Striker The Legend

 

“From out of the fire

Came a man cruel and bold

Farmhand and a hitchhiker

By night he drank whisky

By day killed weak imps

And the townspeople knew him as Striker”

 

“Trotting down deserts and volcanos

Adored and feared

In saloons and brothels and the like-er

With snake eyes of greed

And an inferno steed

Pumping guts full of lead, he’s Striker”

 

“Striker!

Striker!

Striker!

Striker!”

 

“A ladies’ man indeed, from horns to his tail

A hybrid-born hitman and fighter

His legend’s known well

In the Wrath Ring of Hell

Beware ol’ scheming Striker”

 

Part One: Early Days

This is the twisted tale of Hell’s most infamous rootin’ tootin’ cowboy residing in the wild western Wrath Ring. Although he was an imp, there was something special and unique about him that left him shrouded in mystery. Not many citizens could forget the horned figure dressed in cowboy attire, dashing into the sunset on a hellish black equine aglow with flames. Or during the times when he’d lounge and gab at a nearby saloon, a bottle of Satan’s Wrath in one hand and a curved red dagger in the other. Sometimes when he ordered a drink, he’d place a few hellish dollar bills called souls in front of him and stab his dagger through them for intimidation. Those who made him mad received black eyes and bruises in brawls…at least the lucky ones.

 

 Unlike many imps, he had a long pointed tail with four black stripes and eight sharp spines lined up on them. The tail sometimes made rattlesnake noises when it moved, like it had a life of its own. His black and white horns were jagged in appearance, curved upwards. His face was a pale faded red; his eyes yellow and green, glowing in spiral hypnotic patterns. A gold tooth glinted among his sharp teeth. He stood a little over six feet tall, his skin possessing incredible endurance and healing powers. A wheat straw was often seen in his mouth.

 

Though an impoverished outlaw, he had originated from royalty. Though proclaiming himself a messiah for the downtrodden imp race, he despised the weak and nearly everyone around him. Though developing a hatred for royalty, he ended up working for one. Here was an arrogant, selfish and sadistic man, marinated in complexity. Rumor has it that he had never lost a fight. Even the roughest toughest hooligans parted whenever they heard the tapping of his tall boots and the ominous hissing from his tail.

 

In his quest for money, fame and his vision of righteousness, he was an unstoppable force. 

 

He was Striker…assassin, outlaw, legend.

 

0 0 0

It all started not too long ago down in Hell. More specifically in the Rings of Envy and Wrath.

 

The Seven Deadly Sin Overlord demons each ruled different districts in Hell: Lucifer for Pride, Mammon for Greed, Asmodeus for Lust, Beelzebub for Gluttony, Leviathan for Envy, Satan for Wrath and Belphegor for Sloth. In addition, there were seventy two royal demons of the Ars Goetia, skilled in magic and quite affluent. One of them was Prince Stolas, who married Stella and had a daughter named Octavia. When Stolas slept with an imp named Blitzo, Stella grew furious at him, worried that her husband would bring disgrace to their family line. After all, imps were seen as the lowest of the low in Hell.

 

However, the vast class differences didn’t stop elites from associating with imps on occasion. Sometimes it was a casual meeting in annual events, other times it was for business or slave work. Imps and succubi could even be sexual playthings to powerful figures like Asmodeus.

 

Take, for instance, the Goetia demon Botis. Botis appeared as a large reddish viper with sharp teeth, pointed horns and long claws for hands. He appeared similar to Sir Pentious, having a human-like upper half while his bottom half was more serpentine. Like the other demonic elite, he could shapeshift into other forms…including an imp.

 

Botis worked for Lord Leviathan, who was also snake-like in appearance. Leviathan possessed traits of envy but could also unleash powerful oceanic storms whenever he got angry (which was fairly common). It was during one particular day when Botis decided to take a break from his professional duties and see the common folk for a bit. In the Ring of Envy, Botis had visited a local bar in Levitowne and had a little too much Sin Gin to drink. As such, he was mesmerized and caught off guard by a beautiful female imp with thick white hair, faded red skin, curved black horns, small wings and a voluptuous figure.

 

Yes, she may have been a poor prostitute who traveled to the Lust Ring to perform for Asmodeus…but oh how stunning she looked in that moment.

 

“What’s your name?” Botis asked, intrigued.

 

“Agrat,” she said.

 

“Heh. That’s a fine name.”

 

Botis revealed a lopsided grin in his imp form. For the moment, he had short white hair, faded red skin and long striped horns. “So you do prostitution for a living, huh? How about you show me your secrets.” He winked.

 

“I don’t fuck for free,” she scowled. “And you’re not really my type.”

 

Botis took one look at her round wiggling breasts, her swaying hips, her red lips… and he had to have her.

 

Botis’ eyes glowed and moved in hypnotic patterns. “Am I not?”

 

Agrat stared into his eyes, her face going blank. Her expression slowly turned to adoration. “I…suppose you are, then.”

 

Botis released her from the hypnotism and handed her a bag of coins. She rummaged through them, satisfied and a bit surprised. “You’re pretty rich for an imp.”

 

“I suppose I am. Shall we begin? I assure you will have the time of your life.”

 

Agrat smiled flirtatiously, moving closer to him so that their noses almost touched. “Yes.”

 

In the blink of an eye, Agrat grinned evilly and lifted her hand, which had a dagger in it. Equally fast without flinching, Botis caught her wrist and shook it, making the dagger clank to the floor. Any regular imp would have been prey to her energy sucking and predatory nature.

 

“You’re still drunk…how,” she began but soon fell limp as he hypnotized her again.

 

“I do enjoy your ferocious feral side. Do show me more of your feisty nature.”

 

Without hesitation, Botis took the imp back to his palace, where the two of them enjoyed themselves in bed. Even when the hypnotism wore off, Agrat was still immensely pleasured, and surprised at seeing Botis’ real form. After passionate fornication, they both woke up in bed the next morning, tired and hungover.

 

But both of them had enjoyed the experience. Their bodies were coated with sweat that had dried overnight. Botis weakly took off the chain around his neck.

 

“That was…” Botis began.

 

“Fucking intense…and amazing,” Agrat finished, her eyes fluttering. She breathed and let out a sigh, lying next to him. “Thank you for, you know, not flogging me or biting me. Compared to Asmodeus, you have a baby touch.”

 

“So, I’m not good with my hands?” Botis asked. Agrat shot him a look.

 

“Oh, yeah, right.” Botis nervously scratched his neck. He wondered why he was flustered at seeing this imp. Botis slowly sat up, regret on his face. “Anyway, I’m sorry for hypnotizing you and fucking you while drunk.”

 

Agrat merely rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I’ve been through worse.” She stood up, clutching her forehead. “Now if you’re not planning on killing or enslaving me, I kindly ask you to take me back to my home.”

 

“Do you even have a home?” Botis asked, though thanks to his powers of foresight, he already knew the answer.

 

“No, not really,” she said, eyes briefly darting to the side. Botis found himself becoming genuinely curious about this imp. And it wasn’t just because she had pegged him wonderfully several times during sex. He noticed a genuine look in her eyes…a longing for a better life. Something about her made her…different.

 

“In case you were wondering, I am part succubus,” she said. Botis noted her overall imp appearance but also her pointed tail, small black wings, curved horns and slanted eyes. She was irresistible, even to royalty.

 

“That certainly explains everything.”

 

Then he asked, “Do you want to go back to where you were? Keep living your old life?”

 

“I kinda have to,” she mentioned. “If Asmodeus finds out I’ve missed several of his ‘plays…’”

 

“You won’t tell anyone what has transpired,” Botis said, saying it as an order rather than a request.

 

“Goodness no,” she affirmed.

 

“You don’t suppose you could…stay for a while?” Botis asked.

 

“You gonna hypnotize me again?” she snapped.

 

“No, not this time.” It was true…Botis had fallen for an imp. An imp of all creatures! “What if…I could get to know you better? Honesty and genuinely? What if you didn’t have to worry about meeting nightly deadlines and scavenging for food?”

 

Agrat was intrigued as well. “Are you saying if I…choose to spend time with you, I’ll be rich and have a secure life?”

 

Botis nodded, summoning a small bag of gold coins. Agrat’s eyes grew wide and shining.

 

After a while, she stood up. “Okay, I accept. But on these conditions. One, no more hypnotizing. Two, I’m not your slave and though I’m an imp, I’m your equal. Three, you will return me to Levitowne and allow me to live my life while also being there for…assistance. Really get to know who I am; it’s only been one night so far.”

 

Botis’ face lit up with excitement. “Consider it done!”

 

“And four,” Agrat added, holding up a hand. “Someone has to help take care of the baby. Unless you plan to be an ass and leave me to it.”

 

“You wanna have kids?”

 

“Kids that aren’t consumed right after I give birth.”

 

Botis made a face.

 

Botis gently took her hands into his. “Truth be told, I’ve been wanting companionship and a family for many years. There is no challenge I cannot handle.”

 

Agrat, too, was curious and suddenly love-struck by the Goetia.

 

The two of them shared a passionate kiss. Botis heard a noise in the other room and low chanting. Before he could see what would happen nine months later, his vision suddenly faded.

 

But he pushed the concern aside…he had a new beautiful woman in his life.

 

As promised, Botis helped Agrat live a much more comfortable and secure life. Agrat now lived in a decent house by a lake with Botis who had shifted into his imp transformation. The couple got to know each other intimately, but they never married.

 

Before long, Agrat had given birth to a special baby boy.

 

“I shall call him Striker,” said Agrat, holding the hybrid infant in her arms. “I sense that he’ll grow up to be quite the fighter.”

 

Botis chuckled. “That’s the perfect name for our little guy. He does have striking eyes.”

 

Unfortunately, their relationship didn’t last long. A reptilian imp spy had caught Botis and Agrat off guard and promptly warned Leviathan. The spy had also noticed the couple many months ago when Botis’ foresight had been hindered. Indeed, Leviathan himself could temporarily hinder Botis’ ability to tell the future. Hence why he and Agrat were unprepared when the spy showed up. Soon, Botis and Agrat were summoned to Leviathan’s underwater office before they could blink. The walls were covered with coral while the seaweed curtains swayed softly. The desk was made of green sea glass, the chairs made of oyster shells.

