FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The Song I Used to Sing

An alien object stares back at you. Five stubs of brass interconnected into a faux-gold frame, mimicking a limb. Its construction is meant to replace an arm, right down to the joint, but it's not you. You expand "your" fingers, you clench them together, you make a fist. But it's not your fist. No matter how many times you repeat the rhythm, it comes no closer to feeling like a piece of you.

You were Anon: Master Thief. You had plans for this city. And it's cost you.

Your eyes don't leave the thing, the frame of metal, thinking if you stare long enough maybe your real arm will grow back. It's supposed to, right? That's how it works down here? Death isn't permanent, injury is a momentary complication. . . right?

"Mister Anon?"

Clench. Fist. Expand. You can control it, but you can't feel it.

"Mister Anon?"

You stop, and your eyes wander up to the sitting figure, concern splayed over her features. Charlie Magne - daughter of Lucifer, Princes of Hell - clears her throat, sitting matter-of-factly in her chair across from you. Next to her, her number one, Vaggie, looks at you with such expectancy, as if your predicament is entirely predictable.

"Did you hear me?" says Charlie, her tone stern, yet, sad. She's not happy. You know why. Looking at you is like looking at failure, since you are, technically, at the Hotel for rehab. But old habits cling like flesh to bone, and your addictions demand a heavy price.

"Course' he ain't. Ya' getting the Anon experience. Great, isn't it? Don't listen to nobody, except himself."

You aren't alone. Next to you, on the couch, is Angel Dust. But he's next to you in the sense someone's forced in proximity to something vile.

"You've got no business judging him," cut in Vaggie, pointing at Angel with an accusing finger. "Gambling is one thing, but murdering by the hundreds?"

Angel mimes a talking hand, propping his chin in the other, elbow on couch-arm. "Yack yack yack, already heard it, sister. Don't go all 'broken record on me.' Cause your latest hit I bitch constantly is gettin' really, really old."

Vaggie grits her teeth and starts to stand, but halts as Charlie tosses her a soft gaze.

"We've discussed it already, and we're not here to chastise you again," continued Charlie, straightening herself. "But it's important you both be here."

"Pfft, why?" chided Angel. "Is mommy angry?"

Charlie's gaze narrowed, a dance of red flashing through her eyes. "This isn't a joke, Angel. And I'm not angry, just disappointed. I'm. . . trying to help you. Both of you."

Her fingers rolled together, uncertain. "No one said this was easy. Addictions are what they are, even if it's killing, or drinking, or gambling." She forced a weak smile.

"This is Hell after all and, I guess by those standards, it could be so much worse. But part of my therapy is helping you both, and, I clearly haven't done my job."

Charlie stares at you, then to your arm. "What possessed you to offer yourself like that, Mister Anon, I'll never know. I don't judge. But that's an alarming habit of self-destruction."

You remain quiet. You can hardly process her words - things are cloudy, out of focus. She doesn't even know. In her mind, you lost your arm because you made a bad, bad wager in a round of cards. Ol' Alastor was kind of enough to patch you up, according to the Radio Demon's account, but, also according to him it wasn't coming back. More so, your face took some hits too, trails of snaking scars smeared over its left side. Even your eye suffered, an imitation of Angel's black sclera.

"And I'd never forgive myself if something happened to either of you." She catches herself.

"Ahm. Something worse."

Charlie takes a long breath, patting her knees. "It's why, for the week, I'm setting a curfew for the two of you. And if you plan to leave the Hotel, you will be chaperoned. Right now, it's clear your problems and addictions are getting out of control."

Angel snorts. "Ya' kiddin' me?"

Charlie crosses her arms, stern. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

You don't really react. It's difficult to process the idea. A curfew? It's almost amusing, imagining a criminal mastermind and an ex-criminal mastermind having a bedtime. But here you were.

Angel pressed his fingers to his head like a phone. "Oh, uh, yeah hang on, lemme' just tell the clubs I ain't gonna' be there because I brought home a bad grade and 'maw' isn't happy."

Charlie sighed. "You're free to break the curfew. But, you're also free to find somewhere else to live. You are both under our care, and if we think you're in trouble, we have to step in. So, yes Angel, maybe you should call them."

Angel twitches, and he looks like he wants to pop-out his extra pair of arms and give a six-fingered-salute. Somehow, he resists. Charlie notes the anger, bringing her eyes back to you.

"Anon?"

You don't have the energy to fight this, and you don't know if you care as much. You. . . feel bad. But not because you betrayed the Hotel, or even because your heist came with such a dreadful price. You feel bad, because you failed Angel. He has, in his own way, been looking out for you since you got here. He's lied for you. He's saved your life, twice. He's even wanted you to give up your path, but, you ignored him. You never changed direction, so you ended up where you were going. And crashed - hard.

"I understand,' you manage. Charlie gives a weak smile.

"I know it seems a little harsh, but it's good for you both."

Then, her eyes popped wide, and she leaped up. "Oh! Devil! I forgot about dinner! I'm sorry, we'll pick this up later!" she said, briskly hopping out of the room. Vaggie watched her go, then looked between you and Angel.

She sighed. "Please. Please you two. Try to be good." Afterward, she stood, chasing after Charlie.

The quiet comes back, ruthless in its weight. It's Angel who breaks it. "I understand," he repeats, mocking you. "That's all ya' got to say, huh?"

Your eyes shift to him. He's still reclined, annoyed, staring ahead at the wall. One of his gloved hand is balled in a fist.

"Gah, I could punch you right now_,"_ he adds, gritting his teeth. "Aaah! Ohhaha, oh, Anon, you have no fuckin' idea_."_

You. . . aren't too surprised and you can't blame him. He turns finally, glaring at you. "Well!? Say somethin' you stupid shit! What? You a shit movie from the roarin' twenties? Are words gonna start appearing above your head, you goddamn silent film! Ya' too good for me now?"

You blink. "Angel. . ."

He groans, grabbing a pillow, screaming into it. He holds it there for a while, then, gently, puts it back on the couch, crossing his arms.

"Team bitch chewed me out for an hour, Anon. I counted. I almost brained m'self to get them to shut up, holy jeezus. Because of you."

Now, this, you're confused with. Angel has every right to his fury, and you kind of want him to punch you, if only because it'll make him feel better. But because of you?

"I don't understand," you say, looking at the floor. Angel scoffs.

