Our Paradox Universe

 

Our Paradox Universe

 

Life is real (physical world) AND Life is an illusion (everything is God/spirit)

We are human AND we are spirit/God.

We are not enlightened (as imperfect humans) AND our spirit is always enlightened-ever-evolving (because it is God)

Gravity exists (physical world) AND does not exist (in space)

Time exists (physical world/linear) AND does not exist (spiritual world, cycle time all at once)

Life is a school (learning from past karma, relationships + evolution) AND a game/experience (coming just for the experience of being a mortal/for fun, opposite of a spirit). Learning-experience.

God/Spirit has form (matter) AND is formless (true form)

We are unique (unique minds, bodies, and lifetimes) AND we are not separate (all part of Source/universe)

Deities, mythical creatures, aliens, ascended masters, spirits etc. exist (in the spirit world/other dimensions) AND do not exist (in regard to our human perceptions)

We have free will AND it is limited (on Earth)

The spirit world is everywhere (we just can’t see it)

We are Mortal (physical bodies/ego) AND Immortal (spirit)

Duality exists (Human world) but all is Unity

 

Helluva Boss Season 2 Episode 4 "Western Energy"

 

Part 1: “No, Not The Vet!”

 

Blitzo was driving in the gray I.M.P. van along the freeway, wearing his usual work outfit. He sat on a red worn seat. Loona wore her usual black tank top and pants with a white crescent moon on them. In contrast to her usual grumpy demeanor, Loona sat still next to Blitzo, her red eyes wide and her arms folded across her chest.

 

“There is no reason to be sacred, Loonie,” Blitzo said. “I know we’re on our way for your very important…”

 

He spoke in a whisper, “Hellbies S.H.O.T…”

 

Loona’s eyes stayed wide as she stared at him.

 

“…but I promise it’ll be quick and easy. It takes years to book an appointment at this place, it took five to get this one. And you’ve been doing a lot of field work, so you need it.”

 

Loona stayed frozen.

 

Blitzo briefly looked at the empty seats behind him. “Seems so empty without Moxxie and Millie here,” he thought.

 

In contrast to the usual red sky, the sky above was pink. Blitzo had driven through a nearby portal and was now in the Sloth Ring. A skyscraper city stood in the background with some of the building tops decorated with golden horns. Other buildings were on rocks that hovered in the sky. Many of Sloth’s denizens were goat-like beings with candles on top of their heads. Some of them were lazy sloths with many eyes on their faces and fur. Advertisements displayed mattresses, sleeping pills and “Happy-PillZ”, hospitals, and vacation spots. Another billboard showed a black goat demon with a large red candle on his head sleeping on a mattress. “Baphomet’s Master Beds! For All Bedroom Needs! 66% Off!” Another sign read “Lord Belphegor wants you…to do it tomorrow!”

 

Blitzo pulled up to large pink and white hospital building called “St. An’s” (Satan’s). There were a few disabled parking spaces, with horns on the white figure’s head on the ground. Waterfalls streamed down to the ground near the hospital. Labels on the building read “Financial Processing,” “Surgical Wing,” and “Pediatric Wing” while the sign in front read “Emergency.” Clouds and closed eyelid designs decorated the building. Venus fly trap plants were on display outside. The buildings on the floating rock islands had candle-like appearances. There were some trees on the rock islands with drooping leaves and eyes on them. Even the elevator music pouring from the speakers and the trickling of the waterfalls were enough to put anyone in a relaxed state.

 

The staff were mostly goat-like demons with candles on their heads. The doctors wore pointed plague masks and were dressed in black. The hospital was infamously known for charging high fees, making appointments hard to get and deceiving people with pharmaceutical addictions. Not to mention the elaborate and expensive gift shop. They, of course, made great profit from it. Rumor said that the plague doctors helped spread the Bubonic Plague on Earth to harm humans. Like the succubi and imps, they were demons sent up to Earth to try and conquer mankind.

 

Blitzo got out of the van and picked up Loona with both hands, carrying her over his head.

 

“Come on, Loonie, come on, this’ll be over lickity split alright?”

 

Blitzo carried her over toward the double doors. Loona struggled to get away, but Blitzo grabbed hold of her. As the double doors opened, Blitzo was dragging her into the waiting room by her tail. Her claws scratched the floor in protest. There was a round purple rug and several round yellow-pink waiting chairs.

 

“Christ on a stick!” Blitzo swore. “I have waited five fucking years for this appointment! FUCK ME IN MY LITTLE RED HOLE!”

 

Blitzo glanced at a demon lady who gave him a glare. She looked to be from the Envy Ring and had light gray skin and short dark gray hair with a white stripe along the bottom. Her eyes were neon green, and she wore a pearl necklace and a purple top. She had small black horns on her head and the legs of a goat. Her son had similar features, plus small gray and white fins protruding from his face. The demon boy was connected to a leash the mother was holding. The lady sat under a small note that read “ISO KIDNEY: I need your hip, NOT a scan, CALL ME, Chuck 555.” Another Venus fly trap plant stood in the corner. More signs read “no photos” and “no perfume.”

 

“Hi. The fuck you looking at?” Blitzo asked the lady with a glare of his own.

 

Blitzo slid up to the front desk. A demon goat nurse stood there with orange skin, pink hair, floppy ears, and long curved horns on her head. On top of her head was a white cap with a pink cross on it with small hearts in the corners. She wore a matching white shirt with the logo on it. A pink candle flame hovered above her head. Her four teal eyes were lopsided, two big and two smaller ones. A poster showed a smiling hellhound with a syringe sticking from its back and doing a thumbs up. “Get yours today, or else!” was shown in bold black letters. On the front desk was another Venus fly trap, a notepad, and a stack of papers.

 

“Heya toots, I’m here for that S.H.O.T. for my Loonie Toonie.” Blitzo chuckled as Loona growled in the background.

 

“The what?” the nurse asked with a dumbfounded look. A bottle of Happy Pill drugs was also on her desk.

 

“Ugh, the B.U.L.L. shit my daughter has to get every year that you M.O.T.H.E.R. fuckers only allow us to schedule every five years. How the fuck you fuck up that bad anyway, Titty Haver?”

 

Blitzo scribbled something on a notepad.

 

“Oh, I can’t spell,” said the nurse.

 

An annoyed Blitzo pushed the notepad forward. The nurse picked it up with her tentacle hands. “I can’t read either.”

 

“The fucking Hellbies shot you fucking reeeee…” Blitzo began but then finished. “…eeeally can’t say that word anymore. The appointment is under Blitz.”

 

“Uh, I don’t see any Blitz on the list,” she said, skimming through the notepad.

 

“With an “O,” it’s silent you fucking…”

 

Another nurse came over and flipped through the notepad. She pointed to Blitzo’s name and showed it to the first nurse.

 

The first nurse lit up. “OH! An “O” right here, yep, yep. Like she said. Blitzooo, Blitzooo…”

 

Blitzo seethed at his name being pronounced wrong. He revealed his flintlock pistol under his outfit.

 

“Yes well, we will be ready for her in just a bit. Please take a seat Mr. “O.” said the nurse.

