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Bad For You

Quiet. Why did it feel so quiet? The air was heavy with a tranquil, anxious pause. Voices muffled, sounds distorted. Right, but not right.

The breath before the plunge, that's why. It was almost time. In front of you, an elaborate blueprint hung on the wall, white etchings indicating various exits, entries, and locations deemed significant. The skeleton of the Sugary Chigurh _was exposed and you intended to pick through the bones until you found the heart - specifically its vault. A prize beyond measure, a score worth taking. It filtered numerous streams of dark money from every corner of Pentagram City - lowlife and gang lord alike. Sure, the Gadzooks and the Splinters had the appearance of control, but truly, the vault was its own entity, its own nation of wealth. It belonged to no one - because everyone belonged to _it.

Soon it would be time. Soon the dice would roll, the cards flip, the draw made. You had the resources and the manpower; all it came down to was execution. And yet, it surrounded you with the awful noise of _silence. _In your room, in your mind, you could hear only yourself.

This has to work, _you tell yourself. _This must work. This will work. I will make it work. They will know me. They will know my schemes.

It was unbearable.

There was something else. As you stared at the wall, eyeing the map of white scrawlings, another thought plagued you. It'd had eaten at you since a few nights ago, at the outing. At the show, as Angel Dust made his jokes, his casual references to a grim reality, the concept troubled you. But fucking why? _Who cares - he was an effeminate demon spider, a hooker who picked you up and got you out of a bad pinch. So what. Who cares? Why care? _Who. Cares.

You did. Was it because of your innate greed? Your desire for _everything? _You were a thief, a specimen of lust, hungry for money and reputation. Was Angel, then, just another jewel, another briefcase of drugs and cash ripe for the plucking? You rubbed your temples.

No. Something was different. This whole fucking Hotel was _different. _Different enough that a once renowned ganglord refused you, _you! _Anon: Master Thief! How could Angel Dust - a multi-handed fiend with a fetish for drugs, bondage, and excess - turn you down? Turn away from this heist, this path of grandeur and renown? Because he was trying to get _better? _This angered you. And yet, it _endeared _him to you. Angel was a broken, sexual mess, and yet, he thought himself good enough for redemption. He believed he could be saved. Maybe, then, he believed _you _could be saved too, despite how laughable a prospect that was.

You stood. Be damned this silence. The longer it remained, the more you could think, and these idle thoughts, they mocked you.

Leaving the room, you strolled down the hall. It was late, and most of the Hotel lights were off save for the necessary. Everyone was likely asleep. This didn't stop you, and soon, you found yourself in front of Angel's gauche door, staring into it like it were another vault filled with untouchable prizes. You stood that way for a while, quiet settling over you. The fucking quiet.

It wouldn't be this way for long. Soon you would strike, put your plans into motion. You didn't know if you'd be standing here again, after the fact. So, you knocked.

"Angel?" you say, voice low.

Nothing. You almost laugh at yourself - what are you doing? You have more important things to do. And yet, you can't walk away. So, you knock again.

"It's me," you add. "Are you awake?"

More of the damning quiet, and maybe you should take the hint. It's well past midnight and even demons need respite. Yet, as you ready to turn, the door crackles with unhinging locks, and there's a muffled grumble accompanying them. It creaks ajar.

"Can'tafuckinguyfuckhisowna-"

Angel peers through, stopping himself. "Eh?"

The door swings open. His eyes are a little hazy, and he's not in his usual attire - rather a long pink shirt coming down to his curvy waist. His puffy cleavage isn't visible, but it's formed a slope on his chest. He leans on the door frame, brow raised.

"Anon? The hell are you doing?"

Good question. What _are _you doing?

You shrug. "Can't sleep." Liar.

Angel Dust blinks. His eyes flick from side to side, like he's expecting someone else to jump out from the dark. "What? This a booty call? Kinda' tired. Can I just jack you off?"

You manage a chuckle. "No, not exactly. Just wanted to talk, actually. Haven't since the show."