"Course you don't ya' class A moron. You only think about you. Well, lemme just give ya' the four one one, shithead."

He rolls his fingers into his temples, grumbling. "Look at you. Goddammit. So cock-fuckin-sure you had it all planned out, huh? But ya' know what gets me, is that ya' think it was all you, babe. That you smashed the biggest shebang in this whole shitshow city and got out alive, because of some 'master plan'." He finger quotes, looking disgusted.

You start to look at him. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Ohhhhhh, I'll tell ya' Fort Cocks. You just waltzed right in like a big swingin' dick, didn't ya? Kinda weird you weren't' pulverized, though, by like, a thousand guns. Know why? Oooh, I'll tell ya a secret, buddy."

He leans in, glancing around like someone's listening, hand to his mouth. "It's cause of little ol' me. And my bestie. We fuckin' cleaned so many goons you might as well eighty-six the purge, we did all the damn legwork."

You blink. What?

"Havin' trouble, genius? Well it's cause I'm like your guardian angel," he says, pressing hands together as if in prayer, a fake, limp halo poofing above him. "Me and Cherri smoked a buncha' gang bozos they had no choice but to throw every damn thing they had at us. You get it? The Sugary Shitshow was as empty as Caligula's cock because they didn't have the nuts to spare."

He jammed a thumb into his fluffy 'cleavage,' features indignant, snarling at you. "I kept your ass from getting cleaned you smart ass, two-timing, cheap-suit Pacone wannabe! And whaddo I get for it? A scream sesh from Vagina and daddy's little monster while I get to sit around this dump, with you."

Angel Dust crumples up the cartoonish ring above his head and tosses it. He falls into the couch, arms crossed once more, pouting.

Damn. Maybe you should've died, because you wouldn't have to hear this. The poison hurt, but this was worse. Angel Dust was your only friend. He and Spade. But you used them both, manipulating them for your own gains. You were a beast of greed - no wonder you ended up in Hell.

"I had no idea," you start to say.

"Of course you didn't," Angel bites back. "And you got the audacity to sit there like a sourpuss and mope. 'Ohhh nooo, my poor widdle arm, how will I ever surviiiiive.' Blegh. Wasn't for me, you wouldn't even have an ass to sit with!"

He fishes something from the inner pocket of his suit, a flask with pink engravings. Swirling the top off, he takes a big swig. Maybe too big a swig. He gasps, wiping his lip, shoving it into your chest.

"Drink it."

"I'm not-"

"Fucking drink it.

Well, more poison wasn't gonna hurt. You take a draft and cough. It burns like hellfire and tastes like rancid nail polish.

"Agh, gahg. God, what the hell is that?"

Angel Dust yanks it back, peering at the flask. "I'unno. Some Kentucky reserve bullshit." He knocks down another swig before stuffing it back in his pocket.

He sighs, standing now. "I'm gonna' get fuckin' blasted and try to forget today ever existed."

Alarmed, you try to stop him. "Angel, hang on. Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

He holds up a finger, shivering. "Ugh. Shut up. I hate that shit. Yeah, I know you're sorry now. Caught with ya' hand in the cookie jar. Everybody really makes them hail-mary prayers when that happens. Sorry don't mean shit."

You don't want him to hate you. "I. . ."

"Ya' gonna have to show me you mean it. All there is to it."

Before you say more, he struts off. Fuck. Maybe for the best - he needs time to cool down and you just need time.

-*-

You drift to the Hotel's bar - admittedly not one of their smartest additions to the building - but you can at least drown yourself in good ol' "liquid forget" while you figure out a way to work things out with Angel. When you get there, though, you're not alone. Husk is attending and there's someone else, sitting at the bar.

Spade!

"Spade?" you say, walking to him. Indeed, the gray Doberman demon shifts, looking at you. He manages a chuckle. He sees your arm.

"Devil below. You're not dead."

You give a weak smile. "Not yet."

He gestures to your arm. "The hell did he do to you?"

You don't want to reflect on the arm, but, it's you now, like it or not. You raise it, flexing the fingers. "I guess. . . he saved me." He meaning Alastor.

"Do you know him?" you add, taking a seat. Husk comes to you, frowning.

"Er, been told not to uh, send any good times your way, Anon."

Ah, right. They think this - your predicament - was because of alcohol. "Well. . ."

Husk chuckles. "Look, just take it easy, all right? Gettin' too old to throw out floozies these days."

Husk goes to find you a poison, while Spade's voice gets low. "Know him? Yeah. And uh, apparently, so do you."

"And apparently," Spade says, gesturing around him, "The daughter of Lucy-fuckin-fir is here too."

"It's a strange crowd," you admit. Spade's not done.

"AND, unless I've been hittin' the sauce too hard, ol kinky boots is swaggering around here! Anon. Anon. If I died again and this is some kind of super hell, you better tell me. Cause I owe you a fuck you."

You chuckle, and it feels good to laugh. "Nope, you're not dead."

Realization hits you, and you're suddenly swimming with questions.

"But, you do know Alastor," you say, "He wasn't here before, appeared about a week ago."

Spade sighs. "Yeah. He uh, helped me with this." He points to his head, and you assume he means the dog head. "Course, he's a man of many deals, so uh. Looks like I'm right back in it."

You can only imagine what that implies. In the meantime, Husk returns, sliding you a bottle. "That's a stout ala' imperial, so you take it easy, got it?"

You thank him, taking a quick sip. You just want to feel at ease.

Spade points at your arm. "Guess you are too."

You quirk a brow.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Spade chuckles. "Pretty sure it's not just me, but, Allie's not the altruistic type. He's gonna' hold this over us, but for what, couldn't say. That arm is his doing and Devil knows he's looking for bargains."

You scoff. "Fuck him."

"Hahaha, shit, if only it were that easy. Heh. He ain't too bad from the backside though. Whaddya say? Would you give his downtown a visit?"

You try to stop yourself from smiling, ignoring the implications of a "deal" with Alastor. "Not my type."

"Same. Too unspeakable evil for me. Probably not a cuddler, either."

You take another sip. "Spade, uh, listen." Your eyes go to him now, sincere.

"I need to thank you. You saved my life and devil knows where I'd be if you didn't. I owe you."

He shrugged. "Eh, not one for bein' owed, just gets messy. Thankin' me is plenty. Oh and uh, a fifty-fifty cut is nice too."

