Chapter 7 Personal Inventory
Charlie reclined in her chaise lounge, a romance novel in one hand and a tall glass of wine in the other. A trashy novel and a fine wine, a nice little vice she enjoyed from time to time but so rarely had the chance to indulge. Besides, if Angel knew there was so much as a drop in the house he'd guzzle it like a Hummer on a gentle incline. She'd taken measures to hide her various stashes, one of which was inside a large-size jug of Welch's Grape Juice. It was the perfect crime. But now that the kids were out on the town, she could kick back, relax, and read her lady-smut.
In her novel, Love and Armageddon, an idealistic military doctor on the frontlines against Heaven must grapple with her obligation to the patients under her care and her smoldering, passionate, forbidden affair with her nurse, a gruff and surly but noble-hearted lesser demon. Oh! The scandal! An Archdevil like the good doctor can't fraternize with the lower orders! But…forbidden fruit must be tasted, it is the tragic duality of this wretched thing called love!
Doctor Drusilla leaned in close, finger notched under Nurse Sherah's elegant, pointed chin.'
Nurse Sherah's cheeks burned, her orange quartet eyes shining. "D-Doctor Drusilla!"
"Please," Drusilla said, her flush, full lips drawing ever closer to Sherah's. "Call me Dru."
"Dru…" she sighed, her sweet breath hot against Drusilla's face. "…You…I…"
Their lips met, a sigh passed between them as their bodies and souls connected; all that energy, all that tension, all that doubt and fear and pressue, it all melted away like snow on the coming of spring, burned away by their passion. They embraced, tongues and bodies writhing against one another, Dru could feel her heart thundering through her chest as she pressed against her, their pulses becoming one as they joined. Sherah's hand snaked up and coursed through Drusilla's hair, squeezing a handful of it as she pushed into the kiss, driving Drusilla back against the desk, the only substantial piece of furniture in their sparsely appointed tent. Sherah reached down and cupped Drusilla's rump and hoisted her onto the desktop. Their kiss broke as Sherah went lower, and lower, her fingers hooking into the hem of Dru's pants, shuffling them and her briefs down her hips in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Sherah," Drusilla panted. "I've wanted this for so long…"
"I know, Dru." Sherah peppered her inner thigh with slow, gentle kisses. "I've always known."
"Sherah," said Drusilla, huskily, reaching down and gently grabbing her head. "I can't wait any longer!"
Sherah simply smiled up at her lover, her superior, her social better, drinking in the low wanton need in her eyes, the pleading tone of her voice. She nestled her head into the hot crux of her thighs and–
The door swung open with a bang, Husk's deep, throaty drawl cut through the air. "We're back!"
"Charlie?" Vaggie called. "You here?"
Charlie near enough jumped out of her chaise lounge, just barely keeping her wine from spilling. She dog-eared the book and stuffed it in between the cushions, safely out of sight. She sipped her wine from a frazzled hand, hoping she looked casual as Husk and Vaggie walked in. Husk looked to be in a particularly foul mood as he shambled over to the ficus. He grabbed the plant and pulled it out of the pot, reaching in a producing a filthy bottle of Johnny Walker Red.
"Husk, what–?!" Charlie began to say.
Husk capped the bottle and held up his finger to pause her, knocking back the bottle and taking several hard, deep gulps. "Pfaaah! That's the stuff! Chuck, we gotta talk."
"About wha–"
"Where's the psycho?" Vaggie demanded.
Charlie frowned at her tone. "Out. Angel had another one of his 'buddy calls' and I paired them up to keep him out of trouble."
"Ha!" Husk barked, taking another swig. "That's just ducky! When'll they be back?"
Charlie shrugged. "Not sure, it's Angel, so…sometime? If I set a curfew it'll just encourage him to break it, you know how he is!"
Vaggie sighed and clapped her hand to her face. "Alright, Charlie, we need to talk."
"That can wait, Vaggie," grumbled Husk, tipping his hat and heading back for the door. "I gotta go talk to some connections. Keep an eye out for any suspicious-looking assholes; and I mean any swinging dick. I'll be back."