 

The demon mother Blitzo saw earlier raised her eyes after seeing his gun.

 

“Perv,” Blitzo waved his hand, slouched forward, and took a seat with his arms folded. He tapped his finger impatiently on his shoulder.

 

Blitzo glanced and saw Loona whimpering and shaking under three chairs.

 

“Oh, don’t worry Loonie,” said Blitzo. “It’s okay, it’s just one little prick, you won’t feel it.” He bopped her on the nose.

 

“Ew, don’t say that, it sounds vulgar,” spat the demon mother.

 

Blitzo glared. “Excuse me?”

 

“Pervert!” mocked the lady, folding her arms.

 

 More hours seemed to pass. Blitzo swung his boots back and forth and Loona eventually lay on two chairs, half-asleep. The demon lady stared at her green cellphone.

 

Blitzo tried to make the situation less awkward.

 

“Soooo, nice weather we’re having, huh?”

 

Just then, the boy demon pointed at Blitzo. “Look mommy! They let varmints in here!”

 

Blitzo scowled. “The fuck did you just call me?”

 

“A wild animal, a miscreant, a fire toad!” the boy replied. He was pulled to the side by his mother.

 

“It’s not polite to call them that to their face, honey. Wait ‘til we’re in the car.”

 

Blitzo stood up, teeth bared. “You got a problem with me? (censored “cunt”)?”

 

The woman gasped and pulled her son close. “There is a child present, you filthy Wrathian!”

 

“You’re one to talk, you pompous Karen Leviathan,” Blitzo responded. “And by the way, I’m not from Wrath, bitch. ALSO, my kid’s here too, and I don’t think she would appreciate you calling her father… ‘things.’”

 

The mother raised her hand and called to the nurse. “Is there any way we can reschedule for a time when less of the unemployed rabble are out?”

 

Blitzo scoffed. “Oh please. I bet the hardest work you’ve ever done is convincing your husband that little shit’s his.” He pointed to the boy and his eyes watered.

 

The lady got in his face. “Oh yeah, and what do you do that’s SO important?”

 

Blitzo smirked. “Me? Oh, I kill people.” He pulled out his pistol. “How does a two for one special sound, whore?” He aimed the pistol at her, and they both got into a wrestling fight.

 

The nurse came out of the room. “Mr. “O,” the doc will see your hound, now.”

 

Blitzo strangled the mother and the boy with his arm, then shoved them to the floor. Dusting off his pants, he carried a scared Loona into the room, blowing a raspberry behind him with his snake-like tongue. More signs read “helladays” “wait behind here,” and by a soap dispenser, “please cleanse your claws.”

 

Blitzo sat Loona next to him on the covered patient chair in the small vet room.

 

Not too long after, the doctor came in. He was a pink goat with teal horns, a white furry beard, and round glasses. He wore a white suit, dark pants, and a teal necktie. He had thick white eyebrows and a flickering teal candle in the center of his head. He had an upside down pink cross logo on his suit. He flipped through a notepad with his hoof-hands, sitting on a small chair shaped like a paw-print. His name tag read “Dr. Somma.”

 

“Welcome, Bingo!” he greeted Blitzo. He then pointed at Loona. “And this must be Tuna!”

 

Blitzo waved a hand. “Loona, yeah, and can you hurry up please? She isn’t a fan of shots, so let’s try and make this quick for all our sakes.”

 

Nearby posters showed various hellhound faces showing various emotions – “How do you feels?” Another one showed a jumping blonde hellhound with “Don’t do this!” in bold red letters. Another one showed a red male hellhound looking in a mirror and wearing sunglasses. The caption read, “Look at your life…who is that dog?” On a desk were a bowl of treats, Kleenex, a sink with paper towels, and a radio with teeth around the round speaker.

 

The doctor stood up. “Oh, come now, it can’t be that bad. I see hellhounds every day and there hasn’t been ONE that caused any issue.”

 

He dug through a bin of needles and held up a giant needle with green liquid inside. Loona’s eye twitched and she growled, fur standing up. Sensing this, Blitzo raced toward the doctor and lifted him up just before Loona charged at the spot where he was moments before. Blitzo jumped before Loona could attack and raced off Loona to the other side of the room. Loona howled as Blitzo faced the doctor. “Yep, right there, told ya, dipshit,” Blitzo said. He took the giant syringe and the doctor stood in fear.

 

For the next several minutes, Blitzo, Loona and the doctor yelled and barked and chased each other in circles around the chair. Blitzo was gripping onto Loona’s tail, trying to slow her down. The scared doctor found himself backed against a wall, syringe in his hands. Loona growled and crouched down like a wolf, drool dripping from her mouth. Blitzo spread his arms out wide from behind Loona. The doctor tossed the needle over Loona’s head and Blitzo caught it. With a yell, Blitzo charged at Loona with the needle. Loona moved out of the way and whacked Blitzo hard with her tail.

 

“OW! Sorry!” Blitzo called. Blitzo climbed on top of her and managed to pin her arms onto the chair. Loona snapped her jaws and moved her head to the sides as the doctor aimed the needle at her neck. She dodged to the left, to the right and ducked. Clenching her fists, she broke free from Blitzo’s grip and swatted the doctor away with her clawed hand. He fell into the bin of needles and screamed as nine needles stuck out of him. He leaped into the air in pain. After Blitzo helped get the needles out of the doctor, he wiped his blooded lip, one of his eyes swollen. The doctor flinched as Blitzo then rode Loona like a wild bull. Loona tried to buck Blitzo off, but Blitzo managed to grab her nose and jaw and pin her face to the floor.

 

Blitzo mentioned for the doctor to come over and the doctor nodded. The doctor walked over…and stuck the needle right into Loona’s butt. Her red eyes bulged, and she let out a feral howl of pain. Blitzo fell off her back and crashed onto the floor. The doctor helped him up, staring at the cracks in the floor from the impact. After Loona was sedated, she had a white cone placed over her head.

 

At long last, after paying a very expensive fee of $666.06, Blitzo limped out of the hospital with Loona trailing behind him. The white cone was over her face. Blitzo opened the back of the van and the exhausted Loona slumped down belly-first onto the seat. Blitzo checked to make sure his arm wasn’t too broken.

 

“It’s…it’s over Loonie,” Blitzo breathed. “We got through it. You won’t have to worry about it for another five years.”

 

All Loona could manage was an angry slurred groan and a weak middle finger.

 

“Thanks for…not killing me,” Blitzo added with a soft chuckle.

 

In a tired silence, Blitzo drove them back to his apartment to rest and recover. For despite the dreamy atmosphere of the Sloth Ring, nothing felt quite like home than his small dwelling in Pride.

 

0 0 0

Part 2: “Striker’s Story”

“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”

 

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 still made a name for himself. 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

Early Days

 

Striker was born in the Wrath Ring to his imp parents. His father was a muscular, snake-like imp named Butcher. Butcher wore a brown cowboy hat, thick pants and had a long spiky tail. The unique feature about him was his yellow glowing eyes and snake fangs. Butcher was the proud owner of the Kill-Count Casino, a popular tourist destination in Wrath. Bucher also prided himself on his beer and brewery. He showed Striker all the fine arts of weapon-wielding, dirty-dealing and occasional stealing. Several of Striker’s favorite childhood moments included going on train rides with his family, riding his horse and munching on Paté loafs of meat at family dinners.

