into yours.

"Anon, listen to me. I've got my reasons for goin' clean, kay? It might sound a little fuckin' weird comin' from me, but. . ."

His face moves closer to yours. "These days I'm a different kind of bad."

You are, admittedly, quite disappointed. Why did this damn demon spider have to play so hard to get? At least, when it came to the realm of criminality.

"You need a reminder?" he adds, pecking you on the lips.

"You'll blow me for money," you say, amused, "But not help me rob the scummiest gangs in the city?"

He adorns a grin most mischievous, clearly tickled. "That's riiiight."

"You're frustrating."

He laughs. "Aww, sugar daddy, don't be mad at widdle ol' me."

You pull him close now, your forms bracing. You can't help it, letting your fingers coax and ride along the grooves of his sides. Again, despite his arachnid-appearance, he's surprisingly curvaceous, a fact you've come to appreciate.

"I'm furious," you say, Angel's spare arms holding you at hips. "You really ought to make it up to me."

Now, his fingers caress the nape of your neck, eyes glancing around.

"This ain't exactly the coziest place," he says. "I'll improvise. . ."

You've got a handful of minutes, and in that time Angel Dust finds himself on his practiced needs. Again, his skilled digits have unraveled you at the loins, silky gloves massaging your length, nibbling at it with caresses and kisses. You groan, but cover your mouth, watching the demon service your root, like it were the last one in Hell.

He embraces you into his throat, hot, wet orifice clamped down with such delicate efficiency, causing his throat to bulge. His palms carefully grip your testes, running tongue against them, a chorus of slurps escaping him, along with trails of drool and presex. All at once, time starts to fade and you forget what you were initially doing here. Something, something, robberies, something, something, convince Angel Dust. Now, he's got you in the palm of his hand, and you're just along for the ride.

The only thing you recall is a burst of radiating heat exploding through your loins, along with the gagging, giggling noises emitting from Angel Dust's "position." He looks up, dawning a servile gaze, swallowing you, smirking.

"Gosh mister Anon, didn't realize you were such a fan," he says.

Your head is buzzing, but you play along. "You do this for all your backstage visits?"

He smirks. "Sometimes."

He rubs his cheek, a stain of seed smearing it. "Aw, shit, I_just_ did my face!"

He stands, while you zip back up, while he gestures for you to leave. "All right, you, shoo! I need to do this all over again!"

Angel grumbles, going back to his table as he cleans the smear of uh, you. you chuckle, checking the time. That was good enough for a "visit" without raising any eyes with the group. Besides, you were expecting a call soon.

You bid farewell, glancing at him once more. You're remiss he hasn't reconsidered your offer, but, he'll come around. You believe this. All you need to do is show him.

-*-

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

It was hard to hear the panicked ramblings of a cornered cheap-suit amidst all the chaos of fire and explosions. That's what happened when a job went bad - somebody trips an alarm, hits volatile fuel, runs into some electric wire. Poof. Just like that they're up in smoke. Considering this is Hell, that's saying something. To the inexperienced, this chaos is enough to break their morale - suddenly the job takes a backseat and their only concern is to survive.

Spade didn't like this. He wandered through a maze of crates, where one crumpled Clubs was crouched, back to wood, peeking around corner. A river of red seeped from his shoulder and his form trembled with uncertainty.

"Didn't go well?" said Spade, looming over him. Clubs jumped, spinning and pointing his Benelli, relaxing once he realized who it was.

"What the fuck man!" he hissed. "Almost blew your fuckin' head off!"

Spade shrugged, a filled satchel swung over his shoulder. It was bloated with valuables - specifically the volatile explosive devices he was contracted to steal.

"Where are the others?" said Spade. Clubs shook his head.

"Wasted, fucking wasted. Ran into a tripwire! Queen got shot and Ace is fuckin smoked!"

Excuses, that's all Spade heard. He noticed an absence of loot at Clubs' side.

"What about the stuff?"

Clubs almost coughed with laughter. "Are you. . . fuck that! We need to leave! Where's the van!?"

Spade shook his head. "Not leaving until we get what we were supposed to."

Clubs was gobsmacked. "Are you outta' your fucking mind?"

Spade sighed, pulling out his suppressed weapon. He aimed it square at Clubs, tone laced with disdain.

"I told you. I'm a professional."

Clubs didn't have time to squeeze his trigger, and just like that, he was a lifeless shape of nothing. Well, he'd be back again one day, just a lesser version of himself.

"Great."

Well, that meant Spade was left with all the heavy lifting. The warehouse complex was consumed with chaos. Mostly fire and alarms. Lots of the Egg Boys had run off, short and incompetent as they were. Sir Pentious would probably hear about this, but not react soon enough for it to mean anything. So, Spade quickly set to work. He tracked down one of the caged vaults Ace had apparently tried to open, ignoring the pool of ash he was reduced to.

It was ajar enough Spade only had to finish what was started - and since the trap was set off, he was in no danger. At least the idiots were useful. Once open, the container revealed. . . well, not what Spade expected. It was a gold-plated cylinder, coming to Spade's waist, humming with something. Energy? An engine? He couldn't tell. He did know, however, this was the second priority target. With haste, he grabbed it. It was, thankfully, lightweight and compact.

