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theancienthybrid · 1 year

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The Fakers First trial

Bored, wanna write, gonna do it, here we go

WARNING: MURDER, DETAILED TORTURE, GORE

A Heavy sense of dredge fell onto the trial grounds, the harsh wind of mount ormand blew past. leaving anyone that dared cross it's path with a cold shiver and a force that either aided or hindred in they movement.

In a run down shed close by that, held some skiing equipment, laid a in one of the corners a long fingure, resting on the floor, the figure suddenly woke up, a loud gasp leaving it's mouth as it kicked and tried to realize where it was, a short bit pases before they calmed down enough to stop and take a breath, having both it's leg bent towards each other and hands up against the wall behind it.

It looked around, still very cleary anxious, a questionable and scared look in it's eyes, it worsen with each passing second, then it looked at it's body, his breathing stopped and began to tremble, rocking itself back and forth before griting it's teeth and shaking it's head.

It got on his knees and stared at it's hands, it's large four finger hands, and slowly and shakely clenched them as he it's forearms onto the ground, doing it a few more times before holding tighly onto it's head, letting out a soft distorted wheep, forcing each part of it's body as close to each other as possible.

??? - " Hello? is anyone there? " - ...that voice...

It stopped shaking as it heard a voice and footsteps aproching it, it quickly backed away, pushing himself as close to the wall as he could before covering it's face with it's hands, it's breathing intensified as he clawed at his own face.

??? - " Hello?- WOAH! Hey!, Are you hurt? Hang on i got a medkit don't worry let me patch you up! " - no no no no please no

They noticed it, hiding away in the coner like it always did, wheeping, it retracted even more towards the wall, it visibly flinched when the voice raised in surprise, the footsteps eachoed in it's hear making him shiver even more.

It felt them grab it bicep, out of reflex he swated them away, swiping it's whole arms at them begging that they would go away, it's clenched eye soon snapped open as he realised what it just did, it opened a small gab in between it's fingers and looked up...

...it was him...

...that grin...

It uncovered it's face, they looked...scared, horrified, and it made them...content, he slowly got up, muscles pooping and snapping as he did so, felt relief with each one, he towered over them, it was tall, it was...strong...

...stronger than them...

Meg POV:

( - " W-Wh-What is that, I-I-I don't get it what, genuienly is that, i-is it human? it...it looks, but-what-the body-the face the-everything what- " - )

As the person rose up from the ground Meg felt a heavy sense of anxiety, a building dropped was being slowly being place on top of her, her jaw shivered in pure terror at what laid in front of her, what she first thought was a new survivor with several and severe burn marks on his legs and arms was actually...what ever the fuck it was.

He stared dagers at her, unmoving, Meg looked back and forth at the door had the god pallet laid and it's eyes, it seemed to inch closer and close to her everytime she looked back, until she decided to make a run for it - ?!?

Meg - " AHHH- " - *SLAM* *THUD*

As she raised the first foot she left something thight wrap around her neck and being flung towards the other end of the shed, she fell face first and quicky got up, looking at the thing slowly aproche it, and bolted out the door, limping as she did so.

She let out another scream of help that was again cut short as she felt something pull her ankel backwards, making her fall and grunt even if she fell on snow.

Cracking sounds could soon be heard as a ever incrising pain began to take over her, she snapped around and as soon as she did she saw the thing twist her forele in two seperate directions, she let out a yell that was quicky muffeled as she had her head slammed onto a parge lump of snow.

Meg was grabbed by the shoulder and tossed to the side forcefully, she stared the thing in the eyes as it lifted his leg up and slammed it down with it's heel directly on her thigh, she felt the muscles and bone snap into bits, another scream left her lips along with tears, she felt her leg get grabbed once more and she felt herself lifted up in the air and slammed onto the floor once more, than the rocks, than the trees, each time harder than the last.

She was slammed on the floor once again, her leg being ripped off soon after that, she only wheeped, it's foot slamed on her back as her arms started to get pulled back, soon, they were ripped off as well.

??? POV:

( - " Why...Won't...You...DIED ?!?" - ) he thought as he huffed and puffed irradicly, his hands shaking with adreniline and swiping the air every one in a while.

The man ahead below him continued to laugh, his grin still strong and wide, reachind ear to ear with no issue , not even the teeth seemed to care what he did to them, they stayed up.

He removed just about everything that would hurt him, his nasty fingers which he would always point at him with, his fists that would hit him, his feet that would stomp on him and make loud noises coming towards him, yet that fucking grin remained strong and firm.

Fine, he'd remove the jaw too...

He forced his mouth open, shoving all his of his "Hand" inside and grabbed onto the lower mandible and quickly and harshly pulled towards him, a quick but loud snap could be heard and it was off, but he wasn't done, he then forced the jaw onto his eye shocked, over and over and over again, the eyes getting impaled and blood ozzing from the inside of the skull.

He paused for a moment as he let go of it, it felt...sick, he'd always, was this not what he wanted...w-wait...oh god...what-...what he he done?!