 

Then there was Striker’s mother, Ambrosia. She had thick black hair, black pants, and a tank-top shirt. Her tail was also spiky and pointed and her horns were black with white stripes. Tough and sexy at the same time, she was a bartender at a nearby saloon. After Striker’s parents had met, they decided to combine their businesses together, to better make ends meet. Both parents loved their son, dearly. They took turns taking care of him, but Striker remembered his mother the most.

 

As Striker grew up and inherited both places, the saloon was soon called “Striker’s Saloon.” His father gifted him with his very first horse, Bomb-proof. They had an unbreakable bond ever since. As a young teen, Striker loved flirting with the lady imps and drinking Satan’s Wrath Whisky with his friends. Striker’s skill at fighting also came in handy when warding off vandalizer imps and rival cowboys.

 

“I’m so proud of you son,” said his dad. “I knew you would be a great asset to our business.” His mother kissed him on the head.

 

Everything was going rather smoothly…until they came.

 

Striker’s village of imps soon saw tall figures on horses wearing crowns and colorful robes. Two guards rising horses with many eyes on them held up banners displaying various Goetia sigils. Striker backed away behind his worried parents. Trumpets sounded and a tall Goetia bird wearing robes and a mask over his face posted a piece of paper onto a building.

 

“ROYAL DECREE: All surrounding businesses within the radius of the train tunnels shall be demolished and renovated in two week’s time to make way for new malls, apartments, and parks, sponsored by his majesty King Paimon et al. All imp residents shall kindly sell their stores and relocate elsewhere or risk the warning of a fine and the second warning of…you don’t want to find out. Many thanks and sealed by Your Infernal Majesties, the Ars Goetia.”

 

“What is this madness?” Butcher asked his wife.

 

“Are the birds planning on taking our land?” asked another imp.

 

“Where will we move to?” asked another.

 

“Move? We can’t move! We’re Wrathians, we must fight!” Butcher called. Many imps shouted in agreement.

 

“Fight the royals?!”  spat Ambrosia, eyes wide. “Are you fucking insane?! They have better weapons and magic. And don’t forget about our son!”

 

“He can fight if he wants to!”

 

“No way! He’s just a kid!” Ambrosia cried.

 

Striker anxiously looked back and forth between his parents.

 

“I agree with Butcher here!” called another imp with his family.

 

In a matter of days, the Wrathian imps had made protest signs in black marker that read “LEAVE OUR BUSINESSES ALONE!” “FUCK THE ROYALS!” “GO HOME, GOETIA SCUM!” The Goetia, of course, ignored them.

 

Ambrosia knew things would go south the moment the Goetia returned in two weeks. The young Striker’s world crumbled as the imps rushed at the horses and royals to no avail. The horse’s hooves crushed the imp’s swords and pitchforks. For every beer bottle thrown at the Goetias’ heads, blasts of fireballs would incinerate the imps on the spot.

 

“This is your last chance to leave in peace,” the royal leader told Butcher.

 

“Fuck no!” he spat. “You assholes ain’t takin’ my casino or my son’s saloon.”

 

“Have it your way,” the royal added. With the flick of his hand, he hurled a fireball at the Kill-Count Casino and it exploded with an ear-shattering blast.

 

“Adding to the imp kill-count, sir!” laughed one of the royal men next to the leader. Two other royals ransacked the saloon, burning the contents inside and trampling the screaming imps.

 

Ambrosia looked at Striker with tears in her eyes. “My son, you must leave!”

 

“Where?” Striker asked.

 

“Head down to the mine tunnels. They won’t find you there.”

 

“No, mom, I’m not leaving you!”

 

“I have to help your father, now go before they see you!”

 

Striker buried his face in her thick hair for one last hug and ran off to hide.

 

After several hours, Striker emerged from his hiding place…then wished he hadn’t. All the buildings were charred and destroyed. All that was left were the Kill-Count Casino sign, the blue snake Venom sign and the Striker’s Saloon sign.

 

To the teen’s horror, there were bodies of his imp neighbors, family, and friends everywhere who had died fighting for their land.  

 

But Striker’s worst nightmare came true moments later. To set an example, the royals hung the imp leaders in the gallows. Striker burst into tears at the sight of his parent’s limp bodies hanging with several others.

 

As the sun set, Striker realized he was all alone. A lone survivor of the genocide. His family…his businesses…his entire life…gone. The royals had taken everything from him, and he was barely into his teens.

 

Now he had no choice but to move on. He lifted up the signs and the remaining memorabilia and carried them down into the mine tunnels, making his hideout. His life was hard, rough, and impoverished ever since. His heart filled with disgust as he soon spotted the royals and other imps enjoying themselves in the malls, motels, and tourist sights in the spots where his family used to be. Striker’s only companion was his horse, who nuzzled his head to comfort the imp.

 

From that day forward, Striker swore he’d get his revenge. He became Wrath’s most wanted assassin and was willing to go great lengths to get Goetia blood on his hands.

 

And as for the statue with his big dick…Striker had made that himself in his spare time.

 

 

 

 

0 0 0

Farmhand by Day, Assassin By Night

 

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 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 their 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.”

 

“Hmph,” said the third imp, crossing his arms. “It’s always the Goetia and the 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 my 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 sneaking 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 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 Morningstar 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 hair 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 rifle. And the pistols and rope and knife. 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 laughingstock. 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.

 

Stella then presented him with more weapons: two black angelic pistols with halos and wings decorated on them, white blessed rope, and a sharp angelic knife with glowing white lines on it. Striker grinned widely. Maybe being a temporary underling wouldn’t be so bad.

 

“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 gravestone. 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 the 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 than 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

At 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 Stolas 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 balance 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 volcanoes. 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!

 

He 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 had 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.

0 0 0

Part 3: “A Prince In Distress”

 

It was another seemingly ordinary day in the Pride Ring. The sky seemed to glow a crimson red with hints of salmon pink. An array of city buildings were decorated with eyes and gold pointed horns jutting from the tops. Triangular features on the buildings gave the appearance of yellow fangs. Cars blared and spotlights flashed green, yellow, and red. Situated on a main street corner, between two tall buildings was a café. On top of the store was a constructed large white teacup with gold trim and a gold handle. It gave the appearance of brown tea being spilled over the store’s name in gold letters: “Richest Café.” A nearby sign on the side read: “Where the poor pour for you!”  Tables with purple tablecloths and chairs were positioned under a red awning. An inverted pentagram decorated a nearby building.

 

Inside the elite café, fancy soft violin music played from speakers overhead. Quietly talking, holding their teacups with pinky fingers raised, were the many bird-like members of the Ars Goetia. Small imp servants in tuxedos and aprons were busy pouring tea for the royals and carrying platters of tea in cups, small cakes, eggs, hell-crab sandwiches, and other delicacies. Small chandeliers of four soft lavender lights hung overhead.

