Blitzo and Loona rocked into the office a tad later than usual on Monday, and his other employees had been cleared to do the same. It wasn't easy, judging a talent show one day and maintaining a business the next. He himself had a headache, which he attributed to the cacophony of boos from contestants. What was the big deal? Blitzo gave the best performance, there was no helping that! He'd have voted for himself even if he wasn't himself.

I.M.P. got a major plug though, and that was the main thing.

Loona went immediately to her desk, crushed Tylenol into her energy drink and chugged it. Half an hour later, Moxxie and Millie showed up. "Look who's finally here!" Blitzo said, pretending to throw his desk toy at Mox's head, and laughing when he ducked.

"Sir, you told us-"

"I know, I'm just bullshitting. Saw the new rims on the car, by the way. Nice job. Ha! Nice rimjob."

Moxxie gave him the stink eye and stormed past him to get to his desk. Millie followed him as Loona checked their answering machine messages.

"So?" Blitzo inquired, drumming the desk. "Did all our promotions pay off? Are we inundated with calls from condemned suckers?"

"Fucking gimme a minute, will you? I can't…"

"Take your time, Loonie." She was just his special little girl, yes she was! Swiveling in his chair to face Millie, Blitzo said, "When are you guys having a baby?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Well, c'mon, you must want your family to grow! I know I do."

"The family you want to grow isn't supposed to be our family," Moxxie said through his hands.

"I think it's sweet," Millie said in that musical twang of hers.

"See? I'd be a great uncle, I'll bet."

"Can you focus on being involved with your own relatives?" said Moxxie, and he gestured to Loona as she flopped against the desk. "Then maybe things would run more smoothly around here."

Blitzo has to admit, that hurt. First, it implied that he'd made Loona a screw-up somehow, which he hadn't, because she wasn't. Second, he was sad to feel excluded. He had enough love for everyone, big or small. If the Grinch's heart had grown three sizes from the beginning of his book, then Blitzo's heart put that to shame by consistently having been… at least… five sizes larger than average! He didn't know where this train of thought was going, but he wrote 'GrinchMe' on a post-it note, as a reminder to polish this into a snappy saying.

Loona dragged her head up. "One call from Desdemona. She still wants the rent."

"Uh-Huh. Anything else?"

"Yeah, someone asked for a callback this morning. Sounded like a new voice. Hard to tell, the line was bad."

Blitzo leapt into the air and pumped his fist. "Business is booming, my friends!"

"Sir, one customer is not enough to save the company."

But Blitzo paid him no heed. He danced back into his office and asked Loona to put him through to the new guy. "Howdilly-doodily, customerino! What can I do ya for?"

There was a pause from the other end. "First of all," he said, and the call quality was atrocious, "you can conduct yourself with a little dignity."

"Hey, it's a Simpsons reference. No need to get your panties in a twist… uh, sir. How can we help you, anyway?"

He was an odd one, this guy - didn't even want anyone killed yet! Instead, there were a few characters from the living world he wanted information on. Blitzo tried to explain that the company was more about mercenary killings than espionage, but that answering-phone message from Desdemona came to mind, and he played along. He wrote down the names of the targets on a fresh post-it, sticking the other one on his desktop computer.

"Start with the former," he said, "you'll find him easier to track."

"Gottit. Alright, good day, sir." Blitzo hung up and burst back into the main room. "Hey everyone! Guess what the fuck we're doing today! Grab some sack lunches 'cause we're going upstairs!"

o - o - o - o - o

Despite her lack of sleep, Leslie had the best morning jog she'd ever had in Hell. She was filled with helium. Her legs ran on their own, and for the last quarter-mile of her return, she danced through the streets like Gene Kelly, making the music in her head and ignoring bystanders.

Alastor, Alastor, Alastor.

They had a deal. It was written. Yes, there was something horribly wrong about it, but Leslie found nothing more thrilling than the earliest stages of entanglement, those helpless 'what-are-we-doing's… Dear God, she'd forgotten all about it.