The thought quickly arrived in his head, he killed someone, and there was no denying the evidence, he had blood everywhere on his body, his disgsuting body that he now had, what had he became? he got on his knees as he held his face with one hand and reached out towards the dead body ahead of him, hoping he was still alive, he-

*BOOM* A loud sound came from the inside of the large building ahead of him, it was only now that he realized he was outside, he trembeled in the cold as he held onto his arms, he sheepishly got up, and slowly made his way towards the main entrance of the building, looking like a lodge of some kind, anything is better than outside in the cold, how did he even get here to begin with?

He slammed his body up against the massive doorway, trembeling with more, he was certain he was wearing clothes, he suddenly got a massive headache as he tried to remember what was the last thing he rememberd and possibly how he ended up up north, no way he'd just forget walking from florida all the way to canada, that's..just....imp..po....si......ble...

W h a t. . .

As he looked up from straching his head, he noticed someone, working on a generator, the same grin, suit, position, e v e r y t h i n g, h o w . w a s . H E . A L I V E !?!

They didn't seem to notice him, he walked back into the cold outside, uncaring about the temperature, being ingolfed by a fog that appeard from nowhere, and his scared deminor seemed to dissapear from his eyes.

Dwight POV: - "Shit- come on!-...fuck thought i head something, alright now uhhh..." -

Dwight worked on the middle gen, he knew the risks it would led him to, but this was the closest gen he found, and he hated going outside, always to cold, the entity was just messing with them at this point, maybe it grew a sense of humor? a crued one at that but still, hoping it would go easier on them...hopefully

He heard Meg's screaming a few minutes ago, but it's been... quiet...too quiet, no hooks, no gen popping, nothing, not even a heartbeat, must be Myers then, maybe scratch mirror? those are always fun, not, he despises them, they way most take plesure in what they do, the way the sneak up and the almost no warning they give, he sighed as he whished of a stealth killer that would give a loud head up that he was coming-

bumpbump

... ... ... ...

BumpBump BumpBump

... ...

BUMPBUMP BUMPBUMP BUMPBUMP

BUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMPBUMP-

*CRASH *SLAPT

Dwight - "AAAAAAAAAAAH-" -

*......THUD

*drip...drip

Dwight flintched as he heard something big being thrown onto one of the arm chairs, the forniture taking another second to fall over so he could finaly look at what was it, his heart dropped as he realize what it was.

He looked up while hyperventilating, they saw a naked...thing! with long light bornw hair slowly aproching them, it's arms and legs seeming to strech, making it tower over him even more.

With a swift motion he grabbed a hold of his head, wrapping his fingers tightly around it, Dwight paniked and began scratched it, punching, pulling, everything, anything to make him free.

He felt his body being lifted up, his legs kicking the air, his head began heating up as this things touch was surprisingly hot, he felt his glasses break and send shard onto his eyes along with the heat of this things hands boiling his eyes.

He felt his grip losen, but he soon was tossed up in the air, nearly reaching the roof, but soon after that he felt something grab his leg and pulling towards the ground, his body slammed onto the hard wooden floor, the boards below him shatered, impaling him slightly.

??? POV:

The sound of something going throught the air at a super speed was heard and a squish sound, and Dwight was dead, the thing pulled it's hands off of inside dwight's head, sending brain matter everywhere, and so did his head.

He walked over to it and picked it up, and looked at it for a few seconds, squinting his eyes and slowly turning it from side to side...and wondered...

Nea POV:

- "The fuck was that ruckus?, never heard Dwight scream like that before, looks like someone just earned themselfs a welcome to the fog present" - Nea said as she leaned behind the doorway, flashlight in hand, gotta be a new killer, something weird is going on and no killer she faced up until now had a match like this, either that or Myers is being a sack of shit and using scratch mirror, one of the other, either way, hope this person is fotogenic, cause they are about to take their pic taken.

- "KILLER, IS THAT A-...a-a--aaa-a w-w-w-w-wwee-e-ee-eed?" - She said as she turned around the corner, her confident tone of voice was replaced with stutering as she saw the blood everywhere, a body laid on a knocked over chair and Dwight standing over it, back turned towars her.

- "DWIGHT! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPEN?!?" - she yelled as him, begging for awnser, Dwight turned around but something was...wrong, he looked like he had an eye infection and-...w-what was....what was in his hands is...that...a head-

David POV:

- "Shit shit shit shit, fuck, what the hell is going on in there, why is everyone screaming" - David ran as his mind exploded with questions, whatever was going on, he needed to put a stop to it, cause it clearly wasn't helping them escape.

He came to a halt, semi drifting on the snow and saw Dwight closing a locker, ugh Dwight dwigh, always with the lockers

- "Oi! Fairfield!" - he said as he jogged towards him, and he turned around, David stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him with a confused look - "...Fairfield?" - he didn't respond...

*Clack*

*Woooooooooooooooooooooooosh*

David's heart sank and his eyes widen as he heard a metalic noise come from behind him, he didn't even turn around, he knew what it ment, hatch was open, question is, how is it open if Dwight is standing right in front of him, it only appears if one survivor is alive, then that means...

that ain't Dwight.