Oh, right, the loot. Well, after all is said and done, wealth is the farthest thing from your mind right now. "Keep it."

Spade doesn't hesitate. "Don't mind if I do. Was kinda' hoping you'd say that, cause, ain't much of it left."

"What was then?"

He holds up a finger. "One bag. Don't get me wrong, good shit in that bag, but considering what we saw. Urgh. Make a grown dog cry."

Indeed, the wealth inside the vault appeared limitless, stretching on like a labyrinth. As you mused this, your thoughts went back to that thing, in its tomb of glass. The unsettling visage of its sour skin and broken flesh flashes through your thoughts, along with its icy, soundless voice. Fuck. If you never saw it again it'd be too soon.

"Hmm. What about the others?"

Spade gives you a grim look. "Pretty dead I'd say. And the true death, no coming back from it. I could smell it."

Weight eats you. "It's my fault."

Spade makes a disgusted sound. "Ugh. No, it's not. Don't start courting guilt like a dime with a big ass. Nobody likes a mope. They knew what they were getting into. Besides, pretty sure Sicario murdered kids by the dozen and Oni dismembered farmers and fucked their wives. They were demons, remember."

Huh. Well, he wasn't wrong. Hah, what a strange thing - a thief having empathy.

"Well. What about you? Staying here?"

Spade sighs. "Eh. Guess until I get my marching orders from red I'm stuck. So yeah."

You're actually relieved. His company is good, and, even though you've called the shots thus far, Spade's got experience on you, and right now, you need wisdom.

"The Hotel's nice. You should get a room."

"Yeah. Maybe."

He looks around, a mischevious expression playing on his face, leaning toward you. "Hey uhhhhh, by the way, is uh, the blondie seeing anyone?"

You blink, staring at him. "You're asking if the daughter of the Devil is dating?"

He shrugs, innocent. You laugh again. "I'm pretty sure she is."

"Aw. Ah well. Hmm. What about them goat boys?"

Now you really stare at him. "Wha. What? Raz and Daz? Are you serious?"

He snickers. "Raz and Daz? That's cute. And of course I'm serious. You ever been with a shortstack?"

"Oh my god, you horny ass mutt."

"They're practically twins."

You take another sip, fighting back more laughter. "I have no idea Spade, I have no idea. My tastes are a little more multi-limbed."

Spade squints, then as realization sets in, his eyes go wide. "Oohhhhh. Look at you. Knockin' that little twink, huh? Well good for you. That's really appropriate, criminal and criminal. You'd make a cute couple."

You hold your smile, but it falters, remembering how pissed Angel is at you. "It's not like that."

Again, Spade shrugs. "Whatever you say." He slaps his hand on the bar, looking around. "Shit, shit. What the hell do goats like, anyway?"

"Jeezus, Spade, you're really on this now, huh?"

He looks past you. "Ey, if I get my balls knocked around by a couple of twins, I'm good with that."

Husk coughs. "I hear they like donuts you goddamn weirdo."

Spade perks like he's found another vault. His eyes dart around, scheming. "Hmm."

He pats your shoulder, standing (and wobbling). "Anon, I'll catch you later, I've got something to do."

"Of course," you say, rolling your eyes.

"Oh," he stops, spinning around. "By the way. It's not Spade. It's Hox."

Before you process this, he stumbles off, set on his newfound quest for. . . Razzle and Dazzle, apparently. You shake your head, returning to your drink, absentmindedly picking it up with your metal limb. The bottle slips through the uncoordinated fingers, smashing on the ground like a pool of blood.

"Fuck."

-*-

The dark is the only domain you understand now. At least here, you can't hurt anybody. At least, under your bedcovers, there are no vaults or gangs or people to manipulate. Quiet is all that exists, the damnable, insufferable silence. Uncaring, it forces your problems upon you, demands you contemplate your failures. You want to sleep, but wretched images of your actions conjure forth, a swift reprisal of the kind of person you are.

It's not the arm. It should be, but it's not. It's not the fact you almost died during your heist or the fact that, apparently, your success wasn't a true one. It's the notion of how you hurt Angel which truly disturbs you. Goddammit. Sentimentality was poison, you knew this. Why should you care, honestly? Your ambitions were more important, right?

No. No, not anymore. Angel was a whore from hell. Spade - or "Hox," - was just a common hire, a toss away for a robbery. But they were your friends, a commodity irreplaceable.

Caring for others. How weak. How foolish. How stupid. Guess you were all three.

Indeed, your mind fragmented. Normally, you focused on the next grand plan, a future heist to bedazzle all the denizens of hell. Yet now? You didn't even bother checking the news. Was a near-death experience all it took to shake you off your rhythm? You close your eyes. Sleep doesn't come. You just see a tired Hox, a pissed off Angel, a missing limb. And then. . . the building in the rain. The men at the table, smiling, waiting. It left you with a terrible pain: yearning for something you couldn't understand, or touch, or take.

You sighed. You keep your eyes shut, hoping sleep might drag you into oblivion. Maybe it was time to change. Maybe. . .

A barrage of taps catches your attention. You grumble, pulling open your eyelids. Goddammit, what now? Can't a man drown himself in self-pity? You ignore it, hoping it goes away. You're not interested in another pep talk with Charlie or whatever Hox has been up to.

The knocks come again. A muffled voice cuts through the frame. "Open the door ya' dumb bitch."

You sit up, lurching forward. Was that real or was it just wishful thinking from the crazier part of your brain? Standing, uncertain, you go to the door, unfastening the locks. As you peel it ajar, a well-dressed Angel Dust meets your gaze, carrying an annoyed expression.

You swing the door open, in disbelief. "Angel?"

He's wearing a fancy perfume, a snazzy purse, fine pink pinstripe suit, and he looks ready for a night out. "One and only."

You look around him. It's late, well beyond the curfew imposed upon you both. "What are-"

"Toss on your best suit, babe, we're gettin' fucked tonight."

You blink, confused. "What?"

He grunts, rubbing his eyes. "Anon, I swear it's like somebody needs to go Lutheran on your forehead. You. Me. Out."

You're surprised. You thought he was pissed at you. "Er, that's breaking the curfew?"

He growls. "Do I look like a fucking boy scout to you?" He stops, putting a finger to lip, imagining. "Nn, okay, bad example."

He waves his hands. "Ya' really worried about following the rules?"

You don't know why he's doing this. "I just. . . don't want to get you into more trouble."