She didn't check her mobile until 8am, when she returned, daisy-fresh from a shower, and plugged the thing in to charge. Then the home screen was illuminated, and Leslie saw several unread texts from Vaggie and Charlie, and a few missed calls. She wasn't surprised they knew her number - she reported to the front desk when her phone was returned - but clearly they'd been worried about her. All those texts, and she hadn't noticed!

This must be the longest fucking time, she thought, in years, that you've been awake and not looked at your phone. Preferring not to look Vaggie in the face, she returned one of the missed calls, and hoped she wasn't catching Vaggie at a bad time.

"Where have you been?" Vaggie said. "We knocked on your door last night and you weren't there."

Must've been in Al's office.

"Hi, yeah, I'm sorry about that. Um… don't worry about the thing last night. Obviously it wasn't what I showed in rehearsal, but-"

"I know Alastor was making you do something you didn't want to."

Crap. "What makes you think-?

"We've seen his shadows before. Les, don't try to protect him, alright? We saw you run off in a panic."

Leslie affected an easygoing, yet apologetic tone as she replied, "Oh, yeah! I don't know what that was about. Some people in the front row were leering at me and I didn't know how to handle it… but it was pre-practiced." (This was true, and it sounded true when she said it.) "Al was trying to help me win, or at least get people interested enough to want dance lessons. That's all it was, and I'm sorry if I… You know, that was wrong of me. It's your show and Charlie's, and you deserved to know what I was going to do…"

There was a pause as Vaggie took this all in. "Did you say 'Al' helped you?"

Double Crap.

"Yeah," Leslie said, "he hates being called that. Kind of funny."

"Why would he help you? Alastor doesn't do things out of the kindness of his heart, Les."

Leslie couldn't mention the bet. That would get four people in trouble at once, and one of them was her best friend in this place.

"I think all he wanted was a chance to perform," Leslie said, meaning Alastor. "That's what he said, anyway."

Vaggie sighed in irritation. "For God's sake… like he doesn't show off enough in his own time!"

"Yeah. Like I said, I'm really-"

"Stop apologizing, Les. The talent show went wrong in fifteen different ways, including a fiasco with the judges that you missed. We'd have been stressed out anyway. Just… don't get into agreements with that creep."

Too late, Leslie thought. "Thanks for checking on me, Vaggie, I appreciate it. But I've got work in a few hours, so…"

"Alright. See you soon."

Leslie hung up. She never knew what a competent liar she was. Something to workshop out of her, when it was convenient.

o - o - o - o - o

As planned, Leslie used the next day, her day off, to prepare for future dalliances.

First, she explored DoomTube - Hell's video-sharing platform, sadly not concurrent with the trends and uploads of the living world - to search for old-fashioned ditties. They were jazz and swing, mostly, from the 1930s onward. Listening to such tunes put her in a nice frame of mind, since he enjoyed them so much.

Second, she discreetly did things throughout the day that engaged her senses, as she became present in her own body. She altered the pitch and depth of her breathing. (Slow and deep. Short little gasps. A slight hum.) Her fingertips rested often on her lips. Her ankles rubbed together as she took in a woodworking session. It was overwhelmingly for herself and not an audience, though as she did all this, Leslie wondered if there was a chance Alastor or his shadow was watching. Oh God, maybe he'd watched her freak out on her bed before she entered his office. That would be embarrassing.

There was also a third thing. Leslie went to the third floor to call on Angel Dust, whom she'd only texted since her dramatic exit from the talent show. From outside his room, she heard his television playing. She knocked, and he answered in the peach-colored robe he'd worn when the hotel laboratory blew up, squinting at her like he had a migraine.

"Hey Les," he said, "come to gloat?"

"What? No, you know I-"

"I'm fuckin' with ya, don't worry about it! The other day worked out good for me. Got a couple solicitations, y'know?"

"Oh. That's great then."

"You comin' in? Whateva it is, make it quick. Tryna relax."

Right. Back to the reason she was here. "Er, do you have any... like Vaseline, or...?"

Angel smirked over the sound of faint television and a pig squealing noise. "Boy, do I. Come in."