"Dwight" looked behind davis, eyeing the hatch, before looking back at david who had begun making a mad sprint towards it, but as he was about to reach it, he felt something grab a gold of his ankel and twisted it, david screamed as he felt his other ankel get twisted and heard footsetps going from the hard floor to the soft snow.

David crawled towards it and as he placed his hand on the edge of the hole he felt his fingers get crushed as "Dwight" closed the hatch, making David groan in agonny, but it soon turned into chukeling.

- "Well *grunt* guess ya won this round, but don't get too cocky mate, you just got lucky is all, we'll *long groan* be prepared for ya next time, then we'll see who'll have the last laught" - he still didn't responce, only stared at him, he leaned slightly foreward putting more presure on the door and DAvid grunts hard, before he leaned back and continued to stare.

- "Well?, gonna wait till i bleed out?, who shat in your bowl of cereal this morning ya lanky cunt- wha- oi! wut are- " David observed as the killer walked over to his side and began forcing the hatch open, now the hatch getting reopen wasn't hard, if ya had key that is, but this freack was prying it open with it's bare hands.

- "Dunno what your plan is but ya ain't gon-

*METTALIC CLANK*

*Woooooooooooooooooooooosh*

David's eyes widen as the hatch door, the same one that he and many others, survivors and killers alike, tried many times in the best of they're conditions to forcefully open, be opened by this lanky skinwalker fuck, rightfully he was confused with a mix for anger and jealousy.

- "WHAT THE- HOW DID YOU DO THAT!?- HEY WAIT! HEY HEY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!?" - david yelled as the killer grabbed him by his jacket and shoved him towards it, at first he was slightly confused, but if it ment only having pain in his finger for a few hours, he won't mind.

That would be good woun't it?

David felt himself suddenly stop getting pushed, nose mere inches from the fog that lead to freedom, he looked back in an instant hoping that he wasn't planning what he thought he was, but his worst suspitions were true.

Above him stood the killed, hand on the trap door he forced open a while back, he slammed the door with as much force as he cold, the sharp metal bits along with the impact hit david lower part of the neck, he yelled slightly in pain, but the worst had yet to come.

He heard muscles snapping and his grip seemed to tighten, then David heard a something heavy land on top of the hatch followed by a large ammount of pain, he screamed in agony as he heard the slam again, and again, this was one of if not the worst death he had experienced he didn't even go numb from the constant pain, he could still feel every singel inch of skin he lost, every muscle that snapped, every bone that cracked, until-

*SNAP* *CLACK*

??? POV

...it was done, he picked up the body up and threw it away, blood driping from the new hole on the neck and wipped the liquid off his feet on the snow, as he took a deap breath, adreneline slowly decreasing as he finished his "work".

He looked behind his hands as a fog soon ungolfted him, a darker one, filled with mystery and anxiety, yet he did feel anything, he just let it happen.

??? - "Y o u a r e a n i n t e r e s t i n g i n d i v i d u a l" - a voice, a noise, whatever it was, it called it's hime without refereing to him, he turned around and saw it, it was nothing, yet everything, a dark pit of fog, void, emptiness, hairy claws reached out of him, yet he did not flintch.

- "P a r t o f y o u i s m i s s i n g, y e t y o u a r e w h o l e, h o w e v e r, y o u w e r e n o t i n v i t e d h e r e, y o u d i d n o t f o l l o w m y r u l e s" - the claws where mere inches away from his lower jaw.

- "B u t, I a m p l e a s e d, s o, t h i s w i l l b e f o r g i v e n, h o w e v e r, d o n o t r e p e a t t h e s a m e m i s t a k e s t w i c e" - the claws retreacked into the darkness as the area around him grew silent, they felt nothing towards the noise, it was nothing but that, noise, annoying noise trying to be scary.

The area around changed again, he was in a forest, it seemed like it was dusk, it was cold, but not as cold as the last location, it was just a gentle brezze, it felt nice, it feel...relaxing...but it soon went away

In the distance he saw a light, and...voices...several voices...f a m i l i a r v o i c e s, he squinted his eyes and frowns in confusion and interest, so he aproched it, slowly.

Him - "He was so ugly" -

Him - "What did we do to him" -

Him - "What he did to us...it was...it was so uncalled for!" -

Him - "Calm down we'll get him, he'll be punished" -

It was all him, just him, nothing but him, his face, grin, fingers, the voice, everything, they stood around the fire, mocking him, mocking his name, mocking his looks, promissing to hurt him, he grinned, his burnt and disfigured flesh snapping as his grin reached the top of his head...speaking of head...

*THUD*

*drip drip drip*

Everyone - "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH" -

While everyone was talking, talking all that crap, the head of that version of him he snaped on the hatch, dropped on top of one of they're heads, they where kncked out cold, dropped to the groud as the rest screamed in fear.

He let out a low and distorted chukel as one of them noticed him as he locked eyes and visibly flintched, recoiling back and poiting in his direction, but by the time everyone looked, he was gone

This will be fun.

I did not expect this to take this long i spend half the day staring into the abyss wtf is wrong with me anyway yaya i finished !!!

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kathyprior4200 · 1 year

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Helluva Boss S2 E4 “Western Energy” (Part 2)

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.

#helluvaboss

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