He pauses. His voice lowers. "Fuck curfew, and fuck trouble, unless the trouble is me. Anon you are a mopey little shit and it's drivin' me crazy and we got an eternity to be as plain as white rice. You said you wanna' show me you're sorry?"

You go quiet. He smirks, stealing victory. "Yeah. Thought so. Well, we need chaperones, right? Then chaperone me, bitch."

You nod. "All right. If it means that much to you."

"Atta' boy."

"Just one thing," you say, voice serious. "If we get caught, let me take the blame for it, okay? It was my idea."

He rolls his eyes. "Anon, I don't need a white knight, jeezus."

You don't waiver. "Let. Me."

He smiles. "Yeah, yeah, whatever tough guy." He twirls a finger. "Now can ya make like a monkey and grab a suit? We ain't got all night."

You don't take long. You decide on the suit you had when you first arrived at the Hotel, meeting Angel in the hall. Like a giggling prankster, he tugs you along until you both leave through the brick entrance, the secret shifting stones where you've snuck in and out from. Once out, the "night" air greets you, dark glow of distant neon casting pink and red hues along the sky, accented by a malignant, glowing pentagram.

You want to make it up to Angel. He's not one for traditional apologies, so whatever makes him happy tonight, you're game. Even if it gets. . . messy.

"Where to?" you ask, as you follow alongside him. You make some distance between yourself and the Hotel, where Angel waves down a taxi.

"Mm? Nice little digs. Trip down memory lane."

You're curious, and it's not long until a black vehicle slides up. You enter along with Angel, settling into the pink fabric. It's. . . familiar. Nostalgia hits you, even for something that was roughly a month ago.

Angel Dust points, flagging the driver.

"Pink Pucci, and make it quick like pal. Like the cops are about to shove a nightstick up your ass quick like."

You've never heard the name, and the driver grunts, slamming the gas. As he does, Angel snickers, pulling out a mini-mirror and giving himself a once over, checking his mascara and padding his cheeks. You forgot how good he looks, especially as the city lights dance through the window, coloring his snow-white fluff in mesmerizing hues.

You know he's not one for apologies, but you so badly want to make things up to him. Where to start, you aren't sure.

"Look, I know you're not a fan of weepy apologies. So, I won't say sorry. Just thanks," you say, glancing at him cautiously.

He finishes with his mirror, clicking it shut and stuffing it back into his purse. He glances at you, waiting.

"You could've iced me out but, you're giving me your time. Again. And you uh, saved my life."

You try humor. "Hey, look, if you want I can give you a handy with this thing," you say, making a jerking motion with your machine hand.

This finally forces a smile on his features. "Yahah, no thanks, don't want oil on my junk."

"Well, lemme' suck your dick then."

He snorts. "That's my line."

You stare at him. He stares back.

"Okay, okay, easy tiger. Let's file that under 'things I can get my friend to do cause' he owes me'."

Oh god. Hearing him say it takes away so much hurt. You try not to start sputtering like an idiot. The euphoria of opening the vault is nothing compared to the joy of Angel calling you 'friend' again. "You uh, sure you wanna' be friends with a washup like me?"

He rolls his eyes, sighing. "Of course I do, you dumb bitch."

Angel crosses his arms, free ones reclined on the seat. "All right, let's make like Jimmy Johns and brain this elephant. I'm not. . . mad at ya', Anon. I mean, I was. I was. I wanted to strangle ya'. But just cause, well. . . well shit man! Shit! You scared the nuts off me!"

You went quiet.

"When that shitshack casino blew up I just, damn. I was like 'well that's it, my buddy is dead, there goes another one.' Had to pretend everything was all dandy. And then I had to sit there and take shit from those delightful little carpet munchers and. . . then you're alive. Ugh. It's a fuckload to process in a day. And I kept wantin' to scream 'I told you I told you I told you!' Ehg. You get it?"

You nod. But you don't think you understand, not entirely. Angel, in his own way, prepared to mourn for you. You, however, went about things with such cold, assured indifference.

But you're also confused. "Hang on, what? It blew up?"

He gives you a duh look. "Well, yah! Of course it did! After me and Cherri went on a celebratory bender they was all like, on the news, 'hi I'm Tom Trench and I'm a huge dumbass!'"

He imitates the reporters, puffing his face and crossing his eyes. "Today we got the hot scoop! We suck, but also, Big C fucking made Pentious eat dick! Also, everyone's favorite casino got torched! Bodies everywhere! No survivors!"

You're mixed on how to feel, watching his imitation with. . . amusement. But you're back to his description. Apparently, the Sugary Chigurh blew up.

"I wasn't even there for it, apparently. Hox helped me escape and I blacked out. I had no idea it collapsed."

Angel Drops his imitation. "Who?"

"Oh, Hox. The dog. Goes by Spade."

Angel Dust's eyes flash with intrigue. "Oh, that hot little pup? You uh, gonna' introduce me?"

You grimace. "Er. I think he's got a thing for the goats."

Angel frowns. "Aww, what shit taste."

Angel Dust glances out the window, the driver making a turn as the vehicle speeds toward downtown. "Huh. Well anyway. So uh, you wasn't makin' like Hamburger Lady?"

"I wasn't in the explosion, no, if that's what you're asking."

Angel goes quiet, head sinking. "Oh." He smacks his lips, thumbs twiddling.

"So, I gave you shit for nothing, eh?"

You laugh. "Oh, no. No. Angel, it's fine, it is. I'm glad you're looking out for me, even when I was thinking about myself. I've been a real piece of shit."

Angel gives a 'hm,' but doesn't pursue. Rather, he flicks your brass arm. "How'd it happen, then? Get into a badass knife fight? Ya ain't got mine with you so I assume you put it to good use," he says, giving you a smug, expecting look.

Images of what happened come flying back into your head. All the bodies and the stench of poison, like a chemical used to cleanse bacteria. Then, that. . . thing. Her terrible laugh, her unblinking, unforgiving eyes, the horror of watching your arm. . .

Your features must have changed, because Angel immediately picks up on this, hands raised. "Eeee, yikes, okay, bad question, bad question."

He rolls a hand through his hair tuft, clearing throat. "Let's put a fork in it, kay? What's done is done. I ain't mad anymore. You're alive, I'm alive, and I want drugs and dick."

You smile. "Fair enough." You'll tell him soon, but not right now.