 

They could only see Leviathan’s green glowing eyes in the darkness.

 

“Very disappointed, Botis,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Instead of doing your usual duties as President and Earl, you decide to screw that imp with no regard to your reputation.”

 

“You were the one who sent that spy on us.” Botis seethed.

 

“Yes,” he said. “I knew something suspicious was up when you had returned from your trip to Levitowne. I sent my spy to investigate, and though him, I clouded your foresight.”

 

“No wonder I was feeling so hungover,” Botis recalled. “But if you had guessed that Agrat and I would have our son, why let him be born?”

 

“That is only for me to know. He may be useful to me. That imp on the other hand…”

 

“With all due respect, sir,” Botis said with a slight quiver. “I love her with all my heart. And this is Hell, so no one should fucking care.”

 

“Well seeing as you, the Eldritch family and other Envy denizens are under my rule, I very much do give a shit. If word gets out that one of my representatives fraternized with an imp…not to mention siring a bastard child…”

 

Agrat seethed. “He’s our child, not yours. And he’s not even a full imp.”

 

“Being part imp is enough of a disgrace.” He turned to Botis. “Your child won’t be a royal anymore, but he can serve his purposes regardless. If you want to keep your status as a Goetia, you will divorce that plebian imp slut and hand the child over to me.”

 

“We’re not married,” Agrat corrected.

 

“Don’t speak unless spoken to, common bitch,” Leviathan hissed.

 

Botis gasped softly, his eyes full of anger and disbelief. “No. You wouldn’t, sir…”

 

“Oh I would.”

 

“But your spy,” Agrat began. “Word must’ve gone out already about our relationship…”

 

Leviathan shrugged. “Oh I already took care of him. He served his purpose well.”

 

With a black slender clawed hand, Leviathan popped the gory remains of the imp spy’s skull into his mouth. Agrat and Botis flinched.

 

“Anyway,” Leviathan continued to Botis after he finished chewing. “I suggest you go back to your normal duties if you want to keep your status.”

 

He then spoke into his mind which chilled Botis to the core, “That is, if you’d prefer your whore and child alive.”

 

Botis knew a fight with Leviathan was futile. He and his wife could fight and flee away, but what then? They would just be hunted down, Botis reduced to a low status himself, a laughing stock. If he obeyed Leviathan, at least his new family would be safe. Hopefully.

 

Botis gulped and tears fell from his eyes. “Fine.”

 

“Botis, no!” Agrat gasped in anger and shock. “You’re really gonna leave me and our child just to keep your job? Fight him, you coward!”

 

“It’s…for our own good,” Botis replied, eyes downcast, his body still.

 

“You traitorous asshole!” Agrat cried to Botis as Leviathan snatched the wailing imp infant from her arms. Botis watched as two serpent guards took the screaming crying Agrat away. What happened to her remains unknown to this day.

 

0 0 0

As Striker grew up, he became Leviathan’s lowly bodyguard, often sent on various missions. During his childhood, he was mostly a plaything to Leviathan, Satan and Asmodeus. He would first pleasure and attend to Leviathan for several years. He was then taken on “field trips” to see Satan, the red goat and Asmodeus, the king of lust. He still remembered the scent of semen and sweat, the dicks shoved inside his mouth and anus. As he sobbed during the process, he tried to fight the powerful Overlords, but that only aroused them further. Satan was the roughest on him but thankfully, his tough skin didn’t leave any scars. His healing powers always helped him but was also great news for the elite. An indestructible weapon and toy for them to exploit.

 

The worst part was being forced to perform for Asmodeus during his dinner theater shows at Ozzie’s Place. Striker wore nothing but black cowboy boots and tight black leather straps to cover his crotch area. His tail hissed and moved in rhythm to the erotic music playing from nearby black skull speakers.

 

“Presenting, your favorite chameleon cum sucker, your lizard legend and singing sensation…the amazing hybrid Striker!”

 

Striker got used to the spotlight fast. Being on stage and fighting were the few moments where he could securely hold onto the reins of his life.

 

“Ridin’ on through life

Through fire, glory and strife

I’m sharper than a knife

Strollin’ along the ruts

Cross me and I’ll blow your guts

Right to double Hell, double Hell

Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm, hmmmmm”

 

“Making up songs

Singin’ all night long

Respect no one but the strong

And the strong is me

Wielding a gun

Havin’ some fun

I’ll own them towns when all is done

‘Cause I’m number one, number one, yeah.”

 

When he was not being screwed or locked in a cage for display at the theater, Striker was singing on stage…but that was the one part he enjoyed. Soon, Striker would sing to himself in order to make it through the next daily ordeal. More and more people enjoyed hearing Striker sing. He would belt out his sorrows but would mostly sing about how great he was. After all, he was the only one he could rely on. Striker was secretly thankful whenever Leviathan’s men traveled to pick him up.

 

After Leviathan grew bored of screwing him, he then taught Striker all he knew about weapons and hand to hand combat. Guns, wrestling, daggers, tail use, Striker learned it all. From a very young age, Striker was already on the road to becoming a prodigy. Denizens betted on him during duels and tournaments as he grew up. Striker was favored in particular by a traveling group of battle-hungry Wrath Ring imps. Even when he lost several fights, he would always rise again. “Striker Strikes Again!” the headlines read after Striker killed several opponents in battle, breaking an imp’s neck with a sickening crack. Of course, Striker did his job well as Leviathan’s bodyguard, but also despised it.

 

“Don’t you dare lose this battle,” Leviathan warned Striker before his mud fight with two serpent demons from Gluttony Ring. “You don’t want to be subjected to my punishments. You’re representing me, after all.”

 

“I won’t fail you, master.”

 

But Striker did. There were a few times when Striker lost, but they were rare.

 

That night, Striker was subjected to angry whip lashes, acid water in his lungs and of course, more ruthless fucking from Leviathan.

 

Striker’s body healed itself in a day, but for several days, Striker felt like he had died and come back as an empty broken zombie.

 

So to let off some steam and make himself feel better, Striker raided a nearby village, setting huts on fire and slaughtering anyone nearby. Within black smoke, Striker grinned as he licked black imp blood from his red dagger with a long snake-like tongue. His menacing eyes glowed in the sparky smoke-filled surroundings.

 

Weakling imps, all of them were. Nothing but pathetic annoyances and targets for him to play with. Asserting his dominance had become commonplace...and so much fun. The more he was encouraged to fight, the more sadistic he eventually became.

 

Not long after his severe punishment, Striker began having fantasies of killing the royals. Oh how ironic would it be to have their own guard and hitman off them in one night! He snickered at the thought.

 

Leviathan must have sensed that Striker harbored a grudge against him, because once the imp turned ten, Leviathan relieved him of his duties and sent him off on his own with a smile.

 

“Good luck out there, kid,” said the giant sea monster being. “Don’t let yourself be killed by me or anyone else.”

 

With glowing eyes, Striker bared his sharp fangs as Leviathan strolled away, flanked by his elite sea guard. “Ya darn tootin’ I won’t,” he muttered.

 

Despite hating being under Leviathan’s command, the ruler had been the closest thing Striker had to a family member. Leviathan was far from caring, but he had helped Striker get to where he was. Striker pushed aside his feelings of sadness and continued on his way.

 

0 0 0

Striker needed to find a place to live. He knew right then that underwater Mal-antis wasn’t a good fit as it had lots of wealthy Greek snobs. He wanted to live as far from Leviathan as possible.

 

Then, during a fight, Striker helped save a family of Wrath imps from their rivals.

 

“Why don’t ya come along to Wrath?” they asked. “We were on our way home but got ambushed. Has plenty of space and ‘tis a good breeding ground for war.”

 

So that’s exactly where Striker traveled to. He became an outlaw and fit right in to the rough Western culture. While in Wrath, he offered his help on an imp farm, where two imps became his “parents” from his pre-teens to his late teens. (No one else would let him settle anywhere). Jake was a tall, thick imposing imp with curved horns and a gold tooth. Lill had a red face and wild white and black hair. They wore overalls and black sun hats.

 

Both imps were very stern toward Striker.

 

“Ya call yourself a man when yer lazing around like dat, boy?” Jake growled, as a young Striker sweat in the hot sun, picking black cotton balls. “Pick up the pace, less ya wanna miss dinner!”

 

“Crazy freak,” Lill muttered, just loud enough for Striker to hear. “He’s not even a full imp at all.”

 

Whenever Striker attempted to make friends his age, Jake scolded, “A man ain’t got time for playin’. Now get back ta work. Them coyotes are tryin’ ta take a snap at the cattle again!”

 

“Striker!” Lill called out. “After dinner, go fetch us some water from the western well. Kill anyone who tries to get some first. And do. Not. Spill.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Striker, go fetch some deviled eggs from our fiery chickens! Be sure they ain’t burned. And don’t forget to milk Onyx, she makes some pretty fresh black milk. ”

 

“Hey Striker, round up them cattle and hellhogs before the sand storm hits!”

 

Striker lassoed giant cows with spikes along their bodies, riding a brown horse. He moved with precision, careful not to get trampled on or to fall off. He maneuvered the cattle and hogs into their pens just before the dust devil covered the field in a sandy blur.

 

“Watch out for them rattlesnakes, Striker! Can’t afford it if ya get poisoned on our watch. When I was yer age, I wrangled three of them vipers with my bare hands! They don’t call me Rattlesnake Jake for nothin’. Hahaha!”

 

“Striker, head on over to the Flaming Horns and get me some Quenchiest Cactus Juice, will ya?”

 

“Our fresh cut beef is ready to be sent out to Pride, Striker! Get a move on!”

 

“Striker!”

 

“Striker!!”

 

“Striker!!!”

 

On and on the orders went. Striker hauled some wrapped up cattle meat into an open wooden cart. A pair of many eyed black oxen pulled the load to the far side of town where there lay a sort of cave. Several bulky imps came over and inspected the product before lifting it up. One of them handed Striker a handful of bills. Striker looked at them with slight disgust…that was it? The bulky imps carried the meat into the darkness toward something silver and metal.

 

Most bizarrely, a large elevator stood before them, almost hidden in the rocky wall. They punched in a code: 666-1028-666. The blood stained double doors opened and soft musical theater music played from inside the elevator. The doors closed while a speaker sounded “Level One: Pride. Going up.” The elevator shot up through a hole above, zooming through the orange sky like a rocket before disappearing through several overhead black portals.