He peers at you, maybe in disbelief. "Yeah? Whose fault is 'dat? I ain't the one been sulkin' in my room. And I _don't _play therapist - go talk to blondie if you're having a second coming or some shit."

You don't budge. "You're the only one I trust."

Angel looks like you've slapped him with a brick. He sighs, pushing the frame open, gesturing for you to enter. "Fiiiiiine. Get the fuck in here." He mutters. "WorsethanbadweedIswearatthistimeofnight. . ."

Relieved, you do so, stepping into his lavish, pink room, lock clicking shut behind you. There are only a few lights on, washing the interior with a dull ambiance, and a massive gold-trim TV is on, flicking between a series of Hell-approved commercials. Angel Dust saunters past you, hips swinging with melancholy sway, before throwing himself back into the bed. As he does, something shifts in the corner - a ball of fleshy pink groaning with a little squeak.

You blink, noting it immediately. It's a little fuzzy pink animal - or so you think. In fact, upon closer inspection, it's a pig.

You point to it. "Uh, what's that?"

Angel Dust settles into his covers, flicking you an annoyed gaze.

"That's my baby. Don't you fuckin' wake him up."

You look at the little oink again. You're perplexed - you've never seen Angel care about anything this much aside from drugs and cock. You find it endearing. He crosses his legs in the meanwhile, attention returning to the screen. He points to a chair without looking at you.

"Might as well get comfy."

You sit, resting in the cushion. "Thanks."

There's a pause in the air as you search for the words, the right thing to say. You're not even sure what _you want to start with - so many buzzy words swirling in your head. You want to try and convince Angel again, but you also want to ask him about, well, _him.

Angel notices. "Pretty quiet for someone who stopped by to 'chat," he says, annoyed.

"Sorry, sorry. There's a lot on my mind." You consider. Finally, you start with something casual:

"So, you have a pig for a pet."

This, at least, procures a smile from Angel, who blows a kiss to the sleeping hog.

"Yeh. My sweet little baby-boo."

"He's got a name?"

A snicker. "Fat Nuggets."

That. . . doesn't surprise you. "How creative."

Angel sticks his tongue at you. "My pig, my name."

You ignore this. "They just casually sell pigs at pet shop's in hell?"

Angel Dust stretches, pushing himself further into his elaborate pillows. "Nah. Found him in the gutter pickin' at some dead guy. Poor little bastard was starvin'. He wandered up to me and, I dunno, we clicked. Gave him some food, greedy bitch took it right outta' my hand."

The warmth in Angel's voice is not lost on you, and it's the first time you've heard him reflect on something with such. . . sincerity.

He continues, again, gaze not at you. "Guess I'm pretty good at savin' poor shits, eh?"

You cross your arms. "You calling me poor?"

"If you're not personally wearing Satan's golden balls, then yeah, I'd consider ya' a jerry hockin for pennies."

"Maybe not for long," you say. Another unsettling silence forms between you two. Angel's aware of what you mean.

Now, he looks at you. "Makin' a lot of trouble for yourself, pockets."

"You knew that was the case when you met me. Besides, I thought you _liked _trouble."

He grumbles. "Yeah, dumbass. I do. You're the _best _kind of trouble, asshole."

You return his gaze. "Meaning?"

Angel Dust turns the television volume down, spare arms crossing.

"Ghh, you're frustratin', you know that? Here I am, tryin' to go clean and then _you _gotta' show up, waggin' all that cash and dick around. You've got some nerve."

You realize he's half-serious.

"Hard enough I gotta' pretend with all the other high-dollar whores I'm still sportin' guns for every itchy trigger finger. Oh they keep askin 'Angie when's your next big murder spree' and I gotta' play it off like it's nothin. It's driving me crazy. And then _you, _ya' big fuckhead, gettin' us all wrapped in your, your. . ."

He wiggles his hands and fingers together, like making a shape.

"Plans," you say.

He rolls his eyes.

"I thought I was the one who needed to talk," you add. Angel flips you off.