"Oh, that's helpful!" Vaggie shouted after him. "Yeah, go get drunker and wheeze at some barflies! What happens when those freaks show up here looking for their psycho buddy?"
"And that's why you're staying here, Chica," Husk said, sneering over his shoulder at her as he exited the hotel. "Someone's gotta protect the place."
"Protect…?" Charlie said, turning to Vaggie. "What's going on?"
Vaggie turned to Charlie and sighed, shaking her head. "It's…complicated. Look, I don't want to get into it until Husk gets back, he seems to know who's involved. It's a little bizarre."
Charlie crossed her arms across her chest, frowning. "Vaggie. You know I don't like being kept out of the loop."
Vaggie held her hands out placatingly. "I know, I know, Charlie. It's just that it's something I'd like to get straight before talking about it. Trust me, it sounds ridiculous!"
"Try me."
"Husk and I were looking into that freak's background and saw that his old apartment burned down just before he showed up here. Then we found a jacked-up puppet buried in a hole who said he saw psycho in a weird ghost-filled room killing everyone with a murder-turtle."
Charlie blinked, opening her mouth to say something before pausing, words evidently failing her.
"Charlie, look, I know how it sounds–" Vaggie groaned, grimacing now that she'd heard it all out loud.
"I believe you," said Charlie, her voice even. "You wouldn't lie to me, Vaggie. Husk, maybe, but he'd come up with a better story than that."
"You do?"
Charlie nodded. "I believe that you saw something, and that we should wait for Husk to get back with his 'connections'. Until then, how about we don't worry too much about it and just hang for a bit."
Vaggie sighed, relieved; she was expecting some sort of defensive outrage on behalf of her precious patient. 'Why would I expect that? Ah shit, I really am jealous…'
"So…" Vaggie said, pointing at the glass. "Wine? Where's the book?"
Charlie smiled, nervously, sipping from the glass. "W-what do you mean? I was just having a little drinky while the kids are out!"
"Kids!" Vaggie chuckled, offering a tired smile. "Seems like it sometimes, doesn't it? When was the last time we had a conversation that wasn't about the kids?"
"At least a few days…" Charlie sighed, shaking her glass. "Pour you one?"
"Nah, I'll just…" Vaggie sighed and pinched between her eyes. "You know what? Husk has a point. Big glass, please."
Charlie laughed and set off for the staff lunchroom, cracking open the fridge and grabbing the grape juice bottle full of wine. It seemed a little light. Huh. She poured her friend a great big relaxing glass and headed back to the rec-room. "Well, here's to another kid. I want to tell you about all the fun little activities for the–"
Vaggie sat on the sofa across the coffee table from the chaise lounge, Love and Armageddon in her hand and a wry smile on her face. "…Oh? Do go on, please."
"Uhh!" Charlie lunged forward and snatched the novel out of her hand, replacing it with the wine glass. "Just some, um, some literature I came across!"
"Funny, I recall owning this particular book some time ago." Vaggie sipped delicately from her wine. "It went missing and I always blamed Angel Dust. I know, it's missing a few of his favorite points of interest, but you can't really put anything past that guy, can you?"
"I was going to give it back," Charlie whispered, clutching the book out in front of her. "Y'know, when I finished."
"That thing's so dog-eared, I'd say you 'finished' a few times!"
"Nnng…" Charlie groaned, hand on her face.
Vaggie chuckled softly and walked over to Charlie, patting her on the shoulder. "Hey, it's okay! Just ask next time."
Charlie looked to Vaggie and nodded. "Sorry. I didn't think you'd miss it."
"I don't," Vaggie shrugged. "The sequel's better."
"Really? I'll have to put some time aside for it."
"Enjoy your carpal tunnel."
Charlie laughed aloud playfully batted Vaggie's shoulder. "Vaggie! Really! So, I…um…"
Vaggie watched her try and fail to segue that into something a little less risque; Charlie looked crestfallen, no, mortified. "Oh, my God."
"What is it?"
Charlie's hands rose to her face, twisted with horror. "All I can think to talk about is work! I've…become my father! "
The two paused and looked at each other for a moment. Charlie's mask broke first, a snort of laughter sneaking out of the cracks before she dropped the faux-horror entirely. Vaggie scoffed and rolled her eyes, smiling. Charlie reached up and grabbed Vaggie's shoulder for support as she laughed.