 

The only really good thing that came from his time with his imp “parents” was the meeting of a very special friend. 

 

“This ere horse has been on our farm for a few years,” said Lill. “Haven’t bothered to name it.”

 

In the stables stood a many eyed black young stallion. His mane and tail consisted of flames and his black ribs showed underneath. The animal ate burnt hay and various kinds of meat.

 

Striker slowly extended a hand. The horse snorted and let out a growl. Sharp curved fangs glinted from the horse’s mouth and his flames blared.

 

“Shh,” Striker whispered, unfazed. He inched forward, staring at the spot slightly above the horse. He took silent deep breaths, eyes glowing. After several minutes, the flames receded in the horse’s mane, the growling morphing into low breathing. Striker’s clawed hand rested on the horse’s long black face. Its fiery eyes slowly slanted in relaxation as Striker slowly caressed the area. 

 

The bond between Striker and the hellhorse was instant and unforgettable. Every day, Striker cared for the horse and talked to him. And the horse always listened whenever Striker went on his rants about the world. Besides making it easier to travel, the horse was a splendid hunter as well.

 

After a few stumbles and needed discipline, Striker took his horse out for a ride, leaping over fences and dried riverbeds. Smoke and sparks flew up from the horse’s molten glowing golden hooves below. The wind blew the flames of the horse’s mane, the fire dancing excitedly. As he rode along, Striker was bombarded with a new feeling.

 

Pure joyous freedom and confidence.

 

A feeling he often felt when he was singing or dominating his opponents. He was in power and nothing could stop him.

 

Striker heard the sound of hooves clopping against the dirt, growing steadily closer. One angry red face, then another. A gang of four whooping rogues dressed in tattered brown cowboy vests and clothing.

 

“Let’s blow that chameleon!” one of the imps called, before they all got out their pistols. Striker got his out too, grinning at the new challenge. Striker’s pistol was brown with black skulls on it. He wished he could have a weapon that could kill his enemies for good. Oh well.

 

As a few other imps rode horses beside him, aiming their pistols, Striker took the reins in one hand, while firing shots from his pistol in the other.

 

Bang! Bang! Thud!

 

He expertly maneuvered his inferno steed, dodging bullets and striking down the imp intruders. One bullet flew toward him and with a whack of his tail, the bullet flew right back into the imp’s face. He collapsed off the horse and the steed reared on his hind legs in streams of flame and smoke. The horse collapsed on top of the imp, setting his body on fire.

 

One down.

 

“I’m gonna need a beer at the Trident of Pain after this,” one imp growled to another as they dodged Striker. One bullet struck Striker in the shoulder, black blood flying out. But Striker only flinched slightly, gritting his teeth.

 

“The Flaming Horns is better,” another imp argued. “Better drinks and service.” That imp lassoed rope around Striker, but he freed himself with a dagger in his mouth. The rope fell away.

 

“This is my town now,” Striker spat as he punched a nearby growling imp hard in the face. He snatched a bag of money from the saddle that the imp had robbed from the town bank moments before. “Come here again, and I’ll send your soul straight to double Hell!” Even Striker’s steed bared his sharp fangs and snapped his teeth at the enemy horse. Spurts of black blood flew as the flaming black horse rapidly gnashed at the other horse.

 

Smack! Smack! Bang! Oof!

 

That imp fell dead, too.

 

“Double Hell?” cried another imp, blasting a hole in Striker’s hat with a pistol. Striker wheeled around and elbowed the imp in the gut, making the red faced being cry out. Striker carefully leaned in toward him as dust trailed behind them, “Where do you think I come from?” before he chopped off the imp’s head with one powerful strike of his hand.

 

Crack! Whack!

 

His imp tail whipped against the horse’s flank, their speed increasing. Striker rammed the side of his horse into the last imp intruder’s steed. After grunts and yells, the imp and horse crashed to the ground in a dusty heap. Striker laughed in triumph, twirling his pistol in his hand before nestling it safely at his belt once more. He maneuvered around spiky gray cacti, enjoying the feel of the desert wind.

 

Suddenly, an underground bomb exploded right underneath them. Dirt, sand and slabs of earth burst into the air. But instead of tumbling over or exploding, the horse reared on his hind legs in fury before continuing the gallop away from the newly blasted hole. The duo left unscathed.

 

“Yee-haw!” Striker whooped, his snake-like tongue flickering. He leaned down and pat the horse’s coal black fur by his neck.

 

“We’re gonna do great things, Bombproof,” Striker cooed.

 

0 0 0

One fateful day when he turned sixteen, Striker decided enough was enough. After not getting paid enough and enduring endless nagging from Jake and Lill, he shot them both in cold blood. Their bodies collapsed onto the wooden floor, black blood staining the boards and oozing from their chests. Once again, he shoved aside any feelings of appreciation he may have had for them. Although they had been rude, they still took him in and helped raise him into a handy farmhand. Surely that had to count for something, right?

 

Striker scoffed. Bullshit. They shouldn’t have messed with him for so long. They were nothing but another pair of pussy weaklings.

 

He carried out their bodies to the pasture, where his horse feasted on their corpses. Striker killed the last few hogs and cows, eating the meat for dinner. Then after gathering the few belongings he had, he strapped a rifle to his side, hopped onto his horse and rode away.

 

 

0 0 0

Part Two: Farmhand for Joe and Lin

It wasn’t long before Striker began to make deals in his adolescence in order to gain power. With his reputation as a master hitman, clients from all over Hell would speak with him. Mostly they were other imps, itching to get their revenge on their rivals. Other times, they were Sinners whom Striker recalled, “could care less about who he was.”

 

“Just get the job done, imp,” they would spit. “I ain’t got all day.”

 

“Are you sure you’re tough enough for the job?”

 

“Go back to the ghetto, farm-boy.”

 

 “Chameleon fucker can serve us any time.”

 

Despite the taunts, Striker carried out his duties with the silence and grace of a ninja. Whenever he got money, it would just as easily be lost to bets, beer and battles. In harder times, Striker would salvage for scraps of food to survive. Water was very scarce in the drought-stricken land. Thankfully for him, he could usually find a few people to kill or kill for. He kept up his trade, because it was what he was good at. It got him enough money to get by. Plus, it was entertaining stomping out the meek and weak so easily.

 

Oh, but it was never enough. Not enough money to spend for long, not enough imps to bully and taunt. An insatiable bloodlust. He wanted more; he always did. Striker knew that he’d have to possess or do something incredible in order to not be stuck in his second-class status. Once an imp always an imp, it was said.

 

There were a few times where Striker traveled to the Pride Ring to meet with his Sinner clients. While he was up there, he briefly heard of one imp who had started his own official killing business. He didn’t know who the imp was, but he found the feat to be pretty impressive.

 

Though he could travel easily enough, there was no way he could form a business on his own. Not when he was his own boss.

 

He moved from motel to motel, stopping at bars and sleeping in alleyways during the night. A few allies allowed him to sleep on couches.

 

Striker made many deals, killing various rivals while sometimes fleeing from the more powerful demons. He gained more power, energy and respect the more deals he made. He soon grew wary of Sinners, deciding to stick more with the chaotic familiarity of his imp brethren. Tales of the infamous (and sexy) cowboy spread like wildfire throughout the Rings.

 

“If I can get enough people to fear and respect me,” Striker thought with a sinister grin, “I could experience the luxurious lifestyle of an Overlord someday! I could be the first imp Overlord in Hell…then no one would dare mess with me or my kind again. Who needs Overlords or pompous Goetia demons when I could slaughter them all?!”

 

It was these self-righteous thoughts that kept Striker going each and every day. No matter if he was wrestling a hellish beast or searching for scraps to get by, the spark to survive and thrive never faded.

 

0 0 0

Striker discovered something extraordinary one evening while he was in town. He turned his head sideways, yellow eyes narrowing as he heard hushed muttering from three figures. They were leaning against a wall, hidden in the shadows. One imp wore a trench coat and smoked a cigarette, his head hidden underneath a dark hat. The two other ones had thick curved horns and black mustaches. The cloaked figure spoke in hushed whispers to his companions.

 

“Did ya hear what happened not too long ago? After the last Extermination, several angelic weapons were found on the ground. Just a bunch of glowing treasure left there. After all them bodies were disposed of, there was a brawl over the weapons found. A bloodbath, I tell ya.”

 

“I heard that at least a dozen imps offed themselves for good after fighting over them weapons,” said the second imp. “Heard that a couple of imps managed to grab hold of one of them before running off. They were planning on giving it to Satan as a gift.”

 

“And?”

 

“And they decided to raise the price of it even more in front of him,” the second imp chuckled.

 

The third imp spat on the ground. “Too bad Satan’s infinitely rich.”

 

“Nobody’s as rich as Lord Mammon,” said the leader. “Everyone knows that he’s the king of Greed, for fuck’s sake!”

 

“Well Lucifer’s the king of Hell,” said the second imp. “He’ll find out about the weapon for sure.”

 

“Hmpth,” said the third imp, crossing his arms. “It’s always the Goetia and them Overlords who can afford the good tools. How I’d love to get my hands on it.”

 

“Too bad,” said the leader. “Cause that weapon’s gonna be in my possession soon enough.”

 

“Nonsense, Crimson,” said Red, the second imp. “It’s helluva expensive.”

 

“That’s why I’mma use your souls to get it!” said the leader. “They don’t call the currency ‘souls’ for nothin’!”

 

Just as Crimson raised a knife before them, Striker plunged his sharp tail into his chest. He gasped, shuddered and gagged before Striker pulled his tail back. Red and Burgundy swiped at him with a mace and large fists, but Striker was too slippery. He slid underneath them, dodging the mace and tripping Red to the ground. Burgundy held out a pistol, and fired close to Striker’s head.

 

“You gonna kill me, little man?” Striker grinned. He knocked the pistol out of his hands and shoved him away. He then kicked and gripped at Red, shoving him against a nearby wall.

 

“Ah you fucker!” growled Red before Striker slammed his head hard against the wall. Black blood spilled out and Red slid to the ground. Red collapsed by his leader, their eyes slowly glazing over. Striker then turned to the cowering Burgundy, grabbing him by his collar and pinning him against the wall.