"Prick." He pouts.

You know he's faking it - mostly.

"You don't _have _to lie about it, you know," you say. Your intuition was right then, was it? That his desires were akin to yours - the appetite for violence and reputation? The lust for wealth?

"You're the only one I trust," you say again. "And I could use someone I trust with me."

Angel Dust stops you with a point. "There you go, tryin' that shit. I told you to knock it off."

At this, you are admittedly frustrated. Your arms drop, hands coming together, leaning.

"You keep telling me you want to get better. But why? _This city respects you. They _fear you. And you'd give that up? For what?"

You look at the TV and an old grainy movie is playing - poorly dressed demons are stabbing another poorly dressed monster. Ugly angels also appear, speaking, with text coming up to show their old-world dialogue. Hmph.

"Redemption?"

Angel looks at you, then away. A part of you fears you've overstepped, more so when he shifts, getting off the bed. But he simply struts to his closet, pulling it open.

"You sleepin' with me tonight or what?"

The question catches you off guard. "Ah, what? Oh."

You didn't know if he meant sleeping with him or _fucking _him. Probably both.

"Uh. Yes."

He mutters, incoherent curses flowing from him, as he yanks out another pair of fat, luxurious pillows. He comes back to the bed, tossing them on the sheets, moving so there's a vacant space next to him.

"I hate that you're so much like him. It drives me fuckin' crazy," he says, voice low. Now that _really _takes you off guard.

"What? Who?"

One of his free arms pats the empty sheets. You get the hint, taking off your shoes and joining. As you fall into the bedding, a lovely ambrosia of perfume settles over you, along with the silky embrace of Angel's luxurious bed. As you do, Angel smiles. His eyes aren't toward anything in particular, pensive and even somber.

"Fuck, he had a nice jaw. Broad shouldered sonofabitch. He smelled like cheap brandy and cigarettes. Some of that shit cologne too, Bandit, I think they called it. Every Jack and mary-popper was stainin' their suits with it."

You aren't sure what Angel dust is talking about - or rather who - but you don't interrupt.

"I remember seein' him at one of dad's get togethers, where all his fat fuck friends made jokes about the docks and drownin' a mulatto or something. One night it was a big, huge gathering, and this guy, this tall handsome sonofabitch, he's there. And he just _knew _who I was, what I was about. We leave and he's got this voice like llqour, and he's tellin' me all these things. Right in my ear. . ."

You glance at Angel and you can see him blush. His arms wring around a pillow, hugging it tight, voice growing in intensity. Something else dawns on you - he's talking about when he was alive.

"Mm, that night. Filthy rain and the boardwalk was a mess. Cheap garbage hotel after a few drinks and there's Crosby on. I feel like I'm gonna' fucking drown in this guy, and I'll do anything for em', go anywhere."

Now he grins. "And gh, he fucks me _hard. _I'm pretty sure we broke the bedsprings - probably could hear us through the damn wall. Couldn't feel my legs, was so fuckin' sore. . ."

Another pause. More quiet. That insufferable quiet. You're listening now, more than curious.

"Mornin' and he's already rolling. He tells me he made a huge mistake - we both did. That we couldn't do it ever again or they'd fuckin' kill us. And I tell him over and over I don't care or all that shit but he ain't havin' it, so. That's how it goes."

Angel starts to laugh. "Couple weeks later, I'm hearin' one of dad's loudmouth fuckboy hitmen yammer about some guy. Some tall guy with a square jaw, how they found out he was a fairy, and how they literally broke his balls and made him tell how many guys he fucked until they threw him in the river."

Angel's laughing harder now, rubbing his head with palm.

"He didn't say shit. Didn't say a word. And I knew who it was - sonofabitch probably saved my life. For a while, anyway."

You're not sure what to say - or what you _could _possibly say.

All you can manage is this: "What was his name?"

Angel's laugh settles, and he just shrugs. "Can't remember."

