I'm Smiling, Why Aren't You?
#3 of The Thief, The Spider, and The Hotel
Even demons need help.
I'm Smiling, Why Aren't You?
By Laz Briar
A shivering ball of anxious demon sits over his desk, fingers trembling, a feigned grin stretching his blue, serpentine features. He's lit a cigar to calm himself down, but it doesn't help much. His eyes wander around the room, in hopes they might provide some method of escape, a solution to his unsolvable predicament. But they don't. They mock him with silence - the doors, windows, floor. He might try for the handgun in his desk, but, it's unlikely he's fast enough.
He grits his teeth, anxiety turning to fear, then to anger. His bulbous yellow eyes come to a shadow, a well-dressed silhouette. A figure which has perched itself in the room's corner, cozy on chair, waiting.
"Do you have ANY fucking idea who I am?" the demon says, clenching his clawed fist. He takes an excessive drag from the cigar.
The figure hardly moves.
"I know you're gonna' die."
You watch the quivering mass of blue flinch. His breathing hastens, he puts out his cigarillo, and he licks his teeth.
"Look," he says, raising up hands. "I'm just. . . a middle man. A day trader."
You don't find his pleas interesting. What you do, however, is an idle safe box resting behind him, fat and weighty with wealth you intend to extract.
"I've got 5k on me. Cash. You can take it and walk away. Won't say a peep, won't even remember you."
You move, only just so. The weapon in your hand, however, does not. It is steadfast in its goal, an ugly thing with fifty rounds of fuck you just aching to cut apart some suited schmuck like this. It's silent, but right now, it has the loudest voice.
As for the demon. "You wouldn't?"
Your tone adjusts, malign intent coating words. "That's the problem."
You are Anon: Master Thief. Once living, now dead. Another wandering soul lost in the debauchery and chaos of Hell, another nameless vagabond within the confines of Pentagram City. A city you've got plans for.
"Unlock the safe," you say. The demon hesitates, his lithe tail whipping about.
"Fuck you," he hisses. "What's it to you, what's it to you?"
He stands, and your eyes don't leave him. He fishes for a key, turning around, steadily unlocking the object of your interest. He waits there, holding the key, as if something might happen and provide salvation to his current predicament.
But there's no salvation today. Just you.
The safe whines as its door goes ajar, revealing treasure within. The demon turns, arms spread. His visage has shifted from fury to fright.
"Fucking. . . so what. What now, huh? Kill me and run? Do you know who I fucking am? DO YOU!?"
You didn't know the creatures of hell could still feel terror, but this one did. Still, you don't move.
"Do you know me?" you say.
He doesn't seem to understand. "What? No. No I don't! I promise! I won't tell them! I won't say a goddamn thing!"
You frown. "That's the problem."
A quick pull. Your weapon explodes in a belch of gunfire. Nine rounds burst from the muzzle of your borrowed Thompson submachine gun and send the demon into the wall. He sputters, strange hues of discolored blood geyser from his chest like roses, and he collapses, a useless clump of quiet meat. The safe wobbles open, its contents free to scavenge. You rise, a vulture, stepping over the fallen body to claim your treasure.
You start stuffing your bag full of its contents. There are stacks of healthy bills fat enough you can barely grasp them. Gems and gold and jewelry fill its metal intestines. There's a crown too, a tiny tiara fit for. . . someone. You can only guess. A daughter in the midst of a complex crime family, maybe? An imp? Long lost heirloom of royalty? It didn't matter.
You fill your sack with misbegotten possessions and hurry along your way. The Southside Splinters might have dabbled more in schemes and shady deals, but they were still dangerous. Not as forward as say, the Gadzooks Gang, but you wagered the Splinters had various ways of dealing with thieves. Not like it mattered today - you were sending a message. You were here. You can take from anyone. And you will be known.
You've got one last climax in store. The halls of peeling, aged paint is granted a new decor: your improvised explosives. With fresh material and a little help from a very particular spider, you've got enough munitions here to. . . well.