 

“So then…” Striker began, wrapping his long tail against the struggling imp’s throat. “Tell me about this weapon of yours?”

 

“It ain’t mine, asshole!” Burgundy sputtered. The tail tightened. “Ah, aurgh, shit…”

 

“Talk, you pathetic little pig,” Striker spat.

 

“O-okay! It’s a .42 caliber pistol, blessed-tipped with bullets to kill demons instantly.”

 

“Where is it?”

 

Burgundy wheezed.

 

“Answer me!”

 

“In the b-black market! Just down the lane! Good luck tryin’ ta get it!”

 

“Oh I won’t need luck,” Striker said, before he promptly shot the imp through his chin with his weapon. The imp slid down in a black mess as Striker blew smoke from the holes of his pistol. He examined his brown weapon.

 

“I could use a new one of these,” he mentioned.

 

Striker strolled down the lane, a wheat straw in his mouth. He entered a dimly lit alleyway and then went down a darkened flight of stairs. His eyes allowed him to see easily in the shadows.

 

A vast underground chamber was revealed. Bustling among the torches were hordes of chattering imps and demons, anxious to purchase rare wares. Striker looked and saw an exotic manticore locked in a black cage while snakes with many eyes slithered in silver cages at a booth. Lava lamps glowed and clothing made of soda taps shimmered on hooks. A sign read “Human Hides, 25% Off!” while another sign shouted in bold, “Demon Meat Made Fresh!” Rows of stuffed animals were also selling fast by a taxidermist imp.

 

Several stalls sold occult books, cannibal recipe books and various porn magazines. Another stall consisted of jewelry made of silver, gold or in some cases, wires. A tattooist hunched over and inked a flaming horned skull onto the chest of a beefy male imp. A cacophony of discordant music echoed throughout the vast space. Imps were playing guitars, drums and electric keyboards while several demons sang in ancient foreign languages. It sounded like Latin at certain times, Indian at other moments, ever changing.

 

“Get your wares here!” called a large woman selling bottles of aged liquor and a row of skulls.

 

“Get your fixes over here!” called a scrawny imp with a white beard selling cocaine, meth and weed in plastic bags. “Don’t go for the regular prices, get ours at only 666 souls.”

 

Striker noticed a family of chained saddened imps beside a man who hollered, “Slaves for your every need! Farming, sex, murder, you name it, we got it!” Two of the imp children cried in their mother’s arms as other consumers looked them up and down.

 

“Fresh fish from Envy Ring over here!” called another imp dressed as a sailor in blood-stained clothing. Eels, fish, crabs and sharks swam in small tanks. “$66 per fine specimen. Nearby lost me life trying to fish for these!” He waved a hook in place of his hand as Striker continued on.

 

“Scarot cards! Intense incense! We tell your fortunes better than royalty!”

 

“Rumor has it!” called a man, “That this black key can allow Sinners to travel to any Ring in Hell! No more being restrained to Pride! You can kill and visit those former humans anytime, anywhere!” He held up an old fashioned black key with wings and a pink eye at the top. “The Sinner’s Key!”

 

A crowd of imps “oohed” and gathered around.

 

“Um,” said the imp beside the vendor. “Isn’t that just an old fashioned key painted black?”

 

“Shut your trap,” the vendor seethed to his companion. “I’m tryin’ to make a good sale here!”

 

At last, Striker came across the largest section in the area. A large wooden sign in bloody capital letters read “WEAPONS!” He quickened his pace as he entered. The area was packed with imps and demons of all shapes and sizes. Indeed, in addition to food, the Wrath Ring was known for its vast selection of weaponry.

 

Striker’s eyes grew wide at the collections. All around him were weapons on display. Swords, knives, spears, daggers, scimitars, tridents, axes, hooks, chainsaws, harpoons, katanas, so many silver blades in one place. Maces, clubs, catapults, crossbows, darts, crowbars, chains and rods were located in another section not too far away. Then Striker stopped at the last and more modern section. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, revolvers, sniper rifles, tank missiles, even nuclear bombs were all prepped and ready for purchase.

 

Striker didn’t notice a dark shadowy individual sneak nearby, watching his every move.

 

Striker took a close look at the most expensive weapons. A few swords, harpoons, rifles and pistols had strange glowing white patterns on them. Unlike the other weapons, they were propped up within glass cases.

 

Striker strut over to the counter and his eyes landed on a pistol. A brownish blessed-tipped pistol with a glowing white trigger handle. On the bottom in glowing white were cloud designs and a small eye surrounded by six angel wings.

 

“That must be the one that imp was talking about,” he thought. An angelic weapon…one that could kill demons for good.

 

All it took was one bullet.

 

“Howdy, sir,” Striker greeted to the mustached imp.

 

“What weapon do you have in mind?” the imp asked. “Rob” was on a name tag.

 

With a slight wiggle of his finger, Striker pointed to the pistol in the glass case.

 

“That’s a big buy,” Rob smirked. “It’ll cost you an arm and a leg…perhaps literally.” He snickered.

 

Striker grinned and hosted up the bag of money he had retrieved from the horse-riding imps. Rob counted the bills and coins.

 

“A lot of souls for sure,” he mentioned. “But see the price tag? It says 66,000 souls. You only have 9,000.”

 

Striker’s eyebrow raised, his eye twitching. “It’s over 9,000! You sure you counted right?”

 

“Absolutely. The calculator doesn’t lie…most of the time. But I don’t have all day. Come back when you have enough.”

 

“I have to have it,” Striker said, coming up with an idea. “My family’s been killed off by an outlaw and I have to kill him before he steals water from my town!”

 

The imp scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “A likely story. Tell ya what, I’ll take the money. You can have the weapon, but only if ya suck my dick first!” Snickers and catcalls came from behind him.

 

“Not a chance.”

 

“Scram, chameleon cunt!”

 

Striker’s rattlesnake tail hissed menacingly. “Do you not know who I am? I am the only and only man who makes ladies drop to their knees and men cry from seeing me in their nightmares.”

 

“Get lost, punk.”

 

Striker pulled out his older pistol. “I’mma blow so many holes in ya, your guts’ll be leaking lead!” Striker mocked.

 

Rob merely grinned as two other imps pointed long guns at Striker. “Try me.”

 

“Vermin,” said Striker in a husky voice.

 

 This time, Striker was surrounded on all sides. He could flee easily if he wanted to. But fighting a group in such a packed place…

 

“Anyone want 66,000 souls for this here pistol?” Rob called. “I may have not stolen this from Lucifer himself after donating money to the Magne family and being a groundskeeper all these years.”

 

 Rob smirked as Striker stood his ground, eyes darting back and forth. The imps clicked their guns, daring him to make a move.

 

“Y’all be sorry you messed with the infamous Striker!” he called, still unafraid of death.

 

Rob called out. “Anybody? Going once, going twice…”

 

“Put it on me,” said a low demonic voice. Several imps parted as a figure in a long dark hood strode over to him.

 

And who are you?” Rob asked.

 

Without a word, the figure held up a badge with a sigil on it. A handful of golden soul bills were placed in front of him. Rob reached toward them but they became transparent in his hand. He growled in anger as the figure held out a hand.

 

Rob laughed nervously, eyes wide. Though he was selling the weapons, he secretly wanted both the money and weapons for himself. “This must be some mista…”

 

A force and a terrible screech emitted from the figure, Striker and the imps covering their ears. Rob’s head exploded in black blood as the nearby glass cases shattered. The figure tossed Striker the angelic pistol while they retrieved an angelic rifle.

 

“Tell Lucifer I wish him well,” the figure spat at the dead Rob. “He won’t be needing these anymore.” Striker walked along on his way, twirling his new pistol. He dodged several imps clawing desperately for the weapon. Then the shadowy figure materialized in front of him.

 

“Holy shit, wha…”

 

In a flash of light, a piece of white folded paper appeared in Striker’s hands. He glanced down with a glare and saw elegant handwriting.

 

“Sinister Stars Saloon, Wrath Ring

12AM sharp tomorrow

Come alone.”

 

Striker looked up, but the mysterious figure had vanished.

 

0 0 0

True to his word, Striker entered the Sinister Stars Saloon at midnight. A bunch of drunken imps were still roaming around, smoking and chatting. A smoky haze filled the small dark room, no light save for overhead red lights along the ceiling borders. A few imps were playing cards and telling stories of tribal wars. Several demons and hellhounds feasted on a hellhog in a booth. An ogre trimmed his long yellow nails with a knife.

 

Striker looked around before barely spotting the cloaked figure in a corner. Striker hovered a hand over his pistol in case a fight broke out. Behind the figure, a wooden door opened slowly by itself. Seeing the figure suddenly appear not too far behind him, Striker made his way inside the small room. The door closed behind them. Striker sat in a wooden chair while the imposing figure stood before him.

 

“So,” said Striker. “You’re the one who called me?”

 

“Yes,” they said. “And I warn you. I’m not here to fight you. But one word of this gets out, and you’ll be disposed of for good like the common scum you are.”

 

Striker seethed, fingers clenched, tail waving in warning. This figure was powerful; he could feel it. The figure was no ordinary imp. His hairs stood on end. Was it fear? Or anticipation?

 

“My lips are sealed,” Striker said.

 

The figure’s eyes glowed bright pink. “Good. Because I’ve come to you with a…prince problem.”

 

The figure removed the hood.

 

Striker gasped. “Who are you?”

 

The white swan demon spoke, wrath in her eyes. “Lady Stella Goetia,” she said. Her dress was light pink and her crown was small and golden on her head. From underneath her cloak, a small red imp butler appeared, shivering in fear.

 

Not wanting to appear rude, Striker played it safe with a small bow. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your majesty.” He took her long black hand and kissed it. Stella didn’t bother to hide her disgust. “Yeah, let’s brush past the formalities.”

 

“As you wish,” he said, stepping back and sitting down. He propped up his boot-covered feet onto the table.

 

“So first of all,” Striker asked, “What does a high-class demon want with someone like me?”

 

“I’ve heard stories about you, Striker,” Stella answered. “From the newspapers and the news. Once I saw you in person at the market and heard your name, I had to see if the legends were true.” She paused, looking him up and down. “Apparently they were.” 

 

Striker beamed with pride. “I’m not surprised. Even royalty knows who I am.”