 

Among the royals were the familiar faces of Stolas and Stella. With pinky finger raised, the swan-like spouse of Stolas sipped her tea, looking elegant in her pink and black dress and three-pointed gold crown. Her long black eyelashes extended past her face. She had carefully groomed her long white feathery hair and added tan eye-makeup on her eyelids.

 

Her glowing red eyes narrowed as she lowered her cup of hot tea.

 

“Stolas.”

 

The Goetia prince wore his usual black top hat with a five-pointed gold crown on it and two small red eyes on it. He wore his red robe with a high tight collar up to his neck.

 

“Stella,” Stolas returned with a glare of his own, black pinky raised as he, too, sipped his hot tea.

 

A small imp wearing a tuxedo and a large purple bowtie, tried to keep steady as she held a large teapot, pouring tea for Stella.

 

“(Censored “cunt”)” Stella barked at Stolas.

 

“Witch,” Stolas retorted at his soon-to-be ex-wife.

 

Another royal at the table groaned in frustration at the bickering couple.

 

“FUCKISH! IMP! SUCKER!” Stella yelled at Stolas, standing up. The imp poured more tea for Stolas.

 

“Why did you insist on meeting me here?” Stolas asked. He stared at his cellphone with a reminder popping up on the screen: “Deal at Ozzie’s Set.” He was meeting with the King of Lust to retrieve Asmodean crystals to help Blitzo keep entering the human world in case his grimoire got lost. And despite the dangers of the mortal world, it was a potential refugee in case things between authorities got out of hand.

 

Stolas wondered how his imp companion was doing. He had texted Blitzo and tried to mend things from when they were at Ozzie’s. He had wanted to talk to him in person, but with both being tied down to their duties, it made the distance between them seem greater. Perhaps helping Blitzo with I.M.P. and not insisting on sex during each full moon would show Blitzo that he wanted a genuine partnership beyond the physical pleasures…

 

The third royal member cleared his throat, snapping Stolas from his thoughts. He was Andrealphus, Stella’s brother, lover, and a marquis in the Ars Goetia. In contrast to Stella’s fiery eyes of rage, Andrealphus’ orbs glowed icy teal, cold and calculating. Andrealphus was known for his expertise in astronomy, geometry, turning foes into birds and more predominantly, his ice magic. He was a tall white peacock with a teal three-pointed crown and a teal scarf with a white snowflake design around his neck. His hair was short and light purple, his skin snowy white.

 

Andrealphus turned to Stolas. “We wanted to properly discuss the terms of this divorce. I feel my darling sister deserves a bit more…compensation.”

 

Stella revealed a sneaky grin, her fingers laced together. She seemed pleased that someone else was on her side. Now if only Stolas would drop dead then and there, her nagging feelings of anger and hurt would cease.

 

Andrealphus continued to Stolas. “After all, you did CHEAT on the poor thing. Surely you owe…”

 

Andrealphus imagined the feeling of Stolas’ five-pointed crown nestled on his head. Just the thought of basking in the prince’s wealth and gaining Stolas’ possessions made him shiver with delight.

 

“Andrealphus!” snapped Stolas, gripping his teacup with two hands. “Cheating implies there was a betrayal.” He pointed accusingly at Stella. “This woman never gave two shits about me or our very much ‘arranged marriage.’ As far as I’m concerned, this divorce is far overdue.”

 

Stolas wondered if Stella still loved his daughter, or if her feelings of rage toward him overshadowed any remaining innocence inside her.

 

The female imp began to pour another cup for Stolas. The imp then glanced nervously out the window. A black stallion with a fiery mane and tail was galloping at full speed toward the window.

 

“Up yours!” Stella barked at Stolas, flipping the bird at him.

 

Andrealphus put a hand on his head. “Stellaaaa, for fucks sake, stop making this harder to bullshit!”

 

The sound of breaking glass rang from behind Stolas. Stolas turned around with a worried glance. Other royals looked around to see where the commotion was coming from. Someone had leaped off the galloping horse and was posing on a table from behind a dark robe.

 

With sharp fangs, a cowboy hat and hypnotic yellow glowing eyes, it was none other than the outlaw imp Striker. He stood up with a grin, twirling two black angelic pistols in his hands. They both had white glowing designs of a halo and angel wings on it. Striker had gained more angelic weapons, courtesy of Stella (and maybe a little bit of black-market stealing). He had a hint of a black mustache. The succubus and incubus seated at the table glanced up at Striker with nervous expressions. The imp criminal mastermind was wanted in Pride and Wrath alike.

 

With a bang, Striker fired a white angelic bullet from the pistol right at Stolas’ face. Stolas morphed into his demon form and leapt out of the way as the bullet struck Stella’s cup. The bullet had also cracked the window. Stolas looked at Stella who turned toward him with a sinister grin. Another bullet made a smoky hole in his hat and another crack in the window. Four more holes appeared in the window as more bullets flew. Stolas flew out of the way as Striker leaped across the bar tables after him. Stella and Andrealphus smirked as Stolas ran off. He flew by a yellow royal lady carrying a pocket imp in her purse and staring at her cellphone. There were succubi, incubi, and a Sloth Ring demon in the corner. Stolas flew toward the exit doors as Stolas pulled out a glowing white lasso. Outside in an alleyway were wanted posters: “Wanted: Striker, Preferably Dead, Please.” With a yelp, Stolas fell to the ground as the blessed rope caught around his neck. “Oh dear, this is worrisome,” Stolas gulped in concern as his hat flew off his head. He was now bound with the white blessed rope.

 

Striker’s glowing yellow eyes flashed as he strut out of the café with an evil grin. He stood over Stolas, gold fang glinting, black cowboy boot pressing into Stolas’ leg. In his belt was an angelic knife, sharp and reddish with glowing white light pulsing within it. “How in blazes did he get all those dangerous weapons?” Stolas thought.

 

“Oh, how the mighty do fall, eh Stolas?”

 

Stolas flashed his red eyes at Striker, intending to turn him into stone. Striker just chuckled. Stolas gasped in surprise.

 

“Don’t bother trying your little eye trick on me,” Striker drawled. “Those ropes ain’t gonna let you do anything. Got something to say about that your…”

 

Striker whipped Stolas hard in the face with his pointed spiked tail,

 

“…highness?!”

 

“Argh!” Stolas flinched. He managed to press the “call Blitzy” button on his cellphone with a finger before Striker smashed it to bits with his boot a few moments later. The owl struggled in vain as Striker lifted him up and placed him on the back of his horse, Bulletproof. With a western cackle, Striker leaped onto his horse and galloped away with his victim down the streets.

 

0 0 0

 

Blitzo yawned as he stared out the window from his small, cramped apartment. Loona was sleeping in her room, recovering from the vet’s shot. The familiar city sounds of gunshots, shouts, swears, and passing cars rang out in the distance. Blitzo thought he saw a blur of Stolas tied up on the back of a galloping fiery horse.