When he loaded the van, the scene behind him was nothing short of a disaster. God, back in his day this would've been nice and quiet. Guess that's what you got with cheap hired guns. When the loot was secured, Spade sped off through the front, van screeching to life as he pulled out his burner phone, dialing in a throwaway number. He was told no one would pick up, just to leave a message:

"Royal flush."

Now came the waiting.

When he reached a safe distance - as in, on the other side of town - Spade pulled into a shadowed alley where he could quietly count down the hours. That was fine. He wanted to think, anyway. A job like this wasn't an everyday burn-and-grab. The explosives he nabbed might be useful to someone looking to cause havoc, or, set up for the incoming Purge. But the other thing? What was that? No, you didn't pick Pentious' pockets unless you either had a deathwish, or plans.

It felt like hours Spade was waiting, staring at the pink-stained pentagram sealed sky. A snake of cig smoke trailed from his lips, to the point he almost didn't hear footsteps. Someone to his left was approaching.

"I call," the voice said.

Spade nodded. "Fold."

The figure came closer, but stayed in the dark. Spade assumed this was the guy.

"You're short a full hand."

Spade shrugged. "Occupational hazard. Some guys just aren't cut out for it."

Silence. Then: "And the rest?"

"Everything you asked for," said Spade, gesturing to the van. "Hate to tell you this, but not exactly something you can flip. Nobody's gonna' buy that Pentious junk."

"Not for sale."

Spade chuckled. "I figured."

The figure came closer, dim streetlight hitting his figure. He wore a regal suit, kept his face hidden, stature equivalent to Spade. At this, Spade went to the van, opening the back, followed by the other. He pointed to the contents.

"One bag of fuck-you and one. . . I don't know what it is."

"It's important," said the other.

Spade grunted. "You strike me as someone with ideas. Mind tellin' me? For curiosity's sake."

"I don't trust you."

A chuckle. "I know, you're not stupid. But part of me recognizes a bigger picture. This is vault breakin' shit, isn't it?"

No response.

"Mm. Yeah, I thought so. Haven't seen anything like that in the PC for. . . fuck, I don't even remember. Back when gangs didn't run the streets and thieves had pride in what they did."

Still no response.

"Well, at any rate. I'm not a taxi, so, it's here for you."

"Hide it."

Spade laughed. "I don't babysit, jackoff. I like you, but not that much."

More quiet. Then:

"It's the Sugary Chigurh."

Spade stopped. He turned, staring at the silhouette. This time, he was silent.

"Now, hide it. I'll call you again."

The figure left, vanishing into the dark. Spade rubbed his head, glancing back to the van's contents. This ballsy motherfucker. . .

"We're gonna' need a bigger fuckin' van."

-*-

So close.

She nibbled her finger, face stretched with a wide grin. Her deep, perilous sockets of scarlet peered out from the bubbling crowd, unblinking. Fascinated. Watching. Oh, so, so close. The exotic perfume broke through the stench of hard alcohol and filthy cigars, drifted over noxious food and filth of demon-kin. So close. Yet, she remained. Quiet, patient, hopeful. It wasn't time yet, it wasn't time yet. But it would be, soon.

Oh, phencyclidine. You're amazing. A bedazzling spectacle. Look at you, capturing the crowd in your little web of humors. How they love you, how they adore you. They're dizzy on your chemical jokes, like you've injected them with yourself. Amazing. What an amazing gift. I should thank you, so much. You made it so easy, to find you, in this forest of neon towers.

Yes, happy. Sarin was so happy, and so close. Her legs didn't reach the floor, but they tapped against her seat with wild excitement. Not once did her crimson sclera move. Not once did she blink. She waited, in the corner of the theater room, like an ignored variable. No one was looking her way. Which was a shame! She'd gotten all dressed up for the occasion too - nice dress skirt and all! She couldn't bring any of her babies, but. . .

Later, later, for later. Right now, it was time to observe. Phencyclidine was the key, the thread binding everything together. He was a means to an end. Because if he was here, then he was here. Oh, she could feel it. Thief, oh thief! Where are you? Where are you in this undulating crowd of mindless vagabonds? You must be. You reeked of the spider's perfume.

How long was long? Very long. Like an eternity broken into every second. It was a miracle when Phencyclidine finished his jokes, a downpour of lights showering the audience. He waved to them, and she waved back, even though he didn't see her. He vanished behind the curtains. Sarin's ears went alert, vertical, scanning. Everyone started to move. More terrible food was served, along with atrocious drink. But these were distractions, useless nodes of data. There was another piece at play here, one she had to find.

But the task proved impossible. Simply too many faces and voices and noise. The smells were awful, causing her rabbit nose to wiggle in disgust. Demons shifted from place to place, all randomized and thoughtless.

But then. . . something.

Her wide eyes went _wider._Oh, he almost got away. So quick, so fleet-of-foot. Hiding himself in plain sight. There, there, THERE. THERE, THERE, THERE.

A shape of dark, a suited fellow, moving through the crowd and beyond them, following Angel Dust. He stuck to the sides, the corners, the places where eyes don't go. Was it a fan? No, couldn't have been. It matched what few descriptions existed, stature, suit and all. The thief, the thief, that she was sure of. So, so, so close.

She almost cracked her face with her stretching smile.

A waitress approached. "Ma'am, can I get you anything else?"

Sarin's eyes did not leave the thief's direction.

"No thank you," she said. "I have everything I need."