 

“As much as I despise your vile violent kind, you imps are experts in killing and war. And no one else seems to match your level of expertise.”

 

Striker grinned. “I’m flattered, ma’am. To be honest, I see myself as better than all those pathetic excuses of demons. They’re nothing but brawn and no brain. They just use brute strength and argue all the time instead of being civilized and making a real life for themselves.”

 

Stella nodded. “I mentioned before that I have a prince problem that needs to be addressed. If you can do this job for me, I will elevate your status beyond that of a regular imp.”

 

Striker cocked his head before bursting into laughter. “Lady, please! Don’t fool with me! I’ve never been a ‘regular’ imp!” He then spoke in a serious tone. “But for your request, I charge a great deal of money.”

 

Striker was cut short when Stella tossed a bag full of souls, bills and coins in front of him. “Would this be enough?”

 

A bowl of meat and several large bottles of fresh water appeared as well.

 

Water…actual water! Water that could help many imp farmers, but more importantly help his parched throat.

 

He stared into the bag with a greedy expression on his face. He reached in for a handful of coins, only to have the majority of coins vanish. One lone gold coin was left in his hand. Striker reached for the water and food but they vanished, too.

 

Striker stared in annoyance. It was too good to be true.

 

“Don’t forget the one who helped you get that pistol,” she said. “You won’t earn your rewards until the job is done.”

 

Striker took a breath. “So, you want me to kill someone.”

 

Stella nodded.

 

Striker grinned wider. He could not resist an interesting proposition such as this. To be able to have not just money, but food, fame, freedom…

 

Stella pulled out a framed picture and held it in front of his face.

 

“Do you see this demon?” she asked, venom in her words. Her dark finger pointed to the owl Stolas, who was lying on his belly on his bed, smiling. His feathery chest was bare, his arms were tied and a ball gag was around his neck. He wore his black top hat and crown. “This is my husband, Prince Stolas Goetia. He’s the man I want you to kill.”

 

Striker was taken aback. “Oh my. Marriage problems, I see.”

 

“Oh there’s more than that!” Stella barked. “You see that thing?” She pointed to a naked Blitzo who was riding on Stolas with his member fully erect. “That’s the monstrosity imp that he’s been fucking with behind my back! I found this picture lying around on his work desk.”

 

Striker grinned. “Now things are getting interesting. You want revenge for adultery. Never thought I’d become a marriage counselor! Hahaha!”

 

Stella seethed. “I want you to frame that imp for Stolas’ death.”

 

“Hmm. That can be arranged, I think. What’s his name?”

 

“I don’t fucking care! I just want them dead!”

 

“Okay, okay,” Striker said, keeping his cool.

 

“That imp rides my husband like a horse and what’s worse, all of Hell will soon know about it! Do you know what will happen next?”

 

Striker could only guess.

 

Stella continued. “Once everyone knows what my husband did, the whole Goetia family will be a laughing stock. Lucifer, the Overlords, the Seven Deadly Sins…they’ll all bring our line to the ground and I’ll be no better off than you and the commoners!”

 

“Right,” Striker began, narrowing his eyes.

 

“And I cannot just divorce him, either. Our marriage was arranged and I had to work hard to get my position. I married him and I got money and power like I wanted. But then my Octavia was born and then Stolas ruined everything. He slept with that imp in our fucking bed! Fooled around in a motel like plebeians! He doesn’t respect his loyal royal wife of one thousand years, but instead goes for a childish perverted scum he just met! If I divorce him, I’ll lose my status and his imp toy will replace me as his consort!”

 

Striker laughed nervously. “Oh, really?”

 

Stella leaned in close to his face, “Yes, really!” before leaning back.

 

“Well, I can see why you’re desperate,” Striker said.

 

“Once Stolas and that imp are gone, I’ll finally be able to regain some proper power in Hell. I’ll restore the Goetia tradition and help Octavia be a worthy heir.” Then she added in a demonic voice, “Whether she likes it or not!”

 

In the blink of an eye, Stella grabbed onto a nearby white mouse and promptly consumed it. She chewed and swallowed before looking at Striker again.

 

Striker folded his hands together, wheat straw in his mouth. “So now begs the question, how can I kill demon royalty? And what do I do to frame that imp?” He spit out the wheat straw.

 

Stella smiled sinisterly and beckoned the imp butler over. With effort, the butler hosted up a long brown case onto the table. He opened it and there lay the carmine colored blessed tipped angelic rifle with the Christian fish symbol, eyes and crosses glowing on it. Striker studied it in fascination. “How beautiful.”

 

“You remember when I got this from the market,” said Stella. “Supposedly Rob got the weapon from Lucifer’s people.”

 

Striker licked his lips.

 

“You’ll use this weapon to kill Stolas,” Stella explained. “A hand crafted weapon not from Hell but from Heaven. This can kill high ranking demons. Consider it a blessing gift to aid in your task. Make sure no one else gets a hold of it. And be protective of your other weapon too.”

 

Striker nodded and took the rifle and case.

 

“And to answer your second question,” Stella barked. “During every full moon, Stolas and that imp screw around so the imp can access his grimoire to kill humans on Earth. We know that traveling to Earth isn’t allowed and by letting the imp have his book, Stolas is neglecting his duties.”

 

“Indeed he is.”

 

“Plus,” Stella continued, “If Lucifer and the Overlords find out Stolas’ mistake, I will be stripped of my status, be banished or worse! The Goetia line will be reduced to stardust. With powerful demons and traveling to other dimensions, everyone could be fucked!”

 

Striker nodded. He couldn’t believe it. Now was finally the chance to prove himself.

 

“Well ma’am, consider yourself a widow,” Striker grinned with a tip of his hat.

 

Stella grinned and held out her hand. “So it’s a deal then?”

 

Striker stood up and shook her hand. Sparks and light flew from their palms. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said. “You have engaged my valuable services, your majesty. Just tell me, where and when I can find this prince?”

 

Stella spoke lowly and Striker chuckled. With his imp tail, Striker impaled his red dagger into the picture, creating a torn hole where Stolas’ face was.

 

“Stella’s pretty face will be next!” Striker thought.

 

0 0 0

Far out in the desert countryside, two imps were sitting by a recently dug hole and a makeshift grave stone. One imp was beefy with red skin, white hair, a small white mustache and white scars on his arms. His wife sat next to him, her black hair wild, skin red, eyes yellow. Both of them wore farming clothes and had their heads lowered. In front of them was the body of their last farmhand. On the gravestone were the words, “Here lies Fred, he is dead.”

 

Joe comforted Lin and briefly stared at their charred burned remains of their cottage.

 

“I can’t believe it,” Lin sobbed. “Fred was just doing his job, tending to the farm. But then this fire twister blew in outta nowhere.”

 

“Thank Satan we and our family could take shelter underground,” Joe mentioned. “Fred stayed behind to try and save the animals.”

 

“Our crops, our home, our farmhand…all gone.” Lin sighed sadly. “The kids aren’t gonna like this when they get back from visiting town.”

 

“What will we do now?” Lin asked.

 

“Well until we can get our place fixed up, we’ll just have to sleep in the wilderness somewhere. Or maybe a motel.”

 

“Well, howdy,” Striker called to the two imps.

 

Both of them looked up to see Striker trotting toward them upon his horse. “Sounds like you two could use a helpin’ hand.”

 

“You bet we do,” said Joe. “What’s your name?”

 

“Call me Striker, sir,” said Striker, hopping off his horse and shaking his hand.

 

“A fine name Striker is,” Joe mentioned in approval.

 

“Reminds me of the battles we fought in our younger days!” Lin added. “Crushing the heads of imps who tried to raid our land. Even just blowing other imps away in competitions. All we had to use were our bare hands and stamina.”

 

“I must’ve strolled along to the right place,” Striker said with a grin.

 

“I’m Joe and this is my wife Lin,” Joe drawled. “You new here?”

 

“Lived in Wrath for a while.”

 

“Well then, Striker, if you can help us repair our cottage to start, consider yourself hired!”

 

So that’s what Striker did. After a week, the cottage was restored and the family returned to their old life. To Striker’s delight, Joe and Lin paid him reasonably well for his hard work. Besides fixing their house, Striker helped fight off coyotes, wrestle hellhogs and slaughter their livestock when it was time for dinner. Even the rival farmer imps didn’t come sneaking to the May property anymore.

 

Joe later showed Striker a picture of his family. “You’ve already seen my sugar pie Lin. These are all my kids. Mildred, Sallie, Billie, Willie, Dillie, and Tillie.”

 

“My, that’s a lot,” Striker remarked. “Why does Mildred sound so different?”

 

Joe pointed to the picture of Millie. “We sometimes call her Millie.”

 

“Ah, makes sense now.” 

 

“Yes, she’s a wild one. She and her sister Sallie are perhaps even more rambunctious then their brothers. They killed several competitors at last year’s Harvest Festival. Millie killed nine in one round and now she’s off doing freelance work in Imp City. She is an unstoppable force.”

 

“Heh. Mighty cute, too.” Both men chuckled.

 

Striker paused. “The Harvest Festival, huh? I’ve witnessed it a few times.”

 

“It happens every year. The Pain Games is a competition to see who can be the toughest imp of all.”

 

“Now that sounds like fun!” Striker grinned.

 

“You’ll be great for sure. The festival is just a few days away!”

 

“How interesting,” Striker thought. Stella had told him that it was the event that Stolas would be attending. It would be the perfect moment to make his move!

 

 

 

 

 

 

0 0 0

Part Three: Striker in “The Harvest Moon Festival”

“Speaking of strong hands,” Joe said to Blitzo and the gang. “Y’all should meet our newest help.” He then called out, “Hey, Striker!”

 

The sound of rapidly clopping hooves approached. Black legs with golden hooves raced across the ground. Small plumes of smoke emitted from the legs and sparks flew off the hooves and onto the rocky path. An imp dressed in cowboy attire rode atop his horse, using his long tan pointed tail to whip the horse’s flank. The imp’s tail moved and hissed like a rattlesnake. The hell horse leaped over a wooden fence and moved toward the group. With a mixture of a roar and a neigh, the hell horse Bombproof reared up on his hind legs before lowering to a complete stop.