"Sorry, I needed that," Charlie said. "So, how's your day been?"
"Murder-turtle."
"Right."
Vaggie took a step forward and suddenly noticed just how much this single glass of wine was affecting her. She wondered for a moment before noticing the low, thrumming ache of her stomach: she hadn't eaten all day!
"Any of that whatever-the-hell left?" She said.
"Lots!" Charlie beamed. "C'mon!"
Vaggie eyed the food set before her dubiously. "What's in this again?"
"Batter, onions, ginger, tempura and octopus." Charlie grinned and gestured at herself. "I helped make them!"
"I know, I know…" Vaggie said, putting one of the balls in her mouth. She bit down, felt the subtle crunch of the shell, the low-key sweet of the onions, the savory twinge of the meat, the slight but present bite of ginger: it was delicious. The soup wasn't any less sublime, with a low, savory richness that didn't overpower the veggies or chicken, and a perfect level of creaminess and substance that let the flavors settle on the tongue and bombard it with each ingredient's own subtle contribution. And the salad offered the perfect counterpoint to the richness of the mains, with a sharp, acidic reduction that played perfectly into the crisp sweetness of the radish and the umami of the dried seaweed flakes on top. "…God dammit."
"What?"
"Nothing," she said, shoveling the food into her mouth like starved animal. "Just…good."
Charlie watched her eat, smiling gently. "This is nice."
"Hmm?"
Charlie gestured vaguely. "Oh, you know. Just this. Sitting, talking, not worrying about…you know, everything."
Vaggie swallowed and looked over at Charlie, the ever-present smile on her face slipping away, revealing a tired resignation. "Charlie?"
She sighed and shook her head. "I just…I still don't really know what I'm doing, and I'd like for anything, anything at all to…I don't know…show me that it's not just some fantasy."
Vaggie reached over and grabbed her had on both her, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Charlie…if anyone can do this, it's you. You're the most compassionate, giving, kind person I've ever met. A day doesn't go by that I'm not thankful I was sent here, because I got to meet you."
"Vaggie!" Charlie exclaimed, shocked.
"I mean it," Vaggie pulled closer, eye blazing. "Whatever it was that I did to get here, to you, I'd do it again. Because there's no way Heaven or any of the other planes could have a more beautiful, caring soul. You can do this, I believe in you, and I'll support you no matter what."
Charlie's eyes glistened her mouth pulled into a wobbly smile. "Vaggie…"
She lurched across the table and pulled her into a firm hug, Vaggie smiled and delicately crossed her arms around her friend and pulled her close. Charlie pulled away and looked at her, eyes shining with tears. "Thanks…I really needed that. You're the best friend anyone could have. It's good to know I have you in my corner."
"For you? Anything."
Their eyes met, something warm and welcome suffused the air between them, an understanding of sorts. Charlie reached over swept Vaggie's hair aside, revealing her whole face; she was pretty, though even Charlie could admit she was more than a little severe. Angel would have called it 'resting bitch face' but Charlie knew that it was just the echos of a hard life clinging to a beautiful soul. She cupped her cheek, only slightly aware that she was leaning in. As they drew closer the air between them electrified, the warm understanding between them becoming an unbearable tension. Closer. Closer.
*Rap rap-a rap-rap, ra-tap* sounded from the door.
Charlie and Vaggie jumped apart like they'd been electrocuted, their eyes the size of dinner plates.
"Uh." Charlie's hands shot to her mouth.
"We–I–you…" They said in unison.
"No, you–"
"Sorry, I–"
*Rap rap-a rap-rap, ra-tap*
"…I should go…answer that," Charlie said, smiling bashfully.
"Yeah…" Vaggie said, quietly.
Charlie hurriedly excused herself from the suddenly very awkward presence of her best friend and set off down the hall, trying her best to swallow her confusion and put on a winning smile for whoever was at the door. She grabbed the doorknob and swung the door open.