You hesitate, uncertain if you should ask your next question, fearing it pries too much. But you chance it anyway.

"And this is why you want to be. . . better?"

Angel closes his eyes a moment. He takes a while to respond.

"Figure if I get into heaven, I'll find him."

His expression doesn't change though, still smiling with casual disregard for his own memory, much like he did on stage, turning his experiences into one big comedy act.

He sighs. "Then there's you."

He leans now, his slender form pressing into your side. "Two-bit nobody with big ideas rollin' gangs and comin' home with money. Ambitious shithead. You picked the _worst _time to show up, huh? Couldn't have popped up an eternity ago when I was makin' moves for myself? Aww, pockets, it would've been. . ."

He grumbles. "So perfect."

You manage a chuckle. "I'm bad for you, is what you're saying."

One of Angel's free arms comes around you, hands gripping with a warm caress.

"You're like a whiskey after-chase after a line of blow, ya prick. The candy-man in a rehab clinic."

You close your eyes a brief moment, relaxing from Angel's warm, practiced touch.

"But dammit pockets. . ." Angel continues. "As much as I want it, it ain't the way for me anymore."

You find your head falling on his. "Because of the one-night stand?"

"Because of _a lot _of things. When I got down here I wanted to be the biggest, flamiest-fag this side of bad Satan fanfiction, just to _piss my fuckin' family off. _And it was pretty nice. How mad you think my pops was when he found out I was workin' the pole, blowing dudes for money, _and _the biggest criminal name since Capone, eh?"

You're surprised. "Your father is here?"

Angel shrugs. "Course he is. He comes to my shows to flip me off."

Again, you're bewildered, but you hold on to the information for later.

"So, yeah, _mad. _But, I got my rocks off. And what would really top it off if this cock-sucking concierge managed to get the hell outta' dodge. My last grand 'fuck you.' Understand?"

You let your own arm slip around his waist, risking a touch, but Angel doesn't resist, and you both snug closer.

"So, it's revenge, then."

He scoffs. "It's anything, Anon. But I _want _it, and that's all that matters."

That, at least, you understand. To want and desire were synonymous with you, a creature of ambitious greed. If nothing else, to act for the sake of yourself was very right.

Another pause. Angel snags his remote and flicks through the channels, stopping on a rerun of Hell's news channel. There are clips of the nefarious Cherri Bomb flicking off the camera and blowing something up, proceeded by her flashing her tits and then tossing something at the camera-demon, also blowing them up. Angel Dust snickers.

"How do you remember this?" you say.

"Remember what? My shows?"

"No, no. These memories. How?"

Angel Dust glances to you. "What? From bein' alive? You're telling me you can't?"

You reflect a moment, trying hard to reach into the abyss of your mind. From that darkness, only fractions and strained images arrived, blurry snapshots of the life you had before. They're all distorted, unclear. You _know _they exist and, they provide context of who you are, but yet, _don't. _It's as if you're trying to read a book about your life but all the text is washed away and muddled.

"I just get pieces back. Fragments, sometimes. I think I remember voices and a man. We're somewhere and he's afraid. We're running, I think. I'm pretty sure it's the moment before I died."

Angel Dust frowns. "That's weird. But, I'unno pockets. Guess it came back with time. I've been around here a while, ya' know."

Well, time you had endless quantities of. Perhaps, as the spider suggested, it would come back when enough days had passed.

"This what you stopped by to talk about?" he adds. "Cause' I told you, I ain't a therapist. Better off asking daddy's favorite daughter about that."

You shake your head. "It's not. But I wouldn't anyway, I don't trust her either."

Angel almost chokes on a chuckle. "Wow. Girl is trying to redeem everybody, and you think she's trouble? But a hooker who does blow and keeps fuckin' machine guns in his closet, that's no problem for ya', huh?"

You smirk. "That's right."

Angel's frame shakes from an eruption of laugher. "Oh my fuckin' GOD, Anon."

He leans over, kissing your cheek. "That's depressing."

