Striker sat with his feet on the table and scanned the crowd.
"This isn't the café I wanted," Stella pouted. "We're not even in Sloth."
He sipped his black coffee.
"Greed always smells like rancid piss!" Her voice was loud enough to collect the ire of patrons and staff alike. "It forces everything I eat and drink here to taste just like it."
With that, she slurped through her straw for a solid half-minute.
The cowboy didn't even look her way. He was too busy thinking about the demon who owed Lascivonne Explosion money: Al Cruzman. He owned this café, so even if he didn't work here himself, Striker could at least find a lead.
"Hello?" screamed Stella, causing everyone around them to jump or spill something. "Me?"
"What about you?" asked Striker.
The princess's mouth twitched. "How dare you?" she gasped. "I invited you to take me out—"
"You forced me to come," grumbled Striker. "I told you I had to work."
"Is this what you call 'work?'" quipped Stella. "Staring at people? Like a creep?"
"I'm following a lead." The hitman gave her a vicious side-eye and rattled his tail. "If you could just announce it louder, please, ma'am. That'd be great."
"It's no more than you deserve! Taking me to the wrong place, then ignoring me." Stella sucked down her drink. "At least this place has hallucinogenic boba tea. Otherwise, I would actually smite you."
"Lucky me."
Just then, the kitchen door beside the coffee counter burst open and a large shark demon in a chef's coat emerged. He was arguing loudly with another shorter shark.
"I can't fucking work like this, Copper!" The larger one threw his chef's hat on the ground. "I ain't doin' nothin' till you pay me!"
Copper Cruzman. Striker rattled in smug satisfaction. He should know where to find his brother.
"Why would I pay you to fucking laze about?" retorted Copper.
"Laze about?"
The chef hit him with a right hook. Chaos instantly ensued as the burly sharks wrestled and punched each other into tables, against the walls, and onto the floor. Patrons abandoned their tables and drinks, throwing furniture to get out of the way.
Striker and Stella, however, stayed where they were, sipping amusedly.
Copper grabbed the chef's dorsal fin and threw him onto their table. He landed face-first, his teeth getting stuck in the wood.
Striker and Stella moved their drinks out of the way but remained seated. They stared down, snickering, as the demon tried to dislodge himself from their table.
"Damn," remarked the cowboy. "Tough break, dude."
"Yeah! We didn't even order fish!" Stella grabbed a nearby cup and dumped it over the chef's head.
This made Striker laugh even harder.
"Rraargh!"
Sheer rage enabled the chef to dislodge his teeth and stand up. He lifted the table over his head, ready to slam it on them.
Striker's smile took on a new glow as he stood up and crouched in a fighting stance. He threw his coffee into the demon's face and followed up with an immediate sucker punch. Then a slap from his tail, coupled with a knee to the groin.
The burly shark fell backward, letting go of the table. Striker took hold of it and broke it over his head, knocking him out.
Stella sipped more berry iced tea and pressed the tutti-frutti liquid LSD against the roof of her mouth. Every burst brought forth a different color scheme, an alternate layer to the realities of Hell; each had a unique characteristic and personality. The swirling dragons, for example, were the feelings of hostility while dancing snakes kept secrets unspoken and every demon's head spun vertically, like Uranus. Stella couldn't wait to see them fuse together with new ideas and become rabbits! The idea caused her to grin and lick her beak.
Meanwhile, Striker turned his attention to the café's owner.
"Copper Cruzman?" he asked.
"Yeah?"
Striker nailed him in the stomach with a knee, knocking him to the floor.
"What the—"
The shark was interrupted by a knife to his throat. The green spiral eyes in his face caused him to sweat and pee a little.
"Explosion & Partners got your brother Al outta some shit recently." Striker pressed the knife just hard enough to sting. "But he ain't paid up. So, now, you're gonna help me find 'im."
"24 Wharf Street," Copper rattled off. "On the corner across from the gas station. Follow this street to the left till you hit a stop sign, then go right. Can't miss it."
"Wow." Striker pulled the knife back and scratched his head. "Really?"
"I ain't gettin' tortured for that punk!" Copper spat on the floor. "Get your money! Then maybe I can get mine too, who knows? We'll start a trend, then everyone in this ring'll be happy."
Striker stood and helped Copper to his feet.
"Uh, thanks," he said.
"Good luck!" The shark clapped him on the back. "Now get the hell out."
"Sure thing. Hey! Woman!"
Stella slurped loudly from her empty cup, pupils twitching and dancing.
"I'm on the hunt," Striker told her. "Go home."
"No-o-o!" Stella shrieked in horror. "I must stay! Here! The dragons, they need me! They shan't survive the night—so many secrets—"
"I ain't got time for this," groaned Striker. "Just come on!"
He pulled her outside and whistled. Bombproof came running around the corner, the warmest beacon of fire in the dank fog. Striker mounted his saddle, then helped Stella up behind him, and took off for 24 Wharf Street.
It was an old house built right on the corner between a bank and a restaurant, slim and ramshackle. Striker dismounted and walked up the broken steps.
"Wait!" Stella followed suit, almost tripping over her dress.
Striker ignored her and knocked on the door. "Al? Al Cruzman?"
A set of eyes peeked from between the blinds.
"The hell are you?" asked a gruff voice.
"Your brother Copper sent me," said the cowboy. "Said you needed some repair work done."
Al stepped back and lifted the door's window blinds entirely. "I didn't call for no repairs."
"Your brother said you needed 'em," insisted Striker. "Not to be rude, but I see where he might have a point."
"Still, in the middle of the night?"
"I can set up a time to come back, once I see what I'm dealin' with."
"Alright, one sec." Al turned his deadbolt and began opening the door.
Out of nowhere, Stella stepped between them and shouted, "Now, see here! I have it on proper authority that neither one of you is in the right orbit! The lights have told me there's no saving you. You, specifically."
"The fuck?" cried Striker and Al at the same time.
"Furthermore-!" Stella pointed at Al and laughed. A maniacal laughter that grew in tone and intensity, as her eyes changed from red to white and back again. She seemed to grow, her feathers scratching at the door like nails.
Al screamed, drew the blinds, and bolted every lock. "Stay away from me! Or I'm callin' the cops!"
Satisfied, Stella gave a warm, smug smile to Striker. "You're welcome," she said. "Now we can go."
"No, ma'am," corrected Striker. "Now I gotta take even longer gettin' in the hard way."
He stepped down from the stoop and looked up. The windows were dark and the frames flimsy. Striker took out his rope, lassoed the weathervane, and climbed.
"Where are you going?" called Stella.
"Work," replied Striker. "Stay with the horse. Or better yet, go home! For fuck's sake."
"There is no horse," said Stella, staring directly at the steed. "Only a steakhouse."
Bombproof snorted at her.
Striker climbed up to one of the dark windows and tested it. Though the lock was fastened tight, it was old and rickety enough to break open with the right amount of force.
"Heh, heh." The hitman grinned to himself and slipped inside.
The