You're outside the building now, swallowed up by the pornographic ambiance of Pentagram City. Even though you're down one of the slummier streets, the pulsing rapture of demon-kind is ever audible in the distance. Pillars of black and neon rise like intrigued sentries, as you fiddle in your suit pocket for a trigger. Satisfied, you swing your loot over shoulder, making your merry way. Why, you even feel like skipping! And you just might.
So you give it a little hop. Enough that a wandering eye or two gives you an estranged glance (ignoring the gun and bag in your possession). And then you top it off with a button push.
A rapturous orgy of fire and sound cracks the air. A shuddering BOOM rattles the ground and vomits a pillar of fire into the sky - a brick hideout now reduced to rubble and stony rainfall. There are frightened curses and panicking demons everywhere, shapes dashing for safety as they try to avoid the impromptu meteors and falling meaty remains.
A beautiful pillar of fire coalesces, a signal of your deeds. Where once a proud hideout stood, where a laboratory of vagabonds schemed together - now remained charred black teeth of ruinous building.
You leave the scene - though not in haste. This is Hell, authority belongs to those with the strength or guile to wield it. Police don't exist here, unless you counted the souls of crooked cops. The only ones who could possibly hold you responsible are the Splinters, and you've made it clear there's none of them left to chase you. By the time another ensemble of them shows up to figure out what the fuck just happened, you'll be long gone.
And gone you are. Chaos is common on the streets - no one will bother to keep track of you. Death and violence are natural commodities to Pentagram City - in fact, it's routine. The stagnation of vileness becomes so overwhelming, so intrusive to even Lucifer, they purge themselves. Factions from every corner come creeping from their dwellings to contest territory in an ugly gladiator's bout for dominance. Or, so you've been told.
That means your actions are often obscured by the sheer murder committed by some of Hell's top players. It's a convenient way to keep a low profile. But it's also inconvenient. You are Anon! And you would force the eyes of the underworld to look at you! You would facilitate the greatest heist this god-forgotten oblivion had ever seen!
But doing that when every scummy Sally and horrible Harry siphoned all the attention with their antics was difficult. Christ among the dead, you couldn't take two steps without hearing about some cock-wild snake man getting into fights with a cyclopean tart. How would your deeds be known if they were, in fact, unknown?
As if to mock you for your relative obscurity, you pass a crowd of demons ogling a window bloated with televisions, broadcasting the latest of Hell's news, far from the scene of your deeds. Past the masses and on the screens, you indeed see the violent commotion of one Sir Pentious and another Cherri Bomb slinging slurs amidst a report by Tom Trench_._ Both are demons with clout, power, and weapons. Lots of weapons. Enough that they level entire skyscrapers without much effort. A part of you fears them. Another part hates them. One day, you think, you may have to fight them.
The audience is enamored with them, drooling at their startling displays of unrepentant violence. Machines tumble and colorful explosions choke the sky within the broadcast, as the fight for Hell's domain continues. You hope to see your name on the screen too, when the time comes.
You grumble but push the thoughts aside. This was no time to get mopey. You just finished a robbery - a dashingly successful one, you might add. Arrogance was your greatest foe now, even petty jealousy. Your time would come, because that's all you had.
For now, you needed to make a mad dash for home. You lacked a wheelman, so it was the blood bathed streets for you. But perhaps that was for the better - after all, your caretakers weren't exactly aware of your misdeeds. The Hazbin Hotel - your improvised safehouse - was a collection of miscreants, vagabonds, and doers of the bad deed. By design, at least. Run by the daughter of the fucking Devil, its intent was to rehabilitate the lost and the damned through a variety of means, most of which entailed lots of songs and rainbows. So, you going about and stealing whatever you damn well pleased wasn't going to sit well with the owners, assuming they discovered your antics. Which they hadn't.
Well, except for one of them. The foul mouthed, effeminate, ex-criminal aficionada known as Angel Dust had gotten very, very familiar with you, and without his help you would likely spend the rest of your time in Hell as a gang member's meaty hood ornament. He, for the time being, was the closest thing to a friend you had right now. And, like a good friend, mum was the word. So, despite your fiery exodus from the Splinters' hideout, you had to return like nothing bad had happened.