The sensation of his soft lips sends tingles through you. More silence lingers as the broadcast continues to show the carnage incited by Hell's "finest." One of Pentious' machines shows up, and you can't help but smile. You wonder, briefly, if the snake-scientist realizes you've robbed him?

"Ya' picked a hell of a time to start all this bullshit," Angel comments, pointing at the screen. "Why can't you just do drugs and fuck like a good boy, eh?"

You want to say it's a matter of pride and reputation.

"It's what I'm good at it. I suppose it's all I know," you say instead. Angel squeezes you, much like he's clutching something precious.

"Ain't gotta' be like that," he says. "Little violence here, little robbery there - you could keep it real simple. But knockin' over a casino? Even I didn't pull that shit."

You return his squeeze. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were concerned."

He scoffs, though it sounds forced. "Don't get any ideas, sugar daddy."

"Unfortunately for us both, I've got too many of them."

He gives a defeated sigh. "Anon. . . ya know if you do that, I can't. I mean. I can't help you."

You knew this now, and you'd come to accept it. But, for the briefest of moments, you reconsider everything. For a fraction of seconds, you think, perhaps, maybe you won't _go through with everything. Maybe, if Angel Dust asked you, right here and now, to reconsider, you would. But you are a creature of greed. You're Anon, a master thief, and you have plans for this city, and _they will come to fruition.

"You won't need to."

He grumbles.

"Think you're that good, huh?"

You stare at the screen, noting all the carnage, the wayward destruction. It's disorganized and rambunctious, lacking thought. Even Sir Pentious, a self-proclaimed genius with an arsenal rivaling entire armies, seems to react on instinct, hunger. You, on the other hand, are more considerate.

"If there's anything I know, Angel, it's this. Breaking banks is all I'm good at."

Angel Dust snickers. Accompanying his mischievous laugh is a hand, rolling to your crotch, idly squeezing.

"Not all."

You grunt, then shiver. Angel Dust always finds a way with you. . .

Now, he sighs, and his frame moves. He swings over you, and his lithe, curvaceous body is pressed against yours, free hands around your neck while his forehead touches yours. He kisses you again, on the lips, and a gentle warmth forms between you.

"If only I'd met ya' sooner," he says, offering a sad smile. "Fuckin' jerk. Ugh."

You return his embrace, kissing him harshly. "Shut up."

Your hands sneak to his back, the curve of his rump, spreading and squeezing, procuring a harsh gasp from him. Soon, you start to tangle together, shift, disrobe. It's no longer quiet.

-*-

"Sure about that?"

Mel stared at his hire with anxious uncertainty. Her wild, unblinking eyes of horrid scarlet affixed on him, and that ugly smile, it never faded. Like she found everything amusing.

"I'm not sure, I'm certain."

He tapped his desk, a trial of cigar smoke winding through the air. Dim light filled his office room, while fear settled over him. Didn't matter that his bodyguards were right outside the door, or that he had a handgun in the drawer. Something about this. . . Sarin put him ill at ease. Maybe it was that clinical, medicinal odor she carried, the kind of thing you smell when you sterilize flesh. Maybe her enthuse for killing. Maybe the holy water she used in all her poisons.

Leaning back, he took a breath, attempting to focus.

"So, he's shaggin' that she-he, huh?"

It'd been a few weeks since he let loose his hunter to track down the cheap suit knocking over Splinter hideouts. Whoever the fuck was, they were good at hiding. Until now, that is. According to Sarin, the thief in question had a thing for prostitutes, namely the most infamous of them all: Angel Dust. By finding the spider, they were close. Mel relished the idea of hanging this nuisance by their entrails. In the same vein though, they couldn't just _do _it.

"Didn't he retire? Ain't seen him on the streets in a while," Mel mused.

Sarin tilted her head. "Does it matter?" she said, still smiling.

Oh, it bloody did. Mel didn't know the extent of the thief's relationship with Angel Dust, but if it was good, that presented complications. You didn't fuck with spider - retired or no. There was a reason he was one of Hell's biggest criminal names.