 

“Stolas tied up to a horse? Lucky bitch,” Blitzo thought. “Even luckier if Striker was also a part of the hallucination.”

 

Blitzo walked away from the window and made his way toward bed. Then after several moments, he froze with a strange feeling of dread. He rubbed his eyes and raced back toward the window. But, of course, the image was gone. There was no hint of Stolas ever being tied up by Striker on a horse.

 

It would’ve been simple to dismiss it as part of his fatigued imagination…

 

…if a lone owl feather and scorched hoof marks weren’t present on the street.

 

Blitzo groaned in frustration. First, he nearly lost his limbs taking Loona to the vet. Now he was on yet another rescue mission. He knew what Stolas would say: “I’m your prince in distress, being carried away by a sexy cowboy. So, you should come and save me.”

 

“Fuck my afterlife,” Blitzo muttered. He saw that there was a missed call from Stolas on his cellphone…the only sound on the other line was Stolas’ yelps and static as the line went dead. Blitzo seethed as he began to call Moxxie and Millie.

 

Striker maneuvered his horse off-roads until spotting a portal in the dark. The horse raced so fast through it that only a glimpse of a fiery mane and tail could be seen. Soon enough, Striker was back home in the Wrath Ring.

 

0 0 0

 

Blitzo soon met up with Moxxie and Millie in front of I.M.P. headquarters. Blitzo led them into the I.M.P. van and Blitzo drove them down the road.

 

“Stolas…kidnapped?” Moxxie exclaimed. “How could that have happened? Shouldn’t Stolas have guards around him?”

 

“I also wondered why he couldn’t just escape since he’s powerful,” Blitzo said with a worried look. “But from what I got from my cellphone it sounded like Stolas is in real shit this time.”

 

“Sir,” said Millie from the back seat. “Let me and Moxxie handle this one.”

 

“Are you sure you two got this alone?” Blitzo asked.

 

Moxxie grinned. “We can do it, sir. Together, we are a lethal combo.” Millie placed a reddish-pink cowboy hat onto Moxxie, who smiled.

 

“Appreciate your enthusiasm, but I’m gonna make this a threesome and come with you,” Blitzo sighed. “Knowing Striker’s aesthetic, my money’s he’s in Wrath and still just as dangerous as he was at the Harvest Moon Festival. Probably still has a bunch of cowboy crap with him.”

 

Millie thought for a moment. “Well, we could always use the extra backup.”

 

Moxxie glanced around. “And we still need to follow those scorched hoof marks. It’s our only clue to finding Stolas.”

 

Blitzo agreed. The imp trio followed the scorched horse hoof marks backward until they reached the Richest Café (“Where the poor pour for you!”). They parked the car and slowly got out, being careful not to draw too much attention. There was yellow caution tape over the broken window and the cracked window with the bullet holes. The remaining royals were standing outside the café, talking in hushed whispers. A few of them glanced at the imps with apathy and disdain. Moxxie soon came across the little female server imp wearing a tuxedo and purple bowtie.

 

“Excuse me,” said Moxxie. “Do you work here?”

 

“Yes,” squeaked the imp. “But the Café is closed until tomorrow.”

 

“What happened here?” Millie asked.

 

“Well, it was just an ordinary busy day,” said the imp with a sigh. “My first morning shift. My back and arms were sore from holding the teapot for the Goetia royals. One looked like a prince with red robes. There was a very loud woman arguing with him. And a third ice bird.”

 

“Ice bird?” Blitzo raised his eyebrows. “How many pompous birdbrains are there?”

 

The server imp continued. “I was just about to pour tea for the prince, when I saw a giant demonic stallion charging toward the windows! Next thing I knew, the glass breaks and this rogue cowboy imp starts firing bullets everywhere! Oh, it was scary.”

 

“Where did the prince go?” Moxxie asked.

 

“I don’t know,” replied the imp. “I was hiding under the table afterward, but I did see some movement in the alleyway. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for my 12-hour workday tomorrow. Being poor fucking sucks!”

 

The imp darted away before Blitzo could ask any more questions. Moxxie raced toward the alley. “Sir, you might want a look at this.”

 

Blitzo and Millie followed.

 

“Oh shit,” Blitzo breathed. There on the ground was Stolas’ missing top hat and broken cellphone. Blitzo picked up the hat.

 

“He definitely was here,” Moxxie said. “I wonder what he was doing while drinking his tea?”

 

“Well, we have no time to wonder about that,” said Blitzo. He mentioned for the group to climb back into the I.M.P. van. Blitzo called, “It’s best we go prepared. Millie, you have your weapons?”

 

Millie grinned, “Yeah!” as she held up a black double-sided axe with the I.M.P. logo in the middle and then a two-handled Zwei-hander sword.

 

Mox?” Blitzo asked.

 

Moxxie grinned as he showed two pistols.

 

“You guys have any angelic weapons?”

 

Both shook their heads.

 

“Just don’t let Striker hit you with any angelic weapons. Rumor has it, they hurt like double hell in comparison to other weapons. Now let’s move out to Wrath.”

 

“We got this, boss!” Moxxie stated, with a proud fist. Millie nodded. They drove and followed the hoof marks through the portal to Wrath.

 

0 0 0

 

The imps were soon in the Wrath Ring, driving by ranches, cacti, deserts, and red-rock mountains with lava spheres flowing above them. Several muscular imps were tending to many-eyed cattle or mining for precious gems in the shafts. They hauled gold, diamonds, and rubies into carts to sell to royals at markets. A few brave ones were sliding down the lava streams in open logs. Blitzo soon pulled up to a gas station on the side of the road. The wooden roof structure had white horn designs on the top and a few knives sticking out of the ends. A nearby wooden building read “Route 666,” also decorated with swords, spikes, and horns. A mariachi imp band sat on a bench where rifles lay on their sides. One wore a thick hat decorated with eyes on the brim. There was a broken vent on the building side and more Striker wanted posters. An old motel was across the way with two wagon wheels on a rock. The volcanic mountains were connected above by rickety wooden bridges.

 

“Crumbs!” Moxxie exclaimed. “I’ll grab the gas, Millie. Go and see if anyone’s seen Striker anywhere.”

 

Blitzo got out and stretched his legs, while Moxxie and Millie spread out. As Millie walked over to the imp band, three motorcycles revved to a stop as a biker gang parked their vehicles.

 

“Hey, queer boy!” shouted the leader biker to Moxxie.

 

Moxxie froze, eyes wide. The leader was tall, muscular, and red-skinned with a white beard and mustache. He wore a reddish cowboy hat and had thick horns sticking from his head. He was shirtless with a white scarf, black leather pants, white cowboy boots, and black incubus wings extending from his back. He was flanked by two imps with faces covered. One wore a red face scarf, brown cowboy hat and white shirt, the other had a dirty hat, a red and white shirt, and a thick white mustache.

 

“You stealin’ my hat?” the leader asked, anger in his eyes.

 

“What?” Moxxie asked.

 

The biker’s eyes glowed yellow as he pointed to his hat. “Same hat.”