"Hel…"
The figure was tall, slender, looming; a trim form in a bright red coat overtop a dark pinstripe undercoat. High, high above her head were eyes, glowing red-within-red over a sharp yellow crescent of a smile. Her smile dropped like a rock, he eyes huge as her pupils shrunk to dots.
"…lo…"
"My dear," he chuckled, a cold tinny distant sound, like the ghost of a long-dead studio audience. "I believe that's my line."
The Caym overpass hung over the River Styx, the main highway connecting all sectors of Pentagram City. A massive highway, perpetually dotted by countless vehicles as they streaked hither-thither in an eternal rush to escape to and from other parts of the damned city. So profound was the flow of traffic, so enormous, even bumper-to-bumper congestion still somehow rolled along at a healthy 50mph, much too slow for certain denizens. One such car, a true monster resembling two Cadillac Coupe de Villes fused together tore down the highway, flames belching from its quartet of side-mounted exhaust pipes. The heavy, vicious-looking cow-catcher on its prow scooped under and upended other, lesser vehicles as the demonic hotrod plowed through entire lines of traffic. It bellowed down the River Styx, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Its four occupants hooted and roared in triumph, cackling in glee at the exploding pile-ups unfolding in their rear window, none of them noticed as a peanut collided with their windshield with a muted 'plink'.
The peanut detonated in an enormous flash of light and sound, the peeling the steel roof back like paper as smoke and fire consumed the insides of the cab. The smoldering hotrod swerved abruptly and breached on the concrete divider, slamming into the support beam of the overpass in a coughing explosion of orange flame and black greasy smoke. Two figures stood on the pass, leaning over the siderail, a high-five passed between them.
"Oh!" Angel cried, jubilantly, fists pumping as he took a long pull off a bottle of cheap whisky. "Oooh! Direct hit! Not so hot now, are ya, ya Mad Max-lookin' motorheads?"
Kira leaned over and looked at the screaming hotrodders as they flailed about around the crumpled mass that was once their vehicle, each one totally wreathed in flames. "They look pretty hot to me."
One of the flaming demons shambled out into traffic and was immediately mowed down by a seemingly unending line of cars. It could well be hours before he would be able to drag himself off the road. Poor asshole probably had someplace to be! Feeling unusually attuned to his victim's plight, Kira grabbed another peanut from the extra-large jar Angel had bought him, and charged it with a powerful concussive blast. He dropped it down into traffic, roughly where the demon lay. A loud splitting crack followed and the demon, along with a multitude of cars, sailed through the air. The demon splattered against the divider, sliding down its far side and into the trough between roads. He'd pulled himself together and be off before long.
"You're welcome!" Kira called out as a snickering Angel passed him the bottle.
As he moved to wipe the drool-covered finish off on his sleeve, Angel sneered. "Don't wipe it off, ya fuckin' pussy."
Kira paused, shrugged, and took a heavy swig, hissing at the burn and handing it back. "Should I be mixing alcohol with…whatever it is your friend drugged me with?"
"If ya were alive…eh, I still would, but I'm me," Angel said, licking the threads on the bottle. "As is, it'll help ya get to sleep later."
"Good, good. That's very important to me." Kira threw another peanut off the overpass, not even aiming. A moment later and it exploded, causing several cars to swerve to avoid it.
"Oop! Air ball! No points," Angel chuckled, looking at Kira. "So…you can control how much badda-bing those have?"
"Anything I touch with my right hand becomes a bomb, either a contact bomb or a switch bomb." Kira said, popping a peanut in his mouth. "I can control how big the explosion is, how destructive, or the rate of destruction. Say I want to erase someone, but not a certain body part, I can just make it so the rest disappears. See, I don't want to kill anyone down there, so these peanuts are only blasting, not erasing. But if I–"
A loathsome pair of hands crept up on Kira's back, a hideous gremlin-like creature peered over his shoulder. "Listen here, Pussy. Don't make any funny moves, 'kay? You an' me, we're just gonna walk to the nearest ATM, 'kay? Aaaallll your cash. No funny moves or I tear you up and suck you dry, 'kay?"
"Oop, hold on a second."