"I ain't gonna be the one to turn this into a turf war," said Mel. "I just want the thief, that's it."

He shook his head. "He can't be that forward thinkin'. Can't be. No way that spider gives two-shits about rollin' mobs."

Sarin giggled. "You're not taking this very seriously, are you?"

Mel leered, a rush of red flushing through his otherwise azure features.

"The fuck did you say to me?"

Sarin leaned. Her small rabbit hand pressed onto Mel's desk, and there was a crackling, terrible hiss from the contact.

"You're underestimating him. You don't even _know, _do you?"

Mel grimaced. "Don't play games with me. I hired you, do your job."

He didn't think it possible for the rabbit to smile wider, but she did.

"It's funny what you learn with just the right amount of poison."

She tapped her chin, starting to pace around the room.

"Silly, silly, _silly. _It's your money. It's _all _your money. How could you not see?"

Mel slammed the table. "What the FUCK are you talking about?"

Her gaze came back to the gang boss.

"Phencyclidine was at the casino. Your casino. And where the spider is. . ."

Mel blinked. He thought a moment, not understanding at first. But, as his thoughts settled, things started to click. The thief was with the spider, and if that was the case, at the casino.

"When?"

Sarin giggled again. "Close enough you should be concerned."

It settled over Mel. Shit. Shit! Of course. Of course, that fucking thief would try something so ballsy. The _Chigurh _had everyone's pockets. There was money coming in from every leftover gang since the founding of Pentagram City. What better way to make a name for yourself? That little _fuck. _Thought he was so clever, did he?

"All right, all right," said Mel, sitting, steepling fingers. "Good. So, we trap the bastard. Easy. We just need to know when."

Sarin shook her head. "Now, now. Don't make a fuss. If you try something funny, he'll notice. He'll find out _he's _been found out."

Mel waved her off. "This ain't up for debate. You have _any _idea what's in that goddamn vault? I'm not taking any chances. Nobody is."

Again, Sarin giggled. This time, she hopped onto Mel's desk, pale white fur caught by the lamplight.

"No, no. You don't understand. I'm not making a suggestion. I'm telling you."

Mel's heart went cold. "Get out."

"Aww, don't be rude."

Where her frame made contact with the desk, again, terrible hissing noises emerged, like her flesh were caustic to everything it touched.

"Don't even fucking try it. . ." Mel warned, tone coated with fear.

Her face came to his, and her unbearable red eyes bored into his.

"Let me do my job, silly."

He grunted. "If you think you can threaten me and every gang in Pentagram City. . ."

She reached out and touched his face, to which Mel flinched, falling back in his chair.

"I did just fine in Guernica, thank you."

Another head tilt. Then, Sarin hopped from the desk prancing away. Mel grimaced, wanting nothing more than to shoot her square in her stupid rabbit head. But as he tried to move, his flesh froze. A burning ran through him, and his breathing turned coarse.

"HGGGuAH!"

His throat caught and his lungs boiled over as he tried to call for his guards. They couldn't hear him. They were dead too.

Sarin skipped along, excited. Almost time, almost time. All she had to do now was wait.

-*-

You peel your eyes open. The weight of the morning falls over you, along with fatigue. Er, was it morning? Where were you?

A ceiling you didn't recognize met your weary gaze. It was strangely colored - pink. Pink? Oh. This wasn't your room. Realization hit you, more so as you turned your head, eyeing a sleeping figure of fluff white. Angel Dust was curled into a pillow, as were one of his arms. The other, a spare one, was draped over you, possessive grasp keeping you close. His bare fingers were like warm silk, accented by his exotic perfume. It was nice. Too nice. A cozy, infatuated want settled over you. You could stay like this forever, you think. If it were possible to steal a moment of time, it'd be this one.

You can't, though. You have plans for this city. You sit up, pensive, trying to remember what lies ahead. It was time, almost time. All you had to do was wait.