He smiles too, looking out the window. "I'm glad you're okay, pockets."

Uh oh. You feel something. Something different. Something going beyond infatuation and greed. Beyond lust. You look at Angel Dust, watching the city lights playing over him, catching him in just the right way. You want to say something. You. . .

"Eyyy, there she is!" exclaims Angel, raising two arms and pointing with the others. You look, and through the driver's window, you see a quaint cut of a building, styled like something from the early 1900s, draped with a big, pulsing sign Pink Pucci. It's odd, striking you as almost familiar like you've seen it somewhere. Or, maybe it's because everything in Pentagram City has at least one neon sign.

Regardless, the driver grunts, yanking to the building side. You exit with Angel, who tosses a wad of cash at the cab. There's an irritated gurgle, and the driver leaves, as the building looms over you two.

"And this is a strip club, I wager?" you say, because what else would it be. Angel tosses his bust of fluff and adjusts black bowtie, grinning.

"Oh, you bet. But ain't just any pole-polish. S'my first one, where I got started."

He starts to saunter towards the entrance, waiting for you to follow. You do so, curious. "Oh?"

Pride coats his tone. "Yeah. Me and the girls worked the stage and I even got my first adult gig cause of it."

You stride with him towards the scarlet doors. There's no line, so you can both go in. Once you do, it's like stepping through a time portal. When Angel said strip club, you imagined the usual: dim lights, a center stage, a few figures working the pole, crowds in the dark and sections for "extras." But it's not quite that. There's a stage, but everything is washed in a comforting, orange glow. Tables are populated by observers, but they're in formal attire. The stench of cigars lingers with perfume, while girls work over clients, tossing coquettish glances and running their hands in close proximity to, well, you know.

Wait. You thought girls? No. No, upon closer inspection, the curvy figures draped in makeup are boys. Incredibly girly boys. You're starting to see how Angel got his start here.

Angel throws an arm around your shoulder, gesturing proudly. "Classy fuckin' digs right? They don't make em' like this anymore."

You're impressed. "It's great," you say in earnest. Kind of what you needed, really. Angel beams.

While you stand there, though, it doesn't take long before someone recognizes the foul-mouthed arachnid. One of the "girls" squeaks, rushing over to him, and it's all getting familiar again. They hug, hold hands, kiss each other's cheeks, the nine yards.

The demon currently assaulting Angel with memory-lane looks similar to a squirrel, just with very wide hips.

"Holy shit, where've you been you damn nancy!" they squeak, chittering.

Angel Dust sneers, polishing his fingers on his suit. "Aww, babe, you know me. Just shoving my diamond studded boot up this city's ass, remindin' em who's boss."

The squirrel gets excited. "Yeah! I saw. You and Cherri knocked down a whole block!"

Then, their wide pink eyes go to you. "Oooh. And who's this. Lookin' for something easy, big guy? I'm a squirrel, you know, I can fit a lot in these cheeks, and I don't mean my ass. Or, do I?"

A part of you wants to say it: I'm Anon, Master Thief. Pride sticks to you. But you know what? Fuck it. Maybe you're just Anon.

"Just someone who likes getting blown by spiders, apparently," you say. Angel squeezes you.

The squirrel snickers. "What a nut. I like nuts."

Angel smirks. "You keep them cheeks gabbin', sister. He's mine."

The demon forces a feigned pout. Then, they lead you to a table, while Angel starts catching up with the crowds. You sit with him, and it's like he's signing autographs. Everyone comes up to him at least once, even some of the patrons. It's cute, and you can see how he basks in the attention. He really shines, and he makes them laugh. But the other thing? Every time they ask about you, Angel calls you his date. If they don't, Angel mentions you anyway, like he's proud to be with you. You're not sure what you did to deserve the "honor" aside from being a criminal, but you're happy to take it anyway.

While you sit, you catch a couple of shows with Angel, tossing back a whiskey sour while he hits off of a few Cosmopolitans. The drink goes down easy, doesn't burn as much, leaving you with a nice buzz. It's extra nice because you get to just talk with Angel, watching some of the flexible dancers. You don't remember the last time you were with him like this. You don't, because you never were.

Eventually, Angel loosens up, meaning he's in phase one. You'd never have guessed he was on his third vodka, what with his tolerance. He gets up then, mentioning he'll return. He heads to the bar, making smiles at the server, an oafish, old looking curmudgeon who grins too. They exchange words and Angel passes him some bills, while the big fellow tosses him a bag and a key. Angel looks positively delighted.

When he returns, he can't hide his grin, gesturing for you to stand. "Got us a room."

You blink. Oh. It's not hard to parse what he's implying with that. And you know what? You're fine with that. It's been a painful week. The alcohol's getting to you and you could really use some company. Specifically the dick sucking kind. Specifically Angel.

You stand, walking with him. "They've got rooms, huh?"

He puts a hand around your side, guiding you to some stairs. "They've got my room."

You're curious. As you stride up the steps, there is indeed a black door with Angel angrily carved into its frame. The spider fishes out a key and pushes it open, leading to a well-sized chamber with a great city view.

He shuts the door, sealing you both in a realm of privacy. Lights flick on, and it's a comforting amber, washing over a luxury carpet, fancy bed, styled furnishings, and a piano. Angel Dust absorbs the ambiance, expanding his arms as he twirls.

"Ahhh, damn, feels good. Fuck I missed this joint. Was simple back then."

He snickers, placing his purse on a table, twiddling fingers over his baggie. "Got us some candy, too."

You don't notice yet, lost in, well, classic Angel. The room is refined like it was designed by a burlesque dancer. Perhaps this was him before he got caught up in everything that was Pentagram City. You realize, too, he's sharing this with you. A piece of himself. It's so kept together you don't wager he brought many 'guests' with him up here, making it that much more special.

Right now, though, Angel is more committed to his bag. "Egh. What the. . . ew. No. Cheap shit. Not enough. This is fuckin' plastic. Got better stuff at home. Hmm. . ."

You glance, and he's going through an assortment of pills, capsules, powders, and Devil knew what else. Drugs, you already knew. Wouldn't be Angel without them.

He pulls out a cigarillo, a little blunt, looking it over. "This'll do." You, in the meantime, sit on the edge of the bed, trying to relax.

Angel lights the blunt, minding the tip and then giving it a quick hit. At once, he makes a repulsed sound, like a cat hacking. "Bleagh! Agh! Fuck, what is this mid-shit? Did they jam this thing with resin! Ugh, it's like a bar shoe!"