Returning didn't take long, and since your time as a resident, Angel Dust had found you a little side entrance allowing you to come and go as needed. It helped, too, the hotel was quite vacant. Aside from the demonic spider, you were the only other true guest of Hazbin.
The entrance was some kind of enchantment, a casting which caused the bricks to undulate and shift at the behest of the requester. Nice and hidden, something you would've loved when you were alive. As you moved past the shifting mortar, you entered the wide hotel halls, a notable quiet choking the air. Lack of guests aside, there was at least a commotion somewhere. Hmm, good. Maybe everyone was out?
Relieved, you were about to reach your room door, and then-
"Eyyy, sugar daddy!"
You almost jumped.
"FU-cking jeezus," you say, seeing the approach of the ever-familiar fiend, Angel Dust.
You look at him. "Were you just standing around the corner?"
He's carrying a wide grin, and a glass. Full of what you can assume is yet more alcohol. His eye - the one not discolored by black sclera - is also tinged pink. Oh, drugs, of course.
"Whaaat? Nooo. Wait, yeah. Yeah, I was! What'sittoya!?"
He jabs at you with an accusing finger. You ignore this, entering your room, tossing bag of loot onto bed, setting the Thompson aside. Angel Dust comes soon after - but you don't mind. He's the most welcome company in the underworld you know, sad as it is.
"It's pretty quiet," you say, opening the bag, disregarding his tone. "Where is everyone?"
You feel something. His chin comes to your shoulder. His breath is tinged with the scent of pricey booze, but his words are muddled and slurred.
"Eh, who cares. Gooone. Did some teevee stint, I'dunno. It got real borin' though without you, toots."
You shiver at his touch. It's nice, even though he's wasted off his ass.
"Uh huh," you say, beginning to pull free your stolen itinerary. "And you decided to get high?"
"Oh baby," he says with a snicker and cheek kiss. "I'm fuckin' flying."
You hear something rustle, and a plastic bag is tossed onto your bed too - empty.
"See?"
You're not really surprised. Or judging. This is Hell, after all.
"What, didn't save any for me?" you jest, setting aside stacks of demonic denars and jewels. Angel Dust, though, comes to your side, shooting you a most flummoxed glance.
"I'm kidding," you say. You're not interested. Drugs like these addle the mind and make planning impossible. You'll save it for some grand suicide pact, or something.
"You sure?" he says, taking a sip of his drink. "I could take you on a ride, Anon."
"You already do."
Angel Dust blinks, quite slowly. But then grins, cheeks flushing.
"Speaking of," you say, gesturing to the Thompson, "That worked beautifully."
The referenced submachinegun didn't belong to you. In fact, none of the weapons did. They were once tools of the trade used by your effeminate friend, and if rumor had it, he was a particularly nasty shot with them. You could see why.
"I told youuuuu," he said, giving his gun a fond gaze. "Schnookums took care of ya, huh?"
You yank out more loot. "Clearly."
Angel Dust, in the meantime, can't help himself. One of his extra hands grazes the fat stacks of bills, audibly shuddering at its touch. His fingers flick through them, the audible applause of flipping paper a spine-chilling reward.
"Fffuuuck, gettin' clean sucks."
You pause. "It's hard, I'm sure," you say.
"You know, this would all be easier with a wingman," you continue. "The solo act is only getting harder."
Angel Dust blinks agaub. There's an audible pause, and he finishes the rest of his drink. His eyes though, they waiver, flicking around your room in an uncertain pattern.
A slow headshake. "Sorry, babe. I've gotta' be a good boy. I promised."
You're somewhat amused. Angel Dust doesn't strike you as the type to make promises.
"To who?"
He chuckles. "Me."
He falls onto the bed now, practically swimming in your wealth, arms spread.
"Besiiiiiides, I have enough time for all the drugs I want."