As you shifted, Angel Dust murmured, arm leaving you and curling into the covers. You look at him with a fondness - the kind you don't like. The kind going beyond greed and desire, lust and want. The kind skipping infatuation. He was your friend though, that was normal, right? This other thing you felt. . .

Your movement is noticed, but not by the slumbering arachnid. Rather, a series of oinks catches your attention, and a fat ball of spotted pink scrambles atop the bed. A squat pig is staring at you, curious eyes unblinking as his flat nose wriggles with sniffs. He approaches you, slowly, stumbling through the covers with his clumsy hooves.

"Uh. . ."

It squeaks again, approaching. You put out your hand then, letting him catch your scent. But, he doesn't approach, instead taking the safer route and going to his master, nosing at Angel Dust. At once the spider recoils, groaning and grunting, unconscious form trying to push the intruder away. But the pig is relentless, happily prodding at the spider until forcing him awake.

"Mmrmrngah?"

Angel's black sclera eye yanks open, irritated.

"Wha? Nuh? Fat Nuggets?" he croaks, tone dry and weary. "The hell you want you adorable little fuck. . ."

Angel's arms come sliding around his pig, holding Fat Nuggets close. You don't know why, but something about a spider and a pig seems familiar.

Fat Nuggets oinks in jubilation, procuring more annoyed grunts from Angel.

"Allrightallrightallright!" he says, starting to raise himself. "I'm up, JEE-zus."

He sits up, kissing Fat Nuggets, petting him. Then, he notices you. He flushes, perhaps because he didn't expect to be seen with his favored pet pig.

"Oh. Uh. You're still here."

You nod. "Still here."

Angel Dust blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, giving a big yawn. He sets Fat Nuggets down, the little oink hopping around in playful circles.

"That's a new one," Angel comments. He checks the time, looking at a gauche, overly-ornate clock on his wall. "Fucking shit, it's noon?"

You chuckle. "Somewhere to be?"

The spider stretches. "Nng. Usually outta' my fuckin' mind around now."

He hops out of bed, running fingers over his head. His nude frame still holds delightful curves, especially noticeable as he saunters to the other side of the room, rump offering the gentlest of bounces. He goes to a table, pulling out a bag of sparkling white, tossing it on a gold tray.

"You uh. Uhm. Uh, sleep okay?"

He asks you without looking, and it dawns on you an encounter like this is new to him, or, unfamiliar. When, indeed, was the last time someone he slept with stuck around this long?

"Better than I have in a long time," you say. A truth - you hardly rest at all. "And you?"

"It's _noon," _he says, retrieving a knife. You chuckle again.

You watch him cut and snort whatever god-forsaken substance he's acquired, and he shivers, the ecstasy of the drug hitting him at once. He continues to sniff, rubbing his visage, where apparently there's a space for his nose - if he even has one. You don't ask. As he does, the curious Fat Nuggets comes to you now, nosing you. It seems he wants pets, and you oblige. His skin is odd - rough and hairy, but also soft. As you caress the little oink, he curls into your lap, squiggle tail swinging around. When Angel sees this, he can't hide his smile.

"Sweet little fucker, ain't he?"

Fat Nuggets looks up at you with wide, curious eyes. "For Hell? He's like a puppy."

Angel Dust saunters back over, getting back into the covers.

"He really likes ya."

You scratch behind the pig's ears. "Well. Animals, at least, I trust."

"Ya' got problems in that department, Anon."

A quiet forms in the room. But it's a quiet you like - peaceful, tranquil, something you could live with. It also carries a heavy cost, because it worms its way into you. You start to forget yourself. Your desires. The job. The mark. Something else is taking place. Something. . .

A buzz catches your attention. On the counter next to you, hiding in your shirt. A droning, terrible buzz. A horrible noise, a dreadful thing. Because it's your phone, and someone is calling you. The only someone you have contact with - Spade. The world you're in now, this warm bed with Angel, this connection, it fades. Soon you're reminded. You're Anon, Master Thief.