He gestures to you, offering the apparently garbage-quality stuff. Usually, you just keep it to drinks, but tonight? You want to forget the city. So, you nod, taking a drag, _regardless of _its contents, filling your lungs with smoke. Your reaction is similar - it's foul stuff with a dismal aftertaste, and the wrap leaves an oily flavor.

"God almighty," you say, handing the blunt back. "Tastes like a burnt dog."

Angel laughs. But despite how awful it is, you both trade a few hits as the drug leave you at ease. In a few minutes, they have their effect. A lightness starts to take you, and things seem outright better. Colors are more vibrant, movement is interesting, and there's a sort of saturation to your surroundings.

Angel takes one more puff and jams the tip into a glass ashtray. "Ugh. Candy bags. Cheap as fuck so ya' get what you pay for."

He sets down his purse, eyeing you. "Hmm. I need to wash that taste out of my mouth."

You're still on the bed, and you return his gaze. Oh. Damn. It's like you're looking at him all over again. He seems extra shapely. Those fine, tempting curves at his hips promise a generous backside. He wears a come-hither expression, and his lips look so soft, glistening. You can feel your heart starting to hammer, and desire is leaking into your flesh. That's the other nice thing about drugs - it gets you in the mood to fuck.

The gooey center of your libido pours out. It's like a switch - you know the kind. When your brain realizes you're near a hot, welcoming hole, all pretenses drop. Reservations and manners are flung away and it's like two animals goin' at it. But the drugs? They crank it to eleven. The promise and proximity of fucking is, in itself, its own drug. But combined with substances, it's a different beast entirely.

Yeah, you've lost your ability to be subtle. "You uh, gonna sit there all night or you going to lick my nuts?" you say to him, wanting.

Angel cracks with laughter, buckling over. "Eyy, there he is, that's my Anon! Fwhaha, if you told me all it took was a little drinky-drink and some garbage weed to get you ready to ride I'd gotten us better quality shit."

He stands, sauntering over to you, his arms coming to your shoulders. You cling to him, careful with your mechanical grip, dragging him in for a kiss. This stupid fucking spider shouldn't turn you on so much but god dammit he's the most gorgeous thing you've seen. Fuck! Angel you stupid, beautiful thing. His lips are impossibly soft and they press into you with desperate affection, tongues playing around, fighting for space, fighting for more.

You both wrestle out your clothes, exposed to the room air. When your flank springs free, Angel glances down, letting a hand caress against it, stroking in steady, practiced motions. It's like bliss. Warm electricity spikes through your fleshy pillar, and it's enough to whet your appetite.

"Here, uh, lemme. . ." Angel shifts. He moves past you, going to the bed, sinking to all fours (or all sixes, in his case). He's exposed to you, save for some lace leggings and thin panties. It's the perfect position, letting him kneel comfortably while he eyes your cock.

He supports it in palm, licking lips. "Damn, hard enough to break a rock. Atta boy. Haven't seen a good dick in weeks."

You chuckle, harassed by your lust. "Glad I could help with that problem."

He nuzzles your tip, forcing a groan from you. "I bet you are." His lips wrap around the crown, embracing you with tight, wet warmth. Your head arches, at the mercy of his sexual ploys, feeling his tongue dance around your initial inches, finding all the right ways to please you.

"Mmmmmhmmmf." He gives an approving mumble, looking up at you in a demure fashion. His arms keep him propped up, so only his mouth works you over, wiggling you inside his maw, puffing out his cheek. Each motion is accompanied by a muffled, sloppy slurp, and soon there's a thin trail of saliva dripping from his chin.

"God Angel, that's good, your lips. . ."

Your brain is kind of off right now. The words coming from you rip themselves from the primordial ooze of desire. Any further and you'll start grunting like a caveman.

He pops you free, a hand coming to hold your cock, shoving the inches into his cheek. "Ya' like it, huh? Want me to kiss it?"

You must look like a drooling fool, but Angel doesn't care. "Of course I fuckin' do," you say.

He chuckles. Then, his lips come to your tip again, smooching it. A thin layer of glaze is left behind until he does it again and again. Once at the tip, pecking at it, then at the sides. "Mwah!" he says. Each kiss fills you with disbelief, because observing his mouth press and smear against you is like a drug-induced dream.

Angel proceeds to open his orifice, tapping your shaft against his tongue. He's watching you, eager for your reaction, and each groan makes him flush. His own cock is bristling, pressing against the lace fabric, dribbling with sex.

"Nnh, oh, hang on. Never did this for ya', did I?" As he says this, he lifts himself, just enough so your flank finds itself buried in his fluff "cleavage." You twitch against it, and the sensation is. . . intriguing. It's like you're embraced by thick silk, and Angel Dusts squishes the puff against you, sneering it. Basically, and improvised tit job, letting you stroke yourself against him. He suckles your head each time, tickled by your desire to play along.

"Some guys really need to pretend I'm a girl, so yannow, whatever the boys need."

You chuckle. "And what about mine?"

He tilts his head. "Awwww, don't worry toots, I didn't forget."

No, he did not, if his actions were anything to go by. Allowing your shaft to rest on his head, Angel maintains a gentle rhythm of strokes with his extra arms, while he leans to wrap his mouth around your stones. He kisses them with excited enthuse, causing them to glisten with saliva and gloss. His tongue flicks around each, polishing the orbs before embracing them, sucking each in his inviting oral chamber. All the while, he keeps his eyes locked to yours in seductive fashion. It's driving you nuts. Heh.

More slurps emit from his actions, until your member is dripping with saliva and pre. Once again, his mouth runs along your crown, hands rolling to your hips, squeezing, gaze full of promise. You glide your palm through his fluff hair, waiting. You're patient enough you're not just gonna' jam it in, but damn you're tempted.

"Leeeet's take care of ya', pockets," Angel says, swallowing you. At once, he buries your length into his tight throat, right down to the threshold. He holds it, cheeks flushing red, determined to keep you there.

"God damn," you utter, seething with hunger. God damn indeed. It's a marvel he can hold you so long.

He released, coughing, but he's not deterred. Instead, he assaults your length with smooth, rhythmic motions, head bouncing against your cock, plush lips maintaining a snug, tight hold. Each drag of his maw sends ripples over your mast and drives stronger currents of electric, hot pleasure through your mast, pulling you closer and closer to peak. His tongue glides under your inches, like a cushion, and the proceeding sounds are like music. A chorus you could listen to for hours.