 

Moxxie fidgeted with his hat nervously. “Oh sorry. My wife just put this hat on my head…you know, because it was…hot…outside…”

 

The biker got into Moxxie’s face and growled. “Same. Hat.”

 

Moxxie glanced around at the gang and sighed. “So, we’re doing this, huh?”

 

“Howdy, boys!” Millie called to the imp band. “Y’all seen this motherfucker riding around here?” She held up a drawing labeled “Striker” which showed a shirtless Striker firing his gun.

 

In the background, Blitzo and Moxxie were seen fighting the biker gang. Moxxie jumped onto the biker with the white shirt and stabbed him repeatedly in the waist with a dagger. Moxxie jumped out of the way as the biker leader accidentally punched his comrade while charging after Moxxie. Blitzo swiped at the other guy with a knife, pulling the cowboy hat over his head. Before the biker could fully turn around and see, Blitzo shot him dead.

 

“Yeah,” one of the imps said. “He lives out by the Bad Man Lands, in the old train tunnel near the mine shafts. Very outlaw aesthetic, ya can’t miss it.”

 

“Thank you, kindly,” Millie smiled.

 

“Now for a song!” the four imps said with grins.

 

“NO! NO! No singing, please!” Millie protested to no avail. She rolled her eyes and left to join her crew. The band played their instruments and sang as Blitzo and Moxxie and Millie fought the biker gang:

 

“He’s galloping over the dusty plains

Even the cacti know his name

If you don’t want to die, don’t cross his path

The best assassin in the Ring of Wrath

 

He’s Striker! He’s Striker!

Sure shootin’, darn tootin’, his name is Striker

 

Gonna bring the bird back to his lair

With his magic rope and western flair

He’s very good at causing pain

He loves to ride on the choo-choo train!

 

Dirty-dealin’, prince-stealin’

He’s a villain, Striker!

 

He’s fast and strong and tall and mean

The foulest imp you’ve ever seen!

He’ll break your bones to hear em’ crunch!

He likes to eat Paté for lunch!

 

He’s Striker! Ye-yeah! Ye-yeah!”

 

While Blitzo and Millie fought the other biker, Moxxie rode on top of the biker leader and smashed his face repeatedly against the glass part of the wooden door. With a swipe of his credit card, Moxxie paid for the gas and smashed the biker’s head through the van’s glass window. He dodged the biker’s next punch and proceeded to wrap the nozzle cord tightly around the biker’s neck. The biker struggled and strained as Moxxie then causally put the nozzle into the van’s tank and stared at his cellphone as he waited.

 

Millie brushed herself off, then glanced in the distance and spotted a figure galloping across the bridges and into the volcanic tunnels.

 

She ran off and called, “Come on, Mox! We got a lead!”

 

Blitzo finished off the other biker with another shot to the face and raced over to the van. Blitzo took the wheel as Millie and Moxxie took their places in the back. Blitzo sped forward down the road. With a “yee-haw!” the nozzle flew out of the tank, taking the biker’s head off. The gas machine detached from the ground and soon exploded. The top of the roof structure landed on the ground off to the side.

 

0 0 0

 

 

The dust cleared deep within the mine shafts. Stolas coughed and looked around. Striker was off to the side sharpening his angelic knife with a rock.

 

Stolas lowered his head…and flicked it back up with a yelp. He was tied to train tracks with the blessed rope…and his black head of hair had almost touched the stream of orange lava below. He was suspended a few feet up.

 

“Careful,” Striker chuckled. “Move down too far and you’ll fall right in.”

 

“So, my wife paid you for this, huh?” Stolas asked. “Wouldn’t a holy bullet have sufficed? Or could you not afford those?”

 

Striker smirked, waving his knife in the air. “I was paid to give you the real royal treatment. Your wife must really hate you.” He laughed.

 

“You have no idea,” said Stolas.

 

Around Striker’s hideout were strings of lights, barrels, and a small black caldron over a wood pile. A train car had been overturned to the side. There were neon signs that read “KILL COUNT CASINO,” with a black cowboy skull and arrows pointing down toward Stolas, a “KILLER VENOM,” sign with a blue beer bottle inside a blue snake’s mouth, a “KILLER BEER,” logo, “NEW BLOOD,” and up on top near an orange light figure of Striker’s horse: “STRIKER’S SALOON.” Striker had a small bed with a string of lights over it, a neon purple cactus and bull horns on the wall. By a green neon cactus was a statue of Striker, posing with a wheat stalk in his mouth and a large dick. There was also a radio on the ground by Striker’s boots.

 

Stolas stared at the statue. “Is the giant statue of yourself a classic?”

 

“Only the best,” Striker grinned.

 

“I didn’t know you wanted to suck your own dick so badly,” Stolas remarked.

 

Striker scowled. “Are you seriously judging me right now?”

 

Stolas shrugged. “I’m just saying that Blitzy’s dick is a much more enjoyable sight.”

 

“Shut it!” Striker spat. He took a metal pan and splashed some lava near Stolas’ face. He closed his eyes and flinched in pain. “All you royals ever do is talk over us imps. And then you fuckers think that the entire world’s yours, so you take away everything we care about.”

 

“But I didn’t take anything from…”

 

Stolas screamed as Striker dug his dagger deep into his feathery neck. Black blood spilled out of the owl’s neck. To further intimate Stolas, Striker licked the blood off the knife.

 

“Say one more word,” Striker held the knife to Stolas’ neck, “and you won’t be worth more than the tombstone you’ll be buried under. You’ll choke on your own blue blood.”

 

Stolas let out a forced laugh. “Blitzy says far dirtier things to me…”

 

Striker dug the knife in…

 

“And…his knife digs sooo much deeper into me…”

 

Striker seethed and stepped back. “Being a smartass, huh? Well guess what? You’re the one hanging over the lava.”

 

Stolas breathed heavily. “Well, you seem to be forgetting…you’re the one working for a royal…right…now!”

 

Striker seethed again. “If it means getting the chance to kill you and gaining some money, then I’ll take the risk of being a temporary underling.”

 

“You won’t kill me,” Stolas began. “Blitzy will…”

 

“That rodeo clown ain’t comin’ to save you. You won’t see him again…”

 

Striker pondered and smirked. “…and neither will you see your kid again. What a shame…”

 

Stolas’ eyes flared. “Don’t you dare breathe a word about my daughter…”

 

Striker got close to his face. “Ooooh, finally hit a nerve, huh?”

 

“I swear, if you hurt Via, I will destroy you…”

 

Striker cackled and moved his knife toward Stolas’ eyes. “Not if I have your red eyes as a trophy. Can’t have you seeing me again, can we…?”

 

Just then, Striker’s burner phone rang. “Yellow?” he said, answering it. A horseshoe keychain hung from the phone.

 

“Change of plans, darling, I need the prick alive,” came Stella’s voice.

 

“I’m kinda in the middle of killing him,” Striker scoffed.

 

“Well stop it, we need him alive to get some affairs in order. I will pay you more to spare him and bring him to us.” Striker covered Stolas’ mouth with his tail.

 

Striker’s eyes narrowed. “Who else do you mean when you say ‘us?’”