You pick up the phone. As you do, you don't see Angel's smile fade, or his expression of resignation. You can't see his gaze, which looks at you like it does with everyone else - _expectation. _He sniffs, but not from the drugs.

You, in the meantime, answer: "Yes?"

-*-

Spade looked it over, the machine. He wasn't a technician, so knowing the ins and outs of the abomination wasn't possible. But he did understand what it was for: breaking vaults the fuck open. It was powered by ill-gotten gains, the strange device he was directed to steal - a generator made by Pentious. Said generator would provide energy to blow open even the strongest demonic metal, precisely what was required if they wanted to succeed.

"It's ready," he said to the phone. "Got the explosives accounted for. Crew is ready to roll. Got the getaway."

"I'm glad to hear."

Spade rubbed his head. "Yeah."

"Something wrong?"

Spade looked around. The hideout was small, just a shoddy warehouse where a few other demons had gathered in service of the score. Spade had a low opinion of them, much like the first crew he ran with. But too late now, they were all in.

"Nope. Just hope you're ready. Once we do this. . . well. Just hope you're ready to make enemies of the whole goddamn city."

A pause. Then: "Are you?"

"Ain't nobody more ready than me, buddy. Just need the word."

"Give me some time."

Spade sighed. Excited anxiety was bubbling through him. He'd rather get started _now, _but he had to wait.

"Hey, I ain't some cunt on prom night. Don't stand me up."

The response as agitated. _"Give me some time." _

"Sure."

The tone eased. "Good. I'll call you soon. We're almost ready."

There was a click, and Spade set the phone down. He adjusted his suit, looking out past a warehouse window, out to the bleak silhouette of Pentagram City. The _Sugary Chigurh _was easy to spot, even from here, a blitz of gaudy neon and gold.

-*-

Maybe bein' good aint' all it's cracked up to be. I mean, fuck it, right? You swear off the sauce, you stop rollin' bozos off the street, you even throw yourself into rehab as patient fuckin' zero for something that might not even work. And for what? Getting' shafted all over again. Same ol' goddamn song. Fucking hell, I'm so stupid. What did I expect, really? Jee-zus. He's like everyone else, cause' we're in Hell. Nobody can change down here.

FuckinganonIhateyousomuchyoustupidshithead. You're supposed to be my fuckin' friend.

Dumbass. Hope you get hurt. Hope your stupid little plan goes all south so your stupid head gets stupid shot. Stupid.

. . .

I don't. . .

Don't get hurt.

Please don't get hurt, you fuck.

I can't go with you. You don't get that? And I wanna'. I wanna' so bad, you've no fuckin' idea. Every part of me is screaming that it's the most right goddamn thing I could ever do. It's perfect. I could do it forever. I could do it until the streets are a bloody fuckin' soup. But I can't.

And you're stupid and you're gonna get hurt and I can't do shit about it. Fuck you.

. . .

Come back.

Fucker. You won't.

I can't help. Can I? Maybe. . .

Angel Dust twirled a knife through his skilled digits, swaggering to his friend. Her cyclopean eye stared at him with enthuse, married with her toothy, terrifying grin. She was tossing an explosive in hand, sitting atop wreckages of metal and guts.

"Angel!" she exclaimed hopping down, arms spread. "There you are you four-armed fuckboy! Where you been, you hot slut!?"

Angel Dust shrugged, returning his own smile. "Bitch, just been fabulous on the pole, as usual."

He looked around, whistling. A carnival of dead Egg Boys, Pentious robots, fire, and blood comprised what used to be a few building blocks.

"Damn girl, no remorse."

Cherri Bomb hugged him, and he returned it with enthuse. Perhaps, because, he wished it was someone else hugging him.

"So," he continued as they broke embrace, "What's this solid ya' need, babe?"

-*-

Sarin stared at the _Sugary Chigurh _from the darkness of her room. It was pitch black, save for her eyes. Her staring, red eyes. It was quiet. So, so, so quiet.

But soon it wouldn't be.