He crosses his booted legs, watching you work. You're admittedly disappointed. As to why, you're not quite sure - it wasn't like getting a crew together was impossible. Plenty of third-rate demons existed in Pentagram City who would be willing to rob for a cut. And yet, you didn't just want anyone.
You glanced at Angel Dust, his frame accented by all the gauche gold, jewels, and money. Hmm.
You shrugged it off. Probably nothing.
"So, what's this thing on the TV, now?"
-*-
"He's makin' us look like a FUCKIN JOKE!"
Hands slammed. Wood cracked. Drinks spilled.
"How do you know it's a guy? Could be anything. Don't assume their gender, now."
"Shut your fucking mouth Mel before I choke you with your own fuckin' guts!"
An accosting point with a fat, pale digit.
"Someone's touchy."
"You better believe I'm bloody touchy you sorry excuse of a half bent prick!"
"Gentleman, gentleman, please."
Hands bathed in golden rings raised, calling for quiet. The mammoth figure to the hand's left - a mountain of cheap suit and flesh - settled, but with an audible, angry grunt. The smaller one, petite and blue-scaled, just snickered.
"We didn't come here to fight, we came for solutions."
A trio of shadows sat together, brethren in their desire for sin. Each represented a cut of territory in the forgotten parts of Pentagram City, the ones who made the rules, because they had the power to do so. But now, that power was slipping. Because _someone_was causing them trouble.
"I've got a solution," started the big one. "Turn every damn street into a buffet of bodies. Every street corner mounted with a head to keep this little upstart out. Show that little shit he better piss off or we'll make him an example."
The smaller demon, the blue one, chuckled.
"Morris, your solutions are always so. . . undignified. You don't even think them out. We're about to have a Purge. People will die. Who in Hell is going to notice a few extra entrails on the streets?"
Before Morris broke in, the voice of reason interrupted.
"It's violent, and we all like violent, but Mel is right. This is going to take a little more precision."
For weeks, the Gadzooks Gang and the Southside Splinters watched in hapless horror as their hideouts were robbed, ransacked, and ruined. Somebody, some impudent little shit was stealing from them, getting away scot free in the process. At first, the Gadzooks almost had him, but apparently, he skipped their pinch by sheer luck. Now, though? Courageous fucker was off on a spree, sticking his hands in their pockets like a day in candy land.
This called for an unthinkable meeting between enemies. Despite their disputes, even roaming gangs knew when a bigger problem was about. So much it dragged Macron out of his empire of retired criminality.
Morris settled, as Macron gestured to Mel. "You've got something for us?"
Mel adjusted his suit with a prideful smirk. "Oh, you bet. One step ahead, as always."
He gestured to the dark, where armed guards were waiting by the room's door. Nodding, one of them clicked it open. Someone stepped through.
A shadow, short and curved, no larger than Mel's waist, hopped in. Literally. Her graceful footfalls mixed with a skipping canter, pale white fur catching the room's dim light with ease. Her expression was pleasant, but. . . off. Incorrect. Far too broad a smile. Eyes too wide, orbs of deep, unrepentant scarlet.
Her frame rattled with the clicking, tinny song of metal, where multiple cannisters of different shapes and sizes were strapped to her by a polished assortment of belts. Each carrying something deadly and unstable. Like her.
"This. . ." Mel gestured, "Is Sarin."
Morris stared in absolute disbelief. In front of him stood the short, stocky form of a fucking _rabbit._His entire arm was bigger than her!
"Hi! Hello!" she said, her tone as pleasant as a nursery song.
Macron said nothing, but Morris' lips twisted into a frown.
"You fuckin' with me? This a gaff to you, Mel!?"
Mel rolled his eyes. "I assure you, she's the solution to our problem."
Sarin put her hands to hips, wearing a proud expression. "Yep, that's me. I solve all problems."
Macron gave a quiet hmm, but Morris stood.
"I've had enough of this," he spat. "Shoulda' known you were wasting my time, Mel."
Sarin raised a hand. "Oh! Hey! Don't leave, I just got here!"