Kira flicked a peanut over his shoulder and hit it in the face. A flash and a pop and the demon's face exploded into a pinkish mass of shredded flesh and shattered bone. Kira reached back and grabbed the stunned, gurgling creature by the wrist and flung it off the overpass into the neverending traffic. A dull thud was heard, followed by a series of progressively wetter crunches as cars raced by.
"What was that?" Angel muttered, not really all that interested.
"Hmm?" Kira replied, eating another peanut.
"Nothin'."
Kira sighed and leaned back against the concrete divide, sliding down it and staring out at the hundreds of miles of cityscape before him; drinking in the dull reddish glow of the endless shining lights, waving his hand in front of his face, smiling. "…Oooh…"
Angel saw this and grinned despite his split lip. "How ya feeling?"
"Great," Kira said, looking over at him. "Better than great. What's this stuff called?"
"Molly, MDMA, Thizz, and a whole bunch of others." Angel said. "Ecstasy, mostly."
"How apropos," Kira said, rubbing his face, sighing in satisfaction. "How long is this going to last?"
"Ya got rollin' pretty quick, but you're just peakin' now," Angel said as he plopped down next to him and grabbed a peanut. "Five, six hours. Maybe more."
"Mmmm…" he said, stretching out like a cat, laying down flat on his back. "Right now I feel like I could just…poof…like smoke, and spread out over everything. Hmm. Maybe that's not such a bad idea." Kira reached up with his right hand and went to touch his forehead.
"Whoop!" Angel reached over and grabbed his wrist. "Oh, no ya don't!"
"Is suicide murder?" Kira said, chuckling. "Does that count against my rehabilitation?"
"Probably, ya crazy fucker!" Angel said, mussing his hair. "Besides, if ya go and dust yourself, what'll I tell Charlie? 'Sorry Chuck, guy just wanted to be smoke, who am I to say no?' Yeah, that'd go over well!"
Kira sat up and examined his hand for a second. "You're probably right. Thanks, Angel."
"'Thanks, Angel'," Angel muttered, mockingly.
"Now, now." Kira's right hand plopped on Angel's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Angel, I mean it. I meant it before and I mean it now; thank you. Always putting me in unfamiliar situations, always…" His hand snaked up Angel's neck, fingers coursing through his fluff, before coming to rest on his cheek, rubbing it soothingly. "…testing my self-control. I'm serious about this rehabilitation thing, but I never would have put myself in situations where I'd be tested like I have been with you. And don't think I don't appreiciate your intervention earlier. You were right, I was going to kill that man. I was ready to erase everyone in that club to cover my tracks. It's nice to know I have someone to hold me back when the urge strikes, even if it is a little…frustrating."
Angel's eyes went wide, his shoulders tensed; he was going to die.
He'd heard of Holy Diver and his core crew before, sure; he even had word on who was who despite never having met any of them. But there was always one who no one seemed to have ever seen, the one they said made the Boss-man's problems disappear. No bodies, no clues, not even a sticky residue or stain on the carpet; Holy Diver's enemies either died publicly, with pomp and gruesome spectacle, or they simply ceased to exist. Mr. Clean, they called him, a ghost with no face, no MO, no calling card except when somebody important suddenly vanished. Angel had known goons who swore up and down that their bosses and associates were there one second, eating pizza, opening mail, answering the door, even just walking down the street, only to be gone the next. How easy would it be for someone whom no one knew to pose as a mailman or a pizza delivery guy? Shit, how easy would it be to just touch a doorknob or brush by someone on the sidewalk? Holy Diver waged war, killed thousands in bloody conquests, sure, but how many of his more problematic foes had simply gone missing? Hundreds? Thousands? More? How many people had been erased by the same hand that now caressed his face? A hand that belonged to the mostly-unrepentant serial killer sitting next to him, the dangerously impaired serial killer who got a rockin' jolly out of making people dead. Is this what he had meant by testing his self-control? Spending time with someone he'd have otherwise slaughtered?
How many times had Kira had to stop himself from killing him?
How many times had Angel figuratively and literally flirted with permanent death?!
Angel slowly glanced over at his fellow hotel-mate, expecting to see a cold killer's glint in those blood-red cat-eyes, to feel the charge of his power course through him. Would it hurt? It sure looked like it hurt Bastille! Screaming and bleeding on the ground with chunks of him missing and oh God, oh God…
"You're really soft," Kira mumbled, his stare vacant, a dopey grin on his face as he ran his fingers through Angel's cheek fluff. "Like a pussy willow."