 

“Not your concern, imp! Just do as I say.”

 

“Well…I’ll still get paid if I do kill him, right?”

 

“You will not…”

 

Striker’s eyes became bizarrely defiant, glowing in a mix of rage and maniacal glee. “You really think I’ll say ‘yes, ma’am,’ after you won’t tell me about the details on your end? After all the troubles I went through? You forget I follow my own orders first. Now say goodbye to your dick-devoted husband, (censored “cunt.”)

 

“MOTHERFUC…!” Stella began before Striker hung up. In anger, Striker tossed the burner phone aside and it shattered into pieces. Stolas gasped in bewilderment.

 

“I don’t need to take any more orders! I don’t even need your eyes!” Striker roared. He dug the knife close to Stolas’ heart and then hovered the knife over the white ropes bounding Stolas to the train tracks.

“Into the lava you go!”

 

Just then, a cheerful car horn blared from above. Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-dadadada! Striker looked up as the ceiling caved in with a crash. The I.M.P. van dive-bombed through the cavern ceiling, this time with Moxxie driving. Blitzo spotted Stolas about to fall into the lava. Thankfully he had brought cowboy rope with him. He swung the rope, and it wrapped on a metal railing part of the train tracks near Stolas. As the van plummeted down a rocky hill, Blitzo swung forward from the rope and grabbed hold of Stolas just before he could fall into the lava. Striker dove out of the way as Blitzo and Stolas crashed in a heap on the ground, with Stolas underneath Blitzo. The owl blushed at the unexpected sight of his savior. “Oh Blitzy…”

 

Striker stood up as the van rolled sideways down the hill, then straightened itself. Moxxie already had his rifle trained on the cowboy. Striker darted out of range before twirling his knife in response. With a well-aimed throw, the knife dug into Moxxie’s rifle, jamming it. Millie raced behind some rocks. Moxxie fired a stray bullet which bounced off Striker’s statue dick, off the casino sign and into a radio.

 

A western Wrath Ring version of “Whatcha Thinkin’ About?” played on the radio. Striker bopped his head with a grin and tapped his foot as the battle began. Striker twirled his angelic pistols and fired at Blitzo, who was trying to free Stolas. Blitzo moved out of the way and joined with Moxxie. Millie wielded her double-handled sword and leaped over Striker’s head. She swung it and Striker ducked. Striker dodged Millie’s swings and kicked Millie backward. She landed near Stolas on her back. Millie barely managed to flip out of the way when Striker used his strong tail to stab the spot where she was at with the sword. A brief pushing of swords ensued before Striker flinched from Moxxie’s bullets. Taking advantage of Blitzo’s weak arm, Striker fired a bullet at it and sent Blitzo down. He yelped in pain.

 

Meanwhile Moxxie and Millie flipped in the air and dove around as Striker fired a series of rounds at them. Millie tossed a piece of rock at Striker. It missed and instead landed in the radio.

 

A bubblegum pop Sloth Ring version of “Whatcha Thinkin’ About?” replaced the country song. Striker raised his eyebrows and snarled in disgust before continuing the fight.

 

Moxxie raced and tossed the double-sided black I.M.P. axe to Millie, who caught it in midair. Striker fired both pistols at the same time as Moxxie and Millie jumped in for the attack. Millie used her axe to shield them from Striker’s bullets. Moxxie fired one of his pistols and Striker avoided it. With a scream and swing of her axe, Millie sliced Striker’s angelic pistols apart, sending him to the ground. He seethed at the broken weapons in his hands and the white wax pouring from them. He tossed them aside and narrowly avoided getting his tail chopped off by Millie’s axe. With a grin, Striker lassoed a piece of rock to his cowboy rope and rammed it straight into Millie. Millie yelled as she was forced forward. She dug her axe in the ground to steady herself. Striker swung the rock at Moxxie who narrowly dodged it. Striker swung himself several times with his cowboy rope and lassoed a sharp stalactite from the ceiling. He jumped out of the way as the pointed rock came crashing down, knocking the imps off their feet.

 

Millie flew into a rock near the radio as Striker kicked Moxxie down. She barely had time to blink before Striker tossed her axe at her, narrowly missing her neck. Striker snapped his fingers as if to say “darn, I missed.” Before Moxxie could reach his pistols, Striker lassoed a rock at Moxxie and crashed it onto his head. Millie gasped. Striker walked over to Moxxie and began to strangle him.

 

“Oh, I remember how easy you are to choke the life out of, little one.”

 

Trying a new Stolas approach, Moxxie weakly grinned and moaned “Harder.” Striker reeled back in disgust and Moxxie proceeded to trip Striker, swiping at his legs. Moxxie then used the lasso to wrap around Striker’s neck, twirling him around and screaming “YOU COWBOY PIECE OF SHIT!” Striker growled after he was freed and brandished an extra pistol. Millie wacked her axe into the rock supporting the Striker statue. Striker saw the statue begin to fall and leaped out of the way before it crashed.

 

Completely distracted, Striker did not see Blitzo weakly use his other arm to fire a bullet into Striker’s stomach. Striker seethed in pain and turned to attack Blitzo, but this time, Millie and Moxxie stood with Blitzo, also surrounding Stolas.

 

“Blitzo, this is your last chance to join me against the royals. We could have the freedom to do what we please if you let me kill that bastard prince,” said Striker.

 

“Fuck off,” was Blitzo’s reply.

 

Outnumbered, Striker retreated into the dark, tail rattling in anger.

 

“Oh crumbs!” cried Moxxie, staring down at the unresponsive Stolas. “We have to get him to a hospital!”

 

0 0 0

The three imps carried him back to the van, where they drove through a portal to the Sloth Ring hospital. After they arrived, doctors in plague masks carried Stolas on a stretcher and rushed him inside. Several nurses with candles on their heads carried first-aid kits and followed the doctors. A 666 Imperial News station was outside the hospital where a pink tall demon woman reported Stolas’ condition. Another horned demon lady with pink fire on her head, posed for pictures. Many reporters stood outside the double doors, snapping pictures and chatting.

 

“Ready to go home, Blitzo?” asked Millie. Blitzo stared at the black top hat in the back seat. “Give me a sec,” he replied.

 

Inside the hospital room, a monitor showed Stolas’ heart rhythm with beeps. An IV bag with black blood was connected to Stolas. Stolas lay down on the bed, the pillow dotted with sleeping-eye designs. The windows were tinted pink.

 

Stolas was surrounded by red flowers with eye designs in the middle. Several rose petals fell off a flower onto a bed-side table. One of his arms was in a cast. Stolas then smiled as he saw a familiar face.

 

“Via?”

 

“Oh dad!” His daughter’s eyes brimmed with tears. “What happened? I got here as soon as I could.” Octavia finished placing the last of the flowers near Stolas’ bed.

 

“You gave me the flowers?”

 

“You were growing them already,” she replied.

 

“You didn’t have to…”

 

“Why wouldn’t I come over to see you? At the very least, visiting you gives me something to do.”

 

“Thank you,” Stolas smiled softly.