Morris growled. "Tell me what to do again and I'll fuck your sorry cunt with every goddamn knife in my kitchen."
Sarin blinked. Her expression didn't change, but she froze. A strange pause formed in the room. Macron adjusted, uncomfortable, where Mel abruptly backed away, into the room's corner.
"Oh, that's. . . really rude," said Sarin. She mumbled, fidgeting with her pocket. "You should apologize."
Morris started to make for the door. "Fuck you."
Sarin sighed. Her hand, in reflex, pulled out a small capsule of yellow. Mel cursed, covering his mouth, as Sarin quickly lobbed it directly into Morris' face.
At once, a burst of white, sparkling miasmic fog erupted from the capsule, blinding Morris. He swore, screaming, covering his eyes, arms thrashing about in the air. Armed guards started to move, but Macron raised a hand, stopping them. Instead, they watched as the gang boss started to sputter, his mouth foaming and face bubbling. His breaths twisted into a desperate plea for air, while his eyes hissed, melting like an acidic jelly.
"Now, now, don't be shy," said Sarin in a joyful voice. "Take deep breaths. That's chlorethyl sulfide, mixed in with just a pinch of holy water."
Morris collapsed. He wanted to scream, but his lungs were boiling, turning to bloody soup. His skin crackled and wisps of smoke trailed from his evaporating flesh, form writhing and twitching.
Slowly, his massive body halted its spasming. Breathing ceased, a pool of miscolored blood forming on the floor. His face was unrecognizable.
Sarin looked over him, arms behind her back. "Hmm. Took two seconds longer than normal. I should consider a higher dose for larger subjects. . ."
Mel still had his mouth covered, while everyone else - aside from Macron - had backed away.
"I apologize, Miss Sarin," started Macron. "Morris was always in a foul mood."
Sarin's wide, unblinking gaze snapped to the gang leader. Her smile didn't fade.
"But Mel, I believe, brought you here because of your very particular talents. And we truly need a woman of science like yourself, you see."
Her head tilted far to the side, in a direction most unnatural.
"Go on. . ."
Macron gestured to Mel. He returned to his seat, trying to disregard the Morris-stew pooling underneath his shoes.
"Well," he started, clearing his throat. "What do you know about catching thieves?"
-*-
You, a thief of planning and sound logic, knew the natural conclusion to a successful (especially _noisy)_heist was to lay low. Keep cover, avoid suspicion, plan in the shadows while you converged on your next mark.
Everything about the Sugary Chigurh, then, was the precise opposite of what you had in mind. A gauche gallery of gamblers exploding in a blitz of debauchery, lights, swearing, and music made up the guts of this massive collection of sinners. Because even in Hell, the damned were easily parted with their money.
Amidst the towers of drug dens and brothels, the spiraling pillars of bright neon lights promising every conceivable pleasure to the souls lost in hell, the Sugary Chigurh was a well-known casino with its doors open to anyone, a cheap whore with spread legs. It didn't matter if you were the lowliest scum from the deepest streets of Pentagram City: you could make it big here!
The lie even demons believed.
You had to give them credit though. Not just the Chigurh, but casinos. They were the true master thieves - and plenty legal, too. It was like a bank strolling to your front door to empty its vaults, completely approved and regulated. In Hell? Oh, so much better. And here, wins weren't guaranteed. You were destined to lose, it was the domain of the Devil for Lucifer's sake. But still, low lives from all over still tried their luck.
It also just happened to be the nest egg for the gangs you so tenaciously preyed on. The Gadzooks and Splinters allotted most of their accrued money and kept it pumping through the veins of Sugary Chigurh, a sort of sneaky method they used to obscure the whereabouts of their cash. It additionally served as neutral zone, a handy place where officers could collect without fear of getting rolled. Mostly.
This made it a prime target. Despite your need to stay in the shadows, you couldn't resist, a creature tempted by greed. You were a thief, after all. What better way to show Pentagram City it was your time to be recognized then by robbing such a prolific casino?
It helped he was along for the ride.