But holy shit do you need release. Along with this fellatio, you start rolling your hips into his mouth. He eagerly accepts, working in tandem as you slap into him like a meat piston. But your thrusts increase from gentle to hard, because it's impossible to hold back. The drugs and the strain and the misery and the fact you're with Angel culminate together, driving you to, well, drive into him.

"Mllllfgkk!" The effeminate arachnid notes your lack of hesitation, gripping you hard. He's not just letting you, he wants you to throatfuck him, and you eagerly oblige.

Devil below, it's not long before you hit release. Hot, spiking seed rushes to your tip and you burst into Angel, drowning his throat in yourself. You shake and twitch and groan, hitting the hardest orgasm you've had in life. Er, unlife. Angel's along for the ride, cupping you with his tongue, tasting your issue, letting it dribble into him.

For a moment, he's frozen. But then, slowly, he pulls free from you, wiping his lips. He cackles.

"Well shit Anon, when's the last time somebody worked that dick over?"

"Not soon enough," you say between breaths. Damn. Damn that sweet Angel Dust.

Your eyes linger on him, hungry for more. You notice, though, his panties, and the bulge between them. Hmm.

"What about you?" you say, stroking his hair. He looks positively bamboozled.

"Me?"

"Yeah you. When's the last time someone gave you some lovin'?"

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Not really a client priority."

Well that's stupid. You gently clasp his hand, tugging him up. "C'mere."

He casts you a curious glance. "Ya' gonna fuck me while standing? That's pretty hard."

"Not exactly."

Intrigued, Angel Dust stands, and you bring him close. You press his back into your chest, where the smooth, generous curve of his rump pushes into your waist. Your hand sneaks around his abdomen, pulling his panties down, and with utmost care, you wrap your fingers around his length, massaging the warm inches. You kiss his neck, chin resting on shoulder.

"There we go."

Angel can't fight a small smile, watching your palm stroke along his shivering inches. He bites his lip, hot breaths escaping him, free arms holding your head.

"Oh. H-hah. Didn't think this was what ya' meant."

You shoosh him. "Let me."

Angel's done plenty for you. Since the moment you met him, in his own way, he's looked out for you. Always giving, always opening you to new experiences, even protecting you. So, for fuck sake Angel. Let me do this for you. Let me at least show my appreciation.

It's clearly been a while since someone touched him like this, because he's twitching. His whole frame is practically wiggling into yours, and soft moans fill the air as you hasten your motions. Your mechanical hand holds him at the hip, softly, while you squeeze his crown, twisting and hitting all those erogenous zones.

He's shoved into you now, using you for support. "Ah s-shit!"

You breathe, and the ambrosia of expensive alcohol and perfume drift into you, an intoxicating aphrodisiac. So you maintain your rhythm until Angel's a melted mess. He shudders, then buckles, cock bursting with its own line of seed, streams of white messing the bed. You stroke a bit more, just to tease, forcing him to squirm from the post-orgasm bliss-pain.

Angel Dust breathes, dapples of sweat forming on his brow. He gives a weak laugh, looking at the stream of himself.

"F-fuck, we got it on my bed," he says, hanging onto you for support.

You kiss him on the cheek. He doesn't resist, turning around, grinning, assaulting you with his own smooches.

"Guess we're all in now," he comments. "Might as well finish the job."

You know what he means when he yanks you to the covers. At once, you begin your decadent dance. The hours are filled with your motions, creating a song of moans and cries for more. Each is an image caught in time, and your libidos are at max capacity, spurred on by drugs and alcohol.

Angel bucks on all fours while you grip his hips, grinding into his generous rump. You're on your back, Angel on top, eagerly tossing himself on your cock while you toy with his, until he switches, riding you, letting you caress his supple ass. You fuck him on the sheets, forcing his ankles to his neck, spreading his pink hole with ravenous intent. You both explore the library of positions and ways to fornicate until there's nothing left but two rutting animals. Well, a thief and a spider.

You keep going, he keeps taking, and your sense of time melts away.

-*-

It's like you've run a marathon or two. You're resting in covers, staring at the ceiling, Angel with you. He's sitting up, leaning into the pillowing, nursing a cig.

"I think I'm gonna have to burn these sheets," he says with a satisfied smirk, blowing a cloud.

You chuckle. "It's not that bad."

"Babe, we fucked cum into the stitching. No amount of bleach is gonna cleanse this."

Indeed, you both exchanged the sheets for some fresh ones. The others, on the floor, are much like a used tissue.

"We've always got mine as a backup."

He puffs again. "Yeah? Don't think the Hotel would appreciate that."

Oh shit, the Hotel. What time was it anyway? Ah, well. Fuck it. You were all in, no going back now.

"I will buy them new ones with my mountains of wealth," you say, stretching, sarcasm coating your tone.

Angel joins in. "Ah yeah? You're a regular Liberace now ain't ya'? Maybe you can get me a candelabra for my piano."

You've seen Angel's room enough times to remember pink, but not an instrument.

"What piano?"

He looks at you, gesturing at the piano in the room corner. "That one, dummy."

Oh. Right. It was a serene object of polished black. Nothing gauche or ornate about it. "I. . . had no idea you played."

You really didn't. You thought he meant his Thompson, at first.

He nods, cigarette in mouth. "Ohhhh yeah. Back in the days. First thing I learned how to do for daddums," he says, making a face at the word.

"He wanted me to do something useful when his mob friends came over, so eh, guess it clicked. I got really good at it too."

You assume he means when he was alive.

Angel Dust laughs, taking another drag. "Oh shit, then uh. Then I got too good at it and pa' was like, 'you sound like a queer.' Like, huh? So, what, I sounded gay? Ya' ever heard a gay piano, Anon? Cause that's new to me."

"I admit, I have not."

He smiles, before snubbing his cigarette. "Hmm." His eyes drift for a moments, swimming in thoughts and voices you can't hear. He's considering something, wearing a serious, contemplative expression, a rare look for him indeed.

"It's how I attracted you-know-who," he said, standing. You tilt your head.

"The one night stand?" One night they were, but important to Angel all the same, you recall.

He saunters to his molded dresser, and you catch an eyeful of his swinging hips and gently jigging rump. "Mmhmm. Ol' pump-and-dump."