 

The inferno equine was magnificent. He had a coal black coat and three black ribs exposed underneath him. His underbelly, mane and tail consisted of dazzling crimson and orange flames that matched the speed of the creature’s movements. Three golden circles were decorated near his flank and his flaming tail was also black with small spikes on it. The horse had glowing small holes in his face for eyes, seven black spikes jutting out from his long neck and a few sharp fangs from his elongated mouth.

 

“Well, howdy!” Striker greeted.

 

The tall imp had a faded red face with reptilian-like features. He smiled a dazzling grin of sharp teeth, a gold tooth standing out. He had a small black mustache and white hair with two jagged black and white striped horns that pointed upward. His long tail was pointed, with four black stripes and eight accompanying sharp spines.

 

Striker wore a stereotypical brown sun hat, tall cowboy boots, a red scarf and torn white pants. He had a black shirt and a dark navy vest with black cuffs. A light red scarf was around his neck. A straw of wheat was in his mouth. His eyes were yellow and hypnotic with a spiral pattern.

 

“Oh, lookie here!” Striker spotted Millie and jumped off his horse. “You must be the famous Mildred.”  He playfully poked her with the wheat stalk. “Heard some good things about you from your folks, little lady.”

 

He winked at her and Millie laughed sheepishly, waving her hand. They both shook hands.

 

“What’re y’all doing so far away from Imp City?” Striker asked. “Heh. Free working finally slowin’ down?”

 

“Oh no! Freelance isn’t free! It’s a…” She paused. “Never mind. We’re just visiting for the festival. The prince is our boss’ boyfriend!” She said “boyfriend” dramatically.

 

Blitzo glared at her, making a slapping gesture. “Millie, I’m not above hitting a female in front of her daddy.”

 

“Boss, huh?” Striker asked before noticing Blitzo. “Ohhh, so you’re the bold imp to start his own killing biz?”

 

Blitzo grinned smugly. “Yeah, well if you’re good at somethin’, you should probably capitalize.”

 

“Not many imps start businesses on their own. That’s pretty impressive, sir,” Striker complimented with a snap of his fingers.

 

“Oh. Yeah? It is…” Blitzo stuttered. “I-I-I I guess it is, isn’t it?”

 

“So you even conned that ditzy blueblood into gettin’ you to the surface?” Striker asked.

 

Striker and Blitzo shook hands.

 

“Well, it’s long and complicated but the short answer is, yes,” Blitzo answered. “But he’s not like, you know, we’re not like, we’re not doing it…” Blitzo stuttered. “It’s a transactional fucking, you see.” He did a motion of putting a finger through a hole.

 

“You know,” Joe called, “You boys should enter the Pain Games!”

 

Blitzo walked sideways toward Joe in excitement. “I heard games! What games? I’m in!”

 

“Every Harvest Festival, there’s a competition to be the roughest toughest bastard in Wrath!” Lin explained.

 

“Yeah! Wish I could play!” Millie pouted, crossing her arms in disappointment.

 

“Millie,” Lin chided, “You know you get too carried away. The last competition ended in fifteen separate funerals.”

 

“I’m aware, but I only caused nine of them!” Millie protested. “How come Sallie May still gets to compete?”

 

“Your sister doesn’t have a neighborhood head count.”

 

“She so does!”

 

In the background, Sallie May carried a sack while a smaller imp dragged an imp body on the ground.

 

“Doesn’t count if they don’t find the bodyyyy!” Sallie May sang as Millie seethed.

 

“Still, you get to root for her and your brothers and now you can cheer on your boss!” her mother encouraged.

 

Moxxie put a hand on Lin’s shoulder much to her disgust. “You know, she can also cheer for me.”

 

Joe laughed and slapped his leg. Then he raised an eyebrow and pointed. “Wait, you?”

 

“Yeah! I can compete, can’t I?” Moxxie asked. Lin elbowed him hard in the side and he teared up in pain. Joe chuckled.

 

“Sorry boy, but I don’t think sensitive thespian types would last very long in the games.”

 

“I was born here too!” Moxxie protested. Then he drawled, “I have some fight in me.”

 

Striker put a hand on Moxxie’s shoulder. “Huh. Well then little fella, why don’tcha help me wrangle one o’ them hogs for dinner?”

 

Striker mentioned to a large sleeping gray hell hog in a pigpen with large black tusks, spikes along the back and closed eyes on its side.

 

Moxxie held up his head, nose in the air. “Simple. Watch me!”

 

“Nah. With these,” Striker said. He tossed a red knife and some rope into Moxxie’s hands.

 

“Bullets can’t pierce the shell. You gotta get the knife underneath them and pry yourself an openin’.”

 

Moxxie gulped. “Oh, right, right. I knew that.” Moxxie was better equipped for long distance shooting. He was an expert marksman, but not so proficient when it came to raw physical strength. To say Moxxie was out of his comfort zone would be an understatement.

 

To make matters worse, Blitzo leaned in toward Moxxie and grabbed his shoulders.

 

“Now just remember, your rep with the in-laws is on the line here! So no pressure at all, you totally will not make an ass of yourself in front of everyone important in your life.”

 

Blitzo’s words were laced with sarcasm and mockery. Moxxie’s eyes twitched, his pupils dilated in fear. He could already envision being beaten up and sent away from Millie by her parents.

 

“Go get’ em tiger,” Blitzo grinned, shoving Moxxie forward.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Mox, you don’t need to do this,” Millie countered.

 

But her words fell on deaf ears as Blitzo remarked, “Oh, he totally does!” 

 

There was no turning back now.

 

Moxxie hopped over the pen fence and nervously stalked through the mud, rope and dagger in hand.

 

“Kick its ass, Moxxie! Yeeeeaaaaah!” Blitzo hollered, making punching gestures.

 

Taking a deep breath, Moxxie leapt forward and wrapped the rope around the hog’s neck. He brought down the knife, which bounced harmlessly off the hog’s armor shell. The glowing eyes on the hog opened up and the beast let out a ferocious roar.

 

Moxxie yelled out as the hog raced around the pen, trying to buck him off. He held onto the rope for dear life. Blitzo’s cheers added to the intensity and stress.

 

“Fuck yeah, Moxxie! Ride it, Moxxie! Making that bitch you won’t call back in the morning!”

 

Loona snickered. “This is fucking beautiful.” She held up her black cell phone and recorded a video.

 

“Doing great, Moxxie!” Blitzo said with a thumbs up. Then he whispered to Loona, “Send me that video later.”

 

Moxxie screamed and tried to stay on as Millie watched in concern.

 

A shadow fell over Moxxie and he was soon knocked off. He landed in the mud and glared at the figure above him.

 

It was Striker. He twirled the red knife with his fingers and held it high above his head in a smug pose. He brought the knife down hard, straight through the hog’s tough skin. The hog roared and squealed before dropping dead. Striker had slaughtered the beast.

 

“Ow…My clavicle,” Moxxie cried, rubbing his neck. Striker towered over him with a grin, his tail rattling.

 

“Don’t worry, little one. You never stood a chance.”

 

Moxxie bared his teeth in anger as a proud Striker carried the dead hog on his shoulder back to the group.

 

“Hey, boss man,” Striker called to Blitzo, looking at him with a sideways turn of his head. “You wanna help the men skin this thing for dinner?”

 

Blitzo puffed up his chest in pride. “Oh, I am always down to skin the manly meat with the manly men!”

 

“That’s what she said!” Loona called out, as she tapped on her phone and followed the imps inside.

 

“What, ‘who said?’” Blitzo asked before asking in anger, “Wait, what bitch is talking shit about me?!”

 

0 0 0

 

Wally Wackford stood on the wooden stage, holding a gray microphone decorated with an eye in the center and small horns on the top. He wore his usual white shirt, vest, white pants and dark boots. He twirled his black cane and tipped his black top hat. Large speakers with skulls on the inside stood off to either side. Nested under a stripped tent in the back center of the stage sat Stolas on a stool. He wore his usual crown, black top hat and royal red robes. The grimoire lay on his lap. A white banner held up by high spears read “Harvest Moon Festival” in bold blood red letters. Stolas’ sigil and a pentagram decorated the banner background.

 

Wally Wackford spoke dramatically through the microphone.

 

“Welcome, I say-a welcome all to Wrath-a Ring’s annual Harvest-a Moon-a a Festival! To kick things up, we have the great prince Stolas-a here to user in this here Pain Games!”

 

Stolas took the microphone from him and chuckled in slight embarrassment.

“How kind, Wackford.”

 

Stolas then addressed the audience. “Greetings tiny Wrath Ring imps! I hereby welcome you all to another year of celebrating the spoils of your labor that continue to feed the citizens of Hell!”

 

A crowd of imps glared at him and several boos were heard. Many of these Wrath imps were impoverished farmers who lived on scraps, meat or good crops if they were lucky. The food they worked so hard to produce was consumed by royalty and those in the other Rings. But the reward for their work was being underfed, underpaid and underappreciated instead. The unbalanced cycle had lasted for generations.

 

Striker too, stared at Stolas with a burning hatred. Here was this owl prince who paraded around in his garb while he had to deal with war and a daily battle for survival.

 

Stolas obliviously continued. “I’m happy to kick off the start of these games that will challenge the toughest imps to show their skill and dominance.” He did a little wave with his fingers. “Good luck to you all!” He noticed Blitzo in the crowd beside Moxxie and Striker and spoke lower. “Especially that sexy little one there! Yoo-hoo! Blitzy!”

 

“Ugh. Fuck me,” Blitzo scowled. Striker smiled in amusement.

 

A gun went off and the games began.

 

0 0 0

 

The first event was the race. Moxxie was instantly trampled by the other racers.

 

The second event was the high jump. Striker climbed over the high wooden ramp structure with ease and raced after Blitzo who jumped past him. Moxxie struggled to keep his balanced as he reached the top. He slipped down, trying to use his claws to hold on. He fell with a splash in a small puddle…and was promptly chewed on by a monstrous black and white shark with several red eyes.

 

The third event was an event with rope. Striker grinned as he held a tied up Blitzo. Blitzo’s arms, legs and horns were all tied up. Moxxie gulped as a stronger grinning imp tied him up with ease.

 

The fourth event was tug of war. The crowd cheered as the two teams pulled hard. Striker, Blitzo and Moxxie were on a team. Moxxie stumbled and fell into nearby water, where the shark attacked him again.