How better to figure out the corridors of a casino than by visiting it? Figure out its weaknesses, learn where the cash flowed? You were hiding, yes, but this time in plain sight. But Angel Dust made this tricky.
At your side, his kinky boots clicked along in loyal stride as you both navigated the ritzy floors of the Sugary Chigurh's interior. A scent of fine perfume cut through an otherwise cigar-stained air, prideful swagger all too happy to visit a den of wealth like this. Technically, he was your date.
You were conflicted. On the one hand, this provided you a degree of cover. Hiding in plain sight, as it were. Risk some cash, have a few drinks, play a machine or two. You're just another schmuck with a lot to lose, right? And hey, you've got a hot hooker - nothing out of the ordinary. Except. . .
Said hooker was one of the most well-known criminals around, leaving a trail of violence, sex, and violent sex behind him. Angel Dust wasn't subdued, either. Foul mouthed and flamboyant - it was certainly hard to miss him, even in a place like this. As you walked, it wasn't uncommon for an unfamiliar to wander by and make a cat call, or wave at Angel Dust in recognition.
"Who's the square, hot stuff?" one said, in reference to you.
"Ey, where you been baby?" said another.
"Lookin' good slut!"
"Nice panties, drag show!"
And so on.
Angel Dust engaged them, though deflected with coy flirt. All the same, at least the attention was toward him. Nothing suspicious about a vagabond hanging around with an expensive hooker, right?
Still, as the two of you anchored yourself to a craps table, it felt like eyes were burning into you from every direction. You wore a smug smile, acted the cocky fool with fat pockets, getting Angel Dust to make your rolls, and yet, your back prickled. Thief's intuition. Someone, somewhere was probably watching.
But so were you. An explosion of cries erupted over the table, a big roll lost by another better. This gave you a moment o scan for some very, very particular figures. Those in suits carrying cases of cash.
Angel Dust saw it too - or saw where your gaze was going. He leaned into your ear, pretending to kiss, but whispered instead.
"It's in the back room, ya' know. Second floor. Always goes that way."
You smirked, making your own roll, tossing in an absent-minded bet.
"But where's the _vault?"_you said, voice low.
"Ain't that a little too ambitious, babe?"
You ignored this. You saw demon toughs with shiny cases shackled to their wrists, headed off to a counting room.
"What's wrong with a little dash and grab, eh?" added Angel Dust. You and he were clearly not on the same page. Any dime-a-dozen fool could try for the simple and easy, but you had plans.
Your bet busted, in the meantime. You feigned a scowl, as did Angel Dust, but kept searching. Wasn't likely the vault was above you - too heavy. Even in the underworld, you had to account for physics. But perhaps underneath?
An arm came around your shoulder, Angel Dust leaning into you.
"We're gettin' popular."
In the crowds of gamblers, you noticed too. Standing guards, giving you a steady glance now and again. They noticed.
"I ain't gettin' an earful because of this. Come on."
Your arachnid counterpart tugged you away from the table, into the corners of the casino. It wasn't danger that concerned him, just a shouting match at the Hotel. You were only here, after all, because Charlie and Vaggie were off promoting the hotel's services, or some such. If word got out he was indirectly aiding an active robber, well, you might not be so welcome anymore.
You cursed, but agreed. You had to play the part, after all. No doubt the Gadzooks and Splinters were on high alert. So, you went with him, to a series of corner booths shrouded in dim light. It was dark, gentle smoke filled the air, along with the sounds of. . . other things.
Angel Dust pulled you to a cushioned seat of faded scarlet, where you sat, his form snugging into yours.
"Ya' know, I heard a phrase before, 'his eyes are bigger than his stomach.' You're uh, fittin' that definition a little too well, smart guy."
You let an arm slip around his trim waist. "Don't think I'm good enough, huh?"
He shrugged. "Eh, robberies are complicated. I prefer the quick and easy. Besides, is it really worth all the trouble?"
You looked at him. "Yes." Then, your eyes went to the floor.
"It's underneath," you added. Angel Dust blinked.