 

“Oh,” Via said. “Here.” She handed him a new cellphone. “I found the broken pieces by the café. Please be careful next time.”

 

“I love you, Via. Please stay safe.”

 

After talking for a few more moments, Octavia left.

 

Stolas looked at the notification on his new phone; he had one message from Blitzo.

 

He scrolled through all the phone texts.

 

Stolas: I’M SORRY IF ANYTHING I SAID OR DID MAY HAVE OFFENDED YOU TONIGHT.

Blitzo: ITZ WUTEVS

Stolas: NEXT TIME YOU COME OVER, MAYBE WE CAN TALK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED AT OZZIE’S?

Blitzo: Y?

Stolas: I’M SORRY! NEVERMIND, IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL. I WAS JUST WORRIED ABOUT YOU. YOU SEEMED VERY UPSET AND YOU TOOK OFF SO FAST. BUT MAYBE I READ TOO MUCH INTO THAT, I’M GLAD IF THAT’S NOT THE CASE. I WASN’T UPSET EITHER, I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU WEREN’T AND OBVIOUSLY YOU CAN HANDLE ANY STUPID JOKE A CLOWN CAN MAKE. ASMODEUS CAN BE VERY INVASIVE IN HIS HUMOR, BUT I THOUGHT IT WAS PRETTY FUNNY MYSELF. WHAT HE SAID ABOUT ME AT LEAST, I ENJOY BEING THE SUBJECT OF JEST. MAYBE YOU CAN SAY MEAN THINGS TO ME TOO NEXT TIME YOU COME OVER.

IF YOU WANT?

Blitzo: SHUR

 

Stolas: THANKS FOR HELPING ME WITH VIA TODAY, YOU WERE GREAT IN THAT HUMAN SHOW.

Blitzo: NP

Stolas: ARE YOU COMING OVER TONIGHT WITH THE BOOK?

Blitzo: LYKE OLWAYS

Stolas: IF YOU DON’T FEEL LIKE COMING, THAT’S OK! I’M SURE I CAN DO WITHOUT IT FOR ONE MONTH. :)

Blitzo: K

 

Stolas: DO YOU PLAN TO VISIT TOMORROW? I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN BUSY AND WORKING HARD. MAYBE IF YOU’D PREFER, WE CAN SKIP THE BEDROOM AND JUST RELAX, MAYBE? I’M SURE YOU NEED A BREAK.

Blitzo: WUTEVR YOU WANT, ITS UR NIGHT

Stolas: IF YOU’RE NOT UP FOR IT, OR TOO TIRED, THAT’S PERFECTLY FINE. NO PRESSURE, I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING WITH THE GRIMOIRE TILL NEXT MONTH.

Blitzo: MAE BEE

 

Stolas: MAYBE INSTEAD OF OUR USUAL ARRANGEMENT ON THE FULL MOON WE COULD PROPERLY CATCH UP THIS WEEK? MAYBE MONDAY?

Blitzo: I MITE B BSUY

Stolas: I WOULDN’T WANT TO BOTHER YOU!

YOU CAN ALWAYS DROP OFF THE BOOK ON THE FULL MOON AND I CAN LEAVE IT FOR YOU IF YOU ARE TOO TIRED TO DO ANYTHING…

BUT I WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU.

Blitzo: K

 

Blitzo: GIT BEVVER SWOON :(

 

Stolas typed and left a message.

 

Stolas: THANK YOU, BLITZ, THAT MEANS A LOT. I MIGHT BE HERE FOR A WHILE, IF YOU EVER WANT TO VISIT. (purple heart emoji)

 

The phone showed “Blitzy is typing…” but nothing showed up. Stolas sighed sadly and placed his phone on the bedside table. Another rose petal fell off a sad-looking flower. As Stolas drifted off to sleep, he didn’t notice his top hat being placed near his phone by a familiar imp. Or said familiar imp gently holding his hand. Or the familiar imp who sat and worried about Stolas and Loona and his I.M.P. business. By the time Stolas opened his eyes again…his imp savior had vanished from the room.

 

0 0 0

 

Off in the northern unknown regions of Hell stood a giant gleaming ice palace. It had an ice walkway and a teal diamond over the door entrance. It had the appearance of a frozen three-layer cake and the roof was decorated with giant pointed snowflake designs. Andrealphus, master of ice and geometry had built his home all by himself. The dark red sky swirled with snow and ice spikes jagged the ground in all directions. Despite Andrealphus being unaffected by the cold, he often longed for the more traditional cushiony comforts held in Stolas’ palace.

 

“I have done all my duties to the letter,” Andrealphus thought. “King Paimon would be proud of me already if only I were a prince.”

 

Andrealphus and Stella sat at a dining room table made of ice and decorated with teal diamonds. The marquis moved two sugar cubes in his hand with blue magic, dropped them in his tea and stirred it with a spoon. The rectangular windows overlooking the red sky were frosted. Stella stared at the ice rotary phone she had used to call Striker.

 

“Andrealphus, why did you make my assassin call off the attack?”

 

“My fiery vixen,” Andrealphus mused. “You were the one who called him, not me.” He smirked. “You hired him to kill your husband, didn’t you?”

 

“Guilty,” Stella laughed, sipping her tea. “Yesss it wasss me!”

 

“You are a silly minx,” Andrealphus laughed. “Though you know, if your husband dies, it won’t turn out well for you.”

 

Stella scoffed. “I still don’t you why you wanted me to stop the imp from doing his job. I don’t really care what happens as long as Stolas is dead.”

 

“You haven’t been listening to me,” her brother sighed. “It’s not the best course of action.”

 

“He’ll be dead! Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“Because, my dear sister, you’ve already produced an heir. When Stolas dies, all of his possessions, his legions will pass onto…”

 

Andrealphus seethed, “…your daughter Via instead. She’s next in line, after all.”

 

Stella giggled. “You’re joking.”

 

“No I’m not, you stupid cow! You’ll get nothing! You’re lucky you’re so attractive to get this far.” He briefly placed his white fingers onto Stella’s black ones.

 

“Well, what do you suppose we do?”

 

“You already called off your mangy stray,” Andrealphus said.

 

“Yeah, that went well,” Stella muttered. “But I want Stolas dead so badly! He won’t leave me anything willingly. He hates me almost as much as I hate him.”

 

“Well, this situation is extremely unique. A Goetia has never behaved like this before.” He stood up and got close to Stella. “Think of it like this, with Stolas alive, we have actions, opportunities…”

 

Andrealphus was already formulating some ideas. If Via were to die in a ‘tragic accident,’ then the legacies would stay with Stolas. And then with Stolas out of the way…

 

Yes, it would be a complex, risky endeavor. Andrealphus would get what he was looking for. He would be the ideal next candidate with no Stolas there. And Stella would happily follow him around if provided with luxury and comforts. But would it work?

 

“Eternity is a long time, my dear,” he told Stella, stroking under her chin. “I say we bide our time and wait for the chance to gain the upper hand.”  

 

“Fine,” Stella scoffed. They both sipped their hot tea quietly as the snow swirled outside.