He leaned in and rubbed his cheek against Angel's, right hand reaching around to rub Angel's other cheek, which had become quite swollen since their scuffle earlier.
"I'm sorry I punched you," he whispered.
Angel pushed him off. "Get any handsier, Killer, and I'll hafta charge ya! Nothin' personal, I just got a reputation to uphold."
"Right, right," Kira said, looking a little embarrassed. "Apologies."
Angel snickered, looking over at Kira, his bruised, bloody face, his ruined suit, his crestfallen expression. Ladies and gentlemen, the mysterious, the infamous, the outright dreaded Mr. Clean: high off his ass and in desperate need of a ball of yarn and a great big snuggle! Angel couldn't help himself, he began to laugh. Kira looked confused for a moment before joining in, apparently just liking the sound of their voices mingling.
"Ah ha…ha…ohh…" Angel trailed off, wiping a tear from his eye. "You're a funny guy, Killer. You can rub my cheek anytime you like."
An instant later and Kira's hand was on Angel's cheek, who simply smiled, rolling his eyes and taking another pull from his bottle of whisky, finishing it off. "Ah, shit…teaches me for sharin'. C'mon, let's go find someone to roll and get some more dough."
"Oh! Hold on!" Kira exclaimed, unbuttoning his shirt. Angel watched with some moderate confusion but mostly lurid interest as he took notice of how outrageously jacked Kira was. Seriously, the guy was cut like fashion model on a coke-binge. With a sound not unlike an elastic band snapping, Kira's washboard abs shifted and split apart, revealing an ever-so-slighly horrific pocket in his abdomen. He reached into the compartment and produced a large bottle of white rum. "Here! I stole this while you were listing all those names for hand-jobs to the clerk at the liqor store."
"Why the fuck do your tasty abs have a secret compartment?!" Angel demanded, pointing at it in horror. "Fix them right now!"
Kira looked down at his closing belly and seemed at a loss. "Because my stand had it, I guess? But then, why did it have a compartment there to begin with? I don't really think about it all that much."
"The fuck's a stand?"
"It's…complicated." Kira held out the bottle. "You like rum?"
Angel hesitantly reached out and poked his naval like it was going to bite. "…m'sorry wha?"
"Booze."
"Right!" Angel snatched the bottle, capped it and knocked it back, draining almost a quarter of it; he needed to catch up to his sponsor and calm his last remaining nerve. He scrunched his face and stuck out his tongue. "This bottle smells like an old wallet. Also, overproof Wrey and Nephew's. Nice grab."
"You're welcome," said Kira, looking down as Angel's hand returned to his stomach. "It only opens when I make it open. There's no button."
"That's nice," Angel muttered, distantly, as he traced his abs, another hand getting in on the action.
"Yes…" Kira leaned back and sighed happily, eyes closing as Angel rubbed his belly. "It is…"
The panther-demon stretched out on the concrete, arms and legs stretched, hands clasping and flexing, a deep rumbling purr emanating from low in his throat.
"Ah ha ha ha! Are ya fuckin' purrin'?" Angel cackled, now scratching his sides and belly with three arms. "Ya like that, kitty? Scritchy-scritchy-scritchy!"
Kira was lost to sensation, arms slack on the ground, hands kneading, shirt unbuttoned to reveal his bare, sculpted torso, a look of utter bliss on his face. Angel bit his lip and smiled, eyes glinting drunkenly and his hands drifted down Kira's v-line. He stopped himself; this probably wasn't appropriate behavior for a sponsor…but, then again…no, no, it definitely wasn't. Angel found himself in a moral quandary, foreign territory for him. Usually he'd just do whatever he wanted, but he'd turned down the heroin earlier and felt that he was on a bit of a roll, here. He'd need to do something radical: consult his conscience.
"Hey," Angel said to the little devil-Angel on his shoulder. "Sup."
"Wrong shoulder," said the little devil-Angel, pointing. "Over there."