"The vault. Where they're keeping all of it. It has to be."
He rolled his eyes. "Oh babe, ain't what you've been doing working? I'm certainly not complaining."
His spare hand roamed through your hair. You sighed. Perhaps, yes. Block by block, you could probably grind the gangs for money, taking a splurge of earnings while keeping a low profile. You'd come home with fat bags of stolen goods, Angel Dust would probably take some, get drugs, rinse and repeat. But you tried that - when you were alive.
You shook your head. "I've got plans for this city."
He scoffed. "You know who else has plans? Shit-sticks like Sir Pentious. That over inflated sack of self-importance been after the city for centuries. Look how far that got him."
You mused. Sir Pentious. Hmph.
"You sound like you're trying to talk me out if it," you say. "You getting fond of me, Angie?"
He stuck out his tongue. "Don't get any ideas, sugar daddy. I like the money without the risk, y'see."
A palm went to your loins.
"And this."
You almost fell into a void of lust. Almost. Even as he squeezed, you were tempted to let go. But that's not why you were at the Sugary Chigurh.
"Unfortunately for us both, I have a lot of ideas."
Angel Dust grumble. "Why can'tcha just be a good boy like me, huh?"
"Sucking dicks and doing a lot of drugs is quite a stretch."
He kisses you. "Don't knock it, babe."
Ah, his lips, warm and inviting. But they're too distracting.
"I was a small timer in life, that's why."
He looks at you. "Eh?"
"I was a thief. I stole, I died. But Angel. . . if I stole from the pockets of the devil, everyone would know who I was."
He gives you a look most unconvinced. "Sheesh, you're more dramatic than me in drag."
You continue. "Who was on the news today?"
He frowns. "What am I, an infomercial?"
"Who?"
He rubbed his temples. "What? Miss sunshine and the screeching taco?"
You shook your head. "Pentious. Cherri. People know them."
You glance back to the casino noise. "And I want that."
"God, if only your dick was as big as your ego."
Maybe. Maybe he was right. What you wanted was ambitious, to say the least. But you were Anon: Master Thief, and your greed was boundless.
He sighed, caressing you still. "Look, why don't I get me a drink and come back and suck ya' dick, huh?"
You chuckled. "That can't always be the solution."
"Why the fuck not!?"
You sigh. From your pocket you retrieve a few bills, sliding it to Angel Dust, who happily takes it.
"What's your poison?"
You shrug. "Bourbon on ice. Just don't put anything in it."
He smooches your forehead. "Scouts honor. But ya' didn't say that for me. . ."
He prances to his feet, and with a giddy wiggle, saunters off, hips swaying with an exaggerated toss. You resolve to treat him nicely when he gets back - he was helping you, after all.
Though, as you waited, contemplations of your lowly reputation flooded your mind. Bah. A dash and grab wasn't enough. Your appetite was growing. But your means were so limited. The vault, the damn vault, it had to be below, and if it was, how the fuck would you get to it? You had no hardware capable of making that kind bust, and your improvised explosives worked for cheap wall and cheaper safes. You needed something. A machine, maybe, with enough force to crack open a gang safe - not to mention carry off large swaths of money.
But where the hell would you get that!?
You thought of the broadcast again, imagining your name spanning across for all to see like Cherri Bomb and Pentious.
. . .
Wait. Sir Pentious. Machines. He had machines. And explosive! He was leveling entire city blocks with massive mech-like creations, possessing more than enough force and size to knock over any wall. That was it. That was it! If you wanted the vault, you needed to steal from Pentious.
You hid a smile, because if you did, it would stretch from ear to ear. You kept composure, even as Angel Dust returned with drinks in hands. You grabbed him, pulled him into an embrace, and kissed.
He blushed. "Nnh! Ey, relax ya' schmuck, almost spilled your drink."
You took your bourbon. "It's fine," you said, giving his rear an aggressive squeeze.
Everything was fine now.
It didn't take long for Angel Dust to get your pants off.
-*-
"Hmm."