 

The fifth event was mud wrestling. Blitzo and Striker grinned as they wrestled each other, Striker getting the upper hand as he held Blitzo down, arms locked. Moxxie was instantly crushed in a football hurdle by a group of imps. As they got off of him, Moxxie sat up. And the shark leaped out of the water and over the fence.

 

“Mother fucker!” Moxxie screamed as the shark crushed him. (Moxxie somehow survived all this.)

 

Wally Wackford was back on stage.

 

“I say, I say for the first year ever, we have a tie, for the winner of the Harvest Moon Pain Games!”

 

Stolas took the microphone from him again.

 

“The winners are…Striker, aaaaand my darling Blitzy!” Stolas did a one-legged pose as the crowd cheered.

 

“Just say my name right!” Blitzo complained. He muttered “Fuckin’ dick,” as he and Striker walked onto the stage.

 

Millie and Moxxie watched from the stands. Moxxie was dirty and bruised, one of his eyes was swollen. He crossed his arms.

 

“Alright, so he has the ‘physical advantage.’ I’m better at other things. Like singing!”

 

Just then, Striker pulled out a slender dark indigo guitar with knobs made of bones at the top. It was decorated with a brown horseshoe in the center, the guitar curling up into uneven horn-like shapes arching toward the strings.

 

“I’d like to take this opportunity to sing a quick song I wrote just now, about me winnin’.” He strummed the strings.

 

“Oh, what the fuck?!” Moxxie bellowed in disbelief, both his arms extended. The crowd began to cheer. The backstage lights turned pink as Striker began his song. 

 

 

 

“Sweet victory

I smell it sweet

From up in stinkin’ Heaven

To the rugged rocks of Hell”

 

“Sweet victory

With everything I do

With every talent

I’m so much more talented than you

Every time I tryyy

I push it and succeed…me!

Every first attempt at every single deed”

 

 

“Me! I’m totally the best!

The super cool me, handsome guy”

 

 

A fangirl imp squealed with tears in her eyes as she raced over to the stage. Striker kicked her in the face, sending the happy imp into the arms of a larger imp. The girl was then mauled by a group of vicious imps.

 

Blitzo arrived with a slice of Swiss cheese on a stick. He happily jumped into the spot next to Moxxie and Millie, taking a bite of his snack.

 

“Isn’t this guy great?” Blitzo asked, his mouth full.

 

“False!” Moxxie declared. From the moment he first saw Striker, Moxxie’s instincts told him that he was not a trustworthy person.

 

 Blitzo squirted some red hot sauce onto his cheese and took another bite. “It’s gonna be nice workin’ with him!”

 

 

Moxxie couldn’t believe his ears. “Working with him? What?!”

 

 

“Yeeeeaaaah! I asked him if he wants to join I.M.P.”

 

 

“You asked…but…” Moxxie began.

 

 

Moxxie lowered his head, visibly hurt. Millie sensed that something was wrong.

 

 

“Mox, I think you’ve had enough for now. Let’s head back to the house and get you clean.” Millie lifted his chin up and Moxxie smiled a sad smile.

 

Striker glanced over at Moxxie with a cruel grin. He sang, “Heh. Moxxie go fuck yourself!”

 

Tears spilled out of Moxxie’s eyes as he scowled and turned away. Millie led him back to the house.

 

“Did you hear something? It was just the wind.” Striker finished in song as the crowd cheered. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”

 

0 0 0

 

The sky was blazing red and yellow lava spheres glowed at the top of large volcanos. Back at the ranch, Bombproof the hell horse ate a dead animal carcass near a bladed windmill. Blitzo lay on his stomach, feet in the air, watching the horse with utmost adoration.

 

Striker arrived back at the cottage after the performance. He went off to see if he could mock that weakling imp friend of Millie’s. He flickered out his tongue and sniffed the air. Someone was in his room.

 

Striker, being cocky, had accidentally left the door unlocked and had also left open the glowing weapon in the case. Climbing up the wall and leaping through a window, Striker soon appeared inside by the door.

 

Inside the house, Moxxie walked glumly up some stairs.

 

A faint humming sound made Moxxie open his eyes and lift up his head. Moxxie noticed a sliver of light coming through the crack underneath one of the white doors. He raised an eyebrow. His cloven hooves stopped in front of the door, catching the light. The humming grew as he stepped closer.

 

“Well that’s troubling,” he commented.

 

Moxxie opened the door and peered around. No one was in the bedroom. Nothing but a gray ceiling fan, a bed with a skull on the headboard and a nearby vanity on a dresser.

 

Moxxie almost froze when he spotted the source of the light and the humming sound. It was coming from a box on a table. He walked closer to inspect it.

 

“Oh my crumbs!” he breathed, his yellow eyes wide and shining.

 

Sitting in a brown gun case lay an intricate and very expensive looking rifle. It was a dark reddish color with glowing white swirl-shaped designs along the side. The area near the trigger was decorated red. A white Ichthys fish Christian symbol was on there as well.

 

In fascination and dread, Moxxie ran a hand along the side.

 

“A genuine carmine crafted blessed-tipped rifle.”

 

A weapon with angelic bullets.

 

Moxxie stared in disbelief. “How…how in the fuck did he get one of these?!”

 

“Why don’t you ask me, little dude?”

 

 

That familiar dark southern drawl…Moxxie’s hairs stood on end.

 

 

Moxxie whirled around. “Shit!”

 

 

Striker was leaning against the doorframe.

 

 

Moxxie glared in suspicion and anger. “W-why do you have this?! Mister!” He pointed a finger at him. “You are aware this kind of weapon can kill…”

 

“…demon royalty,” Striker finished.

 

 

“Yes. That.”

 

 

“No shit. That’s kinda the point,” Striker remarked. He flicked the wheat stalk away, running his claws along the door before shutting it.

 

To Striker, there was no use to attempt to lie to this imp about being a “gun enthusiast.” One, because he would’ve seen through Striker's lies easily. Two, the imp was about to die.

 

Moxxie stepped back and stuttered. “Okay. Well I’m…I’m relatively concerned by your possession of this…”

 

Striker grinned sinisterly, advancing toward Moxxie like a predatory rattlesnake. Striker’s pointed tail hissed in anticipation. Moxxie was cornered by the table behind him.

 

“I’m also glad my instant dislike of you has been vali…dated!” Moxxie added before gasping.

 

Striker wrapped his tail around Moxxie’s throat, causing the imp to gag. He tossed Moxxie hard against the wall, where he slid with a thud to the floor. Although Blitzo would likely be upset that Striker had harmed his employees, he could easily use manipulation tactics to get him on his side.

 

Moxxie sat up and clutched his head…then Striker was upon him. Strong hands firmly gripped Moxxie in a chokehold. He struggled to free himself but Striker held him down with his body weight. Striker’s butt and legs were dangerously close to Moxxie’s crotch. Striker could already feel his dick getting hard at the feel of his victim struggling underneath. Moxxie tried to claw at him, but Striker easily avoided the swipes. A glint caught Moxxie’s eye and he noticed a red glass vase on a nearby table.

 

With a grunt of effort, Moxxie kicked at the table, sending the vase crashing onto Striker’s head. Millie heard the crash from outside and raced toward the house. A freed Moxxie stood up and ran as fast as he could toward the door. He managed to open it before Striker pulled him back by his tail with a forceful yank!

 

“Aaah!” Moxxie screamed before his mouth was covered by Striker’s hand. Beams of red light shone into the room as Moxxie struggled in vain to get free. Striker leaned down and pressed his body weight against Moxxie, pinning him in place. The seconds dragged by, Moxxie losing consciousness. Moxxie’s eyes started to flutter, his body going limp as Striker held his chin.

 

Striker chuckled evilly. “Pathetic.”

 

A sudden slash of pain shot through Striker and he screamed. He let go of his captive and Moxxie fell to the floor.

 

Through bleary eyes, Moxxie could see the fierce figure of Millie. She was stabbing Striker in the back repeatedly with a knife. Her mouth was open in a snarl, her sharp teeth revealed, veins popping out near her glowing red pupil-less eyes. Little crosses were shown in her eyes instead. She was feral, ferocious…and never looked more beautiful.

 

She jabbed and stabbed again and again, black blood splattering this way and that. She then leaped onto his shoulders, a knife against his neck. Striker angrily moved around and gripped one of her hands. He grinned and rammed Millie hard against the wall.

 

Thud!

 

Millie collapsed to the floor next to Moxxie, grimacing in pain as a fresh wound in her leg oozed black blood. Moxxie weakly reached for her with a shaking hand. Striker had wounds of his own, but his thicker skin had saved him from the brunt of Millie’s attacks. Striker grinned triumphantly above them, grabbing them both by their hair.

 

What a shame…maybe if the pretty Millie had sided with him, they could’ve done incredible things together. Killing, sex, riding off to kill some more. Of course like Blitzo, Millie would’ve been just another secondary pawn for him to use.

 

A cellar door was opened.

 

Moxxie cried out as he tumbled down the stairs and onto the floor. Millie tumbled and followed suit. Unfortunately for her, one of her legs got caught in a black bear trap.

 

Snap!

 

“Owwww!” she cried out, black blood pooling onto the floor. Moxxie gasped in horror.

 

Both imps looked up at their captor.

 

“I’d kill y’all but I feel like there’s more leverage with your rodeo clown of a boss if I don’t!” His spiral reptilian eyes gleamed menacingly in the dim light. “Plus you little things aint’ worth the cleanup.”

 

Moxxie raced up the stairs toward Striker, but he promptly shut the wooden doors.

 

That took care of them. Blitzo would easily join him once Striker threatened their lives. Either Blitzo would submit or his employees would perish. A win-win either way, so long as he could go after his true target and goal.

 

Back on stage, after tapping the microphone, Stolas magically flipped through his grimoire, which hovered in front of him.

 

“My dear commoners of the Ring of Wrath, I Stolas of the Ars Goetia, hereby curse this year’s harvest with the glow of the true Harvest Moon!”

 

The sunset sky swirled above him until a portal appeared with a light purple sparkly rim. The portal revealed a beautiful pink-orange colored full moon in a clear starry night sky. The imp audience oohed at the splendid sight. One of them yelled out that he knew that Stolas would do the portal trick.