Angel looked over to see a little angel-Angel reclined on a lawnchair, reading a book, he blinked in surprise. "There's two of ya?!"
"Wow, ya really suck at this," Devil-Angel scoffed.
"Shaddup!" Angel turned to the lounging Angel-Angel. "Ssst! Hey!"
"Hmm?" Angel-Angel didn't respond for a moment before looking up from his book. "Ya talkin' to me?"
"No, I'm talkin' to the other hallucination on my shoulder!" Angel hissed. "Yeah, I'm talkin' to ya!"
Angel-Angel looked confused for a moment before setting his book down and getting off the lawn chair. "Uh, right, okay, just a sec…"
He reached into his robe and pulled out a halo, he blew a cloud of dust off of it and set it in place over his head. It flickered unsteadily like a broken neon sign before settling into a dull, sanctimonious glow. Angel-Angel cleared his throat and donned a holier-than-thou expression. "Uhhh…don't do the bad thing."
Angel looked over at Devil-Angel, who could only offer a shrug. Angel turned back to Angel-Angel. "Do ya even know what's goin' on here?"
"Uhhh…no? When was the last time ya asked me anythin'?"
Angel sighed and gestured at the prone figure. "I'm askin' ya if I should go ahead and have some fun with the kitty-man, here. He's rollin' like a beachball and high off belly rubs."
"Well, ya probably shouldn't take advantage of someone on a roll, right?" Angel-Angel said, uncertainly, looking over at Kira. "I mean, that's, like…bad? Not to mention–whoa, goddamn, that bod!"
"Right?" Angel said, grinning. "That's one six-pack you can't get at the liqor store!"
"Should have sent a poet…" Angel-Angel said, before shaking his head. "No, no. Ya really shouldn't. It's, like, immoral or somethin'…I think."
"Whadaya mean 'I think'?" Angel snapped. "Aintcha supposed to know?!"
"Look, if I was good at my job, ya wouldn't be a spider-monster in Hell!"
"Right, right," Devil-Angel interjected. "Howzabout this? You give three points why we shouldn't, I'll give three points why we should. Then we vote. Democratic like."
"Democracy," Angel said, nodding. "I like it!"
"Lotta Bolsheviks in Hell, but not up here!" Angel-Angel said, nodding.
Angel-Angel produced a whiteboard and a pile of notes. "Here's why we shouldn't. 1. It's immoral (…?) 2. It's probably not great for our rehab. 3. …uh…wait, it says here he's Mr. Clean?! Okay, so he's a superpowered murderer, that's, uh, that's a good reason."
"Fair enough." Angel turned to Devil-Angel. "Counterpoint?"
"1. Ya want to. 2. I want to 3. We haven't gotten laid in a week."
Angel shrugged and raised his hand. "…Shit. Got my vote."
"Yeah," Angel-Angel said, raising his hand. "Ya done convinced me. Ooh! Ooh! We could even make a T-Shirt that says 'I Fucked Mr. Clean and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt'!"
"You're the worst conscience ever, ya know that?"
"Why did you stop?" Kira mumbled.
"Be right with ya, Kitty." Angel grinned, unbuttoning his top. "Say…y'ever had a belly-shot?"
Kira looked over at him as he lay down next to him. "No. What's that?"
"It's where I pour a shot in your belly button," Angel said, as he did just that, causing Kira to gasp at the sudden cool sensation. "And then I drink it."
"Oh." Kira chuckled, dipping a finger into the clear pool on his stomach. "I thought that was a sex move or something."
"No, that's a jelly shot," Angel said, winking as he quickly slurped up the alcohol. "And that comes later."
Kira's head lolled back in bliss at the sensation, sighing luxuriously as Angel's tongue rolled up his abs. Angel deftly undid his belt-buckle as his fingers hooked onto Kira's pants.
"What," said Moonshine.
"The," Boogie Bug said.
Poker Face leaned over the concrete divider. "Fuck."
"Is going on?!" God Given roared.
Angel looked up at the quartet, his tongue lapping at Kira's alcohol soaked fur. "Do ya mind? I'm lickin' my pussy here!"
"Yeah!" Kira said, before looking up at the source of the interruption. "…Oh, shit."