You reckon it's a painful subject. "Sorry."

He waves you off, opening a drawer and sifting through it, fingers dancing between the still-folded lace and itinerary. "Oh, don't worry 'bout it babe. Old news is old news."

With an 'aha,' he retrieves something, smiling. "Hehe." You don't see what, though. You do watch him pause, however, eyeing the mysterious object with a pensive stare, like he's apprehensive to even hold it. Then, he glances at you, hiding whatever it is behind is back.

"I wanna' show you this," he says, returning to the bed.

"All right."

He sits on the bed edge, pressing the item into your hand. It's light, like paper, but the edges are burned and it's quite small, entirely worn down, carrying a smooth, waxy texture. You flip it around.

It's a photograph. In the image, there's a smiling young man, with soft features and a bright face, rosy cheeks stretched with a warm smile. His eyes are wide and innocent with a cut of short hair while a thin suit hugs his lean body. He's waving to the photographer, though you can't tell where he is, the background a hidden mess of shadows.

. . .

It's Angel Dust. Or, it was Angel Dust.

"Didn't think it was still in there," Angel adds. "Heh."

It was hard to process this correctly. Why was he showing you this, why here of all places? Was he trying to prove something, or was it just because the photo was so important he _had _to share it? Then again, did it really matter? This was clearly significant to him. It was a piece of him - literally. You're touched beyond words. Why you, a petty thief, a manipulator, a greedy creature, a thing of desire, deserved a friend like him, you'd never know. Angel saw something in you that _you _didn't, enough that he'd expose himself like this to you, despite your actions, despite what you've done.

"You were adorable," you say. And he was. Like a sliver of light in the dark. It was impossible to imagine hurting the boy in the image. Somehow, though, someone managed to do it, and god above you wish you were alive to stop it.

"Were!?" He pokes his tongue at you.

"Well. I mean you're hot now. There's a difference."

He lets it go. "Yeah, well. That was when I just started to learn. I ain't showed that to anyone, either, except for Cherri, so. Don't go around town shootin' off about it or I'll knife ya'."

You give a warm smile. "Thieves are nothing but secrets."

"Mmm."

You look the photo over more. You're mesmerized by it, and you're also curious how it ended up in Hell. It's a tether to the mortal world, after all, and it implies objects of life can coalesce down here.

"Well, you have to play me a song now." There's no fucking way you're leaving this place without a song.

He leers at you. "What!"

"Well, how do I know you're not lying?"

He flushes, rubbing an arm. "I'm not. . ."

"Come ooooon, I wanna' hear it."

"No way!"

"I'll suck your dick."

"Shaddup!"

He's giggling now. "JeeZUS. Tellin' you was a big mistake."

You make puppy eyes at him. "Please? For me?"

He flips you off, laughing. "Hohoh, fuck youuuu."

It doesn't deter you in the slightest, and you're tempted to make whimpering sounds. Angel Dust chuckles, rubbing eyes.

"Alright, alright, alright!" He jabs you with a finger. "Oh, you fuckin' owe me on this one, smart ass."

Angel sighs, lifting from the bed, resigned to his fate. He saunters to the piano, sitting, clearing his throat. There's something quite appropriate about a naked Angel Dust fussing over a refined piano.

"Agggh, all right. Let's see. How'd this go?" He wiggles his fingers in the air, trying to remember.

You watch him, entranced. You've never seen him do anything like this before, and you're content to observe. He strikes a few keys, seeking his song. He hums a tune too, in tandem with the key strikes.

"Hmm, hmm." A few more notes, and a melody starts to form. "At ta ta, at ta taaa. . ."

He nods. "Oh, shit, this was it. . ."

A melody starts to play. After a few seconds, Angel sings, voice like honey.

-*-

(0:12)

"Win-ter claims, the river

Spring days gone, we wither

Now, we will wait, my dear

For the days, until,

We hear, the songs, we would sing

By the shore, and the sea

And then, maybe then

You'll see, all the gold

Is not, what I seek

_ _

But rat-ther I want to know

The days so warm and green,

The diamond mossy stone,

Lau-ghing by the ri-ver

_ _

(1:13)

Here, now, pass, the winter

And spring will kiss

Again, here, by, the river

Even though I

Can't, see you, by the waterside

I, will always, wait for you

_ _

(2:47)

Win-ter claims, the river,

Spring days gone, I wither

Now, I will wait, my dear

For the days, until,

We will sing, again."

-*-

You've never heard Angel like this. His voice carries a sweet, melancholy joy, full of yearning. The yearning you know, that you felt. The memory rushes in, the building at the corner, the men sitting at the table, waiting.

And then, you look at Angel Dust as he cycles through the keys, filling the room with the chiming piano ambiance. The yearning goes away.

He turns back to you, expectantly. "There. Happy now?"

With all sincerity, you answer. "Yes."

He can't hide his smile, and he flushes, returning to the covers. He snuggles into your frame, sighing. "Good, cause' that's the _last _time."

You start to chuckle, his arms slipping around you, your heads pressed together. "What was the melody, anyway?"

"Mm? Eh. Just a song I used to sing."

-*-

Charlotte Magne peered through her window, watching as a small car pulled up near the building, two figures stepping out. They were quite loud, and stumbled around, arms around the other. One of them threw an empty bottle, the other laughed. She sighed. It was Angel and Anon.

"Well, they're back," she said, tugging at her nightgown. Vaggie looked up from her book.

"Please tell me they're at least not on fire."

Charlie turned, carrying a weak smile. "Perfectly doused."

"They came back, at least," said Vaggie, supportive. "That's a start."

Charlie waved a hand. "It's okay. I didn't expect them to fall in line yet. They'll try, I know they will. But no one said this was easy."

Vaggie came to her friend, smiling. "You won't be doing it alone."

Charlie flushed, struggling not to giggle. "It's uh, actually not what I'm worried about."

"No?"

Charlie shook her head. She went to her room table, snapping up an envelope. It bore no address, just a name emblazoned in gold: Mammon. She'd opened it before, and within it was a hastily scrawled note.

"This, actually."

Vaggie blinked, taking the paper, quirking a brow. Her eyes traced over it a few times, but it made no sense regardless. "I don't get it."

Charlie's features shifted from pleasant to concerned.

"I. . . I think I do."

On the letter were only two words:

IT'S OUT