 

Not too far away, Striker focused on his target, his rifle drawn. Stolas’ face was shown in the reflector, the glowing white lines centering on his forehead. Striker chuckled darkly and prepared to take aim, wheat straw in his mouth.

 

A click sounded behind him. Blitzo stood with his tan flintlock pistol pointed at Striker.

 

“Uh, excuse me? The fuck?!”

 

“Bliiiitzo!” Striker cooed and turned around in surprise. “I thought you were still at the ceremony!”

 

Blitzo scowled. “You thought I wanted to stand around with a bunch of hillbillies excited about corn n’ shit with a thirsty owl on stage?!”

 

Striker stood up. “Huh. And now you seem disappointed in me.”

 

“Yeah, well I’m not a fan of someone I offered a job to about to off my easiest lanky ticket to Earth behind my back.”

 

Striker casually leaned against the window frame, one leg propped up, arms crossed. Striker spit out the wheat straw and Blitzo pointed his pistol at him.

 

“Blitz, come on,” Striker said. “You know the two of us are superior than most of our kind.” He strode forward while Blitzo stepped back nervously.

 

Striker continued, circling around Blitzo like a vulture. “And you were so above suckin’ on a disgusting rich pompous Goetia, only to sneak topside for scraps and work for bitter Sinners who could care less who you are when you could be slaying Overlords.”

 

Memories flashed back to Striker as he spoke those words. Blitzo had more in common with him than he thought. Both had more strength, agility, charm, than many other imps. He knew that as hybrid imps, they were powerful, special, chosen to break free from the crowd and prove themselves to the rest of society. With demon-killing weapons, royalty would never bother them again. They could truly live free.

 

Blitzo froze, pupils darting back and forth. Blitzo stood conflicted, as Striker continued to try and get inside his head. It was amusing how uncertain he looked.

 

Striker’s shadow darted in the darkness, and Blitzo pointed his rifle again.

 

Striker continued. “Why struggle to run a business that is rigged against you? When you could partner up with me…”

 

Striker appeared in Blitzo’s face, fingers curled, “and kill the un-killable?”

 

Blitzo was soon pinned against the wall, both of Striker’s arms on either side. Striker sensed arousal coming from Blitzo and he grinned.

 

“Starting with the one who treats you like a plaything?” Striker said, his eyes glowing, red pupils, long tongue briefly out.

 

“I could easily dominate this guy in the bedroom,” Striker thought. “See how tough he really is. He’ll soon obey my every word. It’ll be so much easier when we can rule all of Hell, together! Leave all those Sinners, Overlords and inferior imps to rot away under my glory!”

 

“We could be the most dangerous beings in Hell, Blitzo.” Striker leaned closer.

 

 

“Wow. That was a good fuckin’ pitch,” Blitzo whispered.

 

 

“Been workshoppin’ it.” Striker moved Blitzo’s pistol away with a hand.

 

 

Blitzo sighed and stared off to the side. “Y’ know what? Fuck it.” He grinned. I’m in!” Striker grinned too. Now he could use Blitzo to his heart’s content. No one would mess with him then.

 

Click.

 

Striker hissed as Moxxie appeared behind him, holding his prized rifle.

 

“Huh?”

 

Blitzo grinned. “Took you long enough, Mox! Ha ha! Wow, you should’ve seen your dipshit face!”

 

Striker seethed in anger.

 

“Wait…woah,” Blitzo began. Striker’s tail had wrapped around Blitzo’s knife as he held it behind him.

 

“Okay, cliché much?” Blitzo asked.

 

Striker punched Blitzo in the stomach before moving Blitzo’s pistol. The gun went off. Moxxie gasped as he blocked the bullet with the side of the rifle. Blitzo seethed in anger at Striker trying to use him to kill his friend. 

 

“Oh, you daddy fucker!”

 

He clamped down hard onto Striker’s arm, the cowboy imp crying out. Blitzo elbowed Striker, sending him back. The two imps them fought and landed punches and kicks. A series of grunts were heard. Striker looped his arm around Blitzo’s arm and shoved him away. Blitzo crashed backward into Moxxie, sending both imps to the floor. Moxxie spotted the rifle and reached for it. Striker pinned down Moxxie’s arm with a boot.

 

“You dumb fucks lost the upper hand fast, huh?” he smirked, scooping up the rifle and aiming at them.

 

“Ha!” Blitzo declared. “You seem to have forgotten something, fucko!”

 

He moved his fingers to his lips.

 

Wheeoo-wheet!

 

His whistled several times. From outside, Loona’s ears perked up, but she continued tapping on her phone, ignoring him.

 

“Ugh, fuckin’ damn it, Loona,” Blitzo muttered. 

 

“It’s a damn shame, Blitzo,” said Striker. “We might actually’ve made a good team.” He chuckled and aimed. “Ah well.”

 

“In your wet dreams, you honky-tonk goat!” Blitzo yelled.

 

He swiped his foot forward, tripping Striker. He got up and karate-kicked Striker away, causing him to drop his rifle. Moxxie grabbed it and growled. Blitzo then raced toward his foe and knocked his head with a vase. He landed hard punches at his face, while also swiping his tail at him. Black specks of blood fell from Striker’s nose and mouth. Blitzo used his tail to wrap around Striker’s waist, and promptly tossed him to the side. He landed in a corner with a yelp. He moved again, but Moxxie fired a warning shot near his head.

 

Striker remained silent as Moxxie and Blitzo closed in. Blitzo aimed his pistol at him, the bronze surface glinting.

 

“I still think it’s embarrassing,” Striker drawled to Blitzo, his gold sharp tooth glinting. “You’re wasting a lot of potential relyin’ on a weak little…”

 

Moxxie fired another warning shot, clipping off part of his cowboy hat. “You gonna finish that fucking sentence? Pard’ner?”

 

Striker just grinned in his defeat. “Vermin.”

 

Stolas, Moxxie, Millie, Blitzo…all were just vermin if they didn’t show him the proper respect.

 

“Who’s weak now, bitch?!” Moxxie mocked before a door slammed into his face.

 

“’Kay, I’m here,” Loona called as she stepped through the doorway.

 

Striker narrowed his eyes and used the distraction to slap Blitzo’s pistol from his hand. He retrieved the rifle on the floor before racing on all fours toward the open window. He grinned again at Blitzo.

 

“I tip my hat to you, one legend to another. Maybe you’ll get me next time, Blitzy.”

 

He grinned and leaped out. Blitzo aimed his gun again, but Striker had disappeared into the shadows. He stared at Stolas obliviously finishing the festival. Blitzo then hurried outside to warn Stolas of what had just occurred.

 

Blitzo skidded to a stop near the stage. Unfortunately, Blitzo saw the tips of Stolas’ gray tail feathers disappear through a portal back to his palace. The portal sealed and the sky closed overhead, revealing a plain night sky and no moon. The festival was over.

 

0 0 0

Somewhere in Wrath Ring lay a very shady motel. The sign had a border of round lights and a neon yellow cowboy hat on it. It read in bold letters “Hideaway Motel.”  “Hideaway” was in white cursive, while “Motel” was in bold neon yellow with horns sticking from the “M.” “Vacancy” was in a red neon cactus. In movie theater style font below, it read: “The guy that tried 2 kill u def isn’t here.”

 

The windows were dark, broken and bordered up. Save for one room on the second floor that had a light shining from it. Lopsided broken blinds were in the lit up window. Inside the room was peeling wallpaper and a bathroom with a sink and a broken mirror.

 

A long pointed imp tail hissed as the figure pressed a phone to his ear.

 

“So…is it done?” came the other voice.

 

“Huh,” came the drawling male voice. “I failed to kill the target at the festival.”

 

“I granted you that weapon. Just because I could afford it doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard to get,” said the other caller. “You still have it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. Perhaps you can prove me wrong about my assumptions of your kind.”

 

“Don’t forget how much money you offered me. And additional food.”

 

“You’ll only get it once the deed is done. Only the most infamous assassin is worthy of this job.”

 

Striker was lounging on a bed, an orange old fashioned phone in his right hand, while his left hand twirled the glowing angelic rifle. He beamed with pride. “That I am.” 

 

“I’m not doing this out of kindness, imp. You’re a means to a greater end.”

 

Striker hid his distaste. He was willing to do whatever it took to get that money…and the potential fearful respect that came with being the one to kill the prince.

 

How satisfying it would be to see the living symbol of all the hardships of the denizens fall before them. Royalty itself would feel the pain that the Wrath imps had felt for years. If royalty could be killed…who knows how much more powerful Striker could become. He already envisioned himself leading the imps to a greater prosperous future. No more moments to be shoved aside like dirt.

 

Striker would be the rootinest tootinest cowboy in all the…

 

“Do not disappoint me again,” came the other voice, snapping Striker from his daydreaming.

 

“I failed. But don’t worry, ma’am, it won’t happen again.”

 

On the other line, slender clawed fingers drummed the table. “It better not!” Another hand slammed down on the table.

 

“I want this cheating prick dead!”

 

It was Stella Goetia, Stolas’ wife. Her glowing pink eyes radiated in fury, her white feathery face devoid of its usual regality.  “I don’t care who you have to go through! Make it happen!”

 

Stella sat with her family at the dinner table at the palace. Plates of pancakes, meat and peas were in front of them. They sat in purple cushioned throne-like chairs. She bared her teeth at her husband, who stared at her in concern, a pancake hanging onto his fork. He held a book in his other hand at the dinner table titled “Imps in the sheets.” In another chair, Octavia was bobbing her head to some music. The imp butler peered over the table with worry. No matter what side he’d decide to take, he was probably screwed. Stella briefly worried that she had gotten caught, but neither one of them had noticed.

 

“Understood,” replied Striker before Stella hung up the rotary phone.

 

Striker twirled his rifle again. He’d go through anyone he could. Succubi, imps, sinners, the Seven Deadly Sin Ring rulers. Perhaps even fallen angels. He knew how smooth his words were. There were bond to be other enemies of Stolas and I.M.P. around.

 

Striker twirled his black rifle, which had a glowing eye, white crosses, six glowing white wings and a small white halo on it, another angelic weapon. “I’ll get him next time.”

 

He’d get Stolas, Stella, Blitzo, Moxxie…everyone who dared to cross him!

 

Striker chuckled darkly before turning off the lamp. His eyes glowed in the darkness as he emitted an ominous rattlesnake hiss.