Sarin stood among the refuse of a what used to a building, albeit a cheaply made one. Ah, yes, well if the Splinters invested the same money into their hideouts as much as they did transporting stolen wealth, this might not have happened.
No one survived, of course. She spied the charred remains of_someone_ in several places, a mix of burnt flesh and suit, but whoever they were, completely unrecognizable now. Her wide, scarlet eyes scanned around, noting how far debris had fallen. A short distance, as it were. This implied the destruction of the place was caused by a series of explosives, albeit weak ones.
She knelt, cannisters of nerve poison clanging together. Torched carpet and fabric implied fire did most of the work. One big boom and the rest collapsed.
"So, mister thief, you make them yourself," she mused. "Clever! And what did we use?"
She pawed through the wreckage, taking a handful of dirt, soot, and burnt remains. A sniff.
"Potassium nitrate, sulfur, uh huh," she continued, walking about.
Her studious gaze scanned every silhouette and crack. She spotted the entrails of what appeared to be a wire - and it was.
"Copper."
She sat, forming a smile. "Cheap explosives with a copper-based wire fuse. Probably used a basic signal for the kaboom, uh huh? Very nice, but so sloppy! How'd you get away, mister thief?"
She wiggled the dirt in her fingers. Another sniff.
"But something else. . ."
Goodness, what was that? It was quite aromatic. A burnt scent, almost ruined, but her hyper-sensitive nose could pick it up. Without all the sulfur and stench of flesh, it was almost pleasant. Was that perfume?
"Huh."
No, that couldn't be right. A thief wearing perfume? Didn't really fit the MO, did it? So, either a fellow who like to smell fancy, or she was dealing with a woman. But the gangs said the profile was male. Hmm.
"Have you got special company, mister thief?" she said. Her smile kept growing.
She tasted the refuse. Her demon specialty kicked in, dissecting all the ingredients of the terrain, down to the molecule.
"Hmm. A little myrrh. Lavender. Heliotropium? That's odd. Methyl dihydrojasmonate instead of jasmine? How pricey."
Now where did she recognize that smell from before? On the tip of her tongue - literally. Demons weren't the kind to mask themselves with fanciful aromas, and there was something excessive about this one. Perhaps the thief liked his company fancy.
Her ears wiggled. Something clicked. She tasted another ingredient, the demonic counterpart to a flower, a completely unnecessary ingredient to perfume, one more about its "characteristic." Like a switch, she recognized it.
"Thomisidae."
An expensive, rare, custom brand of scent sold to a handful of clients around Pentagram City. And only _one_came to mind.
"Oh," she said, starting to laugh. Her wide, unblinking eyes looked to the horizon of the city, where tall towers crowned the "adult" parts of it, most notably where excessive amounts of porn distributed itself from.
"I see."
She giggled. "That's really cute, my thieving friend."
In her sitting fit, she noticed one more thing. Something shiny, a metallic casing resting amidst the carcass of an unrecognizable torso of meat. A cartridge. Now, she wasn't entirely up to snuff with the shooty guns, but she could spot a .45 ACP. A common thing around these parts.
"Cheap gunpowder, expensive perfume, and a gun. What an interesting fellow you are, mister thief."
She looked towards the city. "I've got to make a special appointment!"
Across the street, a gathering of demonic vagrants were gathered, smoking shit cigarettes and leaning on their motorcycles. Sarin skipped over, expression wide and happy, much to their digust.
"Oh! Hello! Hi! Would one of you kind gentleman give me a ride further into the city? I'm in a rush, you see."
One of them sneered, the others laughing.
"Sure, cunt, I'll give you a ride you ain't ever gonna' forget."
She blinked, and her smile did not fade. "Oh. . . that's so rude."
A flash. A cloud of smoke. Coughing figures. Spasming frames. Flesh boiling and melting from the bone. Sarin clicked her tongue, skipping away.
"I'm sorry, I'll have to find someone else! You guys aren't very polite."
Sarin hummed, hopping away. The bodies she left bloated and split open in a fog of miasmatic poison.