"No, that's alright-"

"Ya might as well. I'm gonna try to find ya one that ain't opened. Come say hello to Fat Nuggets."

"What?"

"My baby boy. Go say hi."

Leslie sashayed over to the closet, where a pet bed was concealed. In it was a wide-eyed Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. A pig! She'd expected a dog.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "I thought that squeaking was from the TV. Hello, cutie! Can I pet him?"

Angel searched the drawers of his bedside table. "Sure," he said. "He likes when you scratch behind his ears. So, that was quite a performance ya gave."

She deflected. "Not as good as yours! That dance was amazing! Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"One of my friends who lived to see the 80s, she taught me. At first she wanted me to do these stereotypical 'big strong boy' kinda moves? I said to her, show me how you do it, personally, as a female. Please and thanks," Angel said. He spoke with difficulty, like he had feathers in his mouth. "Ya should try it sometime. Real accessible for beginners. Ya don't dive right into the human flag or nothin'."

"That's reassuring," Leslie said as Nuggets pushed his wet snout into her hand. "He's so adorable. I'm going to steal him. Ahh! He squeaked!"

But Angel was preoccupied. He staggered on his heels, muttering, "Ahhh, shit. Too much," and flopped onto the bed. He half-sat, half-lay there as he became dislocated from his body. Leslie stalked over to him.

"Angel? You OK?" she asked, taking a seat. "Angel, what did you take?"

"What? What?" Now his eyebrows slanted in fear. "Fat Nuggets, you're talking!" he groaned.

"What? It's me. It's Leslie."

"No, no, Daddy didn't mean it, Fat Nuggets! I swear!"

She got up, trying to scoop Angel's pet pig into her arms. "I'm not Fat Nuggets, Angel! This is Fat- come here! It's OK, baby, come here." But the pig didn't trust her yet and kept running away, squealing. Angel peered at her through his hands. "No," he said, "why are you so tall?!"

Part of Leslie wanted to leave and merely lock him in for his own safety. Angel must have done this so many times; what did he need a tripsitter for? This was not her job, not any more. But he looked so frightened, she couldn't just go. Cornering the pig, she managed to hoist him up - he wiggled like Hell, though - and brought him to Angel Dust.

"This is Fat Nuggets," she said. "Feel his ears there."

"Horns?"

"He's your little pet," Leslie insisted gently, "remember? So cute! Everything's OK."

"Not OK, I'm tripping right now. Fuck!" Angel scooched away. "I must be tripping right now. Where's…?" In another second, the paranoia in Angel came to a dynamic head. He flipped over to the headboard and punched the mattress, then tried to strangle the comforter. Leslie had to drop the pig as it struggled in her arms. Watching Angel attack his own furniture was unsettling. He could hurt himself.

So, she did what she had to. Switched off the main light. Asked him what was wrong, what he was seeing. Didn't argue. Didn't try to restrain him. Finally, when his self-awareness prevailed, she did as he suggested and put a video cassette into the television on a corner nightstand. The nearest tape was a standup routine from a drag queen Leslie didn't recognize. They sat together in the darkness, as Leslie traced her fingers reassuringly along Angel's inner arm.

"I remember this from my day," he said.

"Remember what?"

"The Pansy Craze, it was called. Prohibition times, they weren't all bad for some of the queers, the female impersonators, y'know? Arrests were lower, anyway. My family ran a lotta the speakeasies back then, so growin' up, I saw it all. I fuckin' loved it. All those effeminate entertainers who could cut a heckler to pieces with just words, or…" He laughed. "I remember readin' about Malin punchin' out a guy who gave him shit. That was the best. Y'know, people like us are some of the toughest sons-a-bitches out there. We freakin' have to be."

"Now you're making some sense," she said, hugging her fluffy friend.

He hugged her back. "Sorry," he said, "that was a bad one."

"Sometimes I forget how old you are," Leslie said, "or how long you've been around, I mean."

"Yeah! Ha. You are just a little girl, aren't ya?"

Leslie smiled as she let him go. We'll see, she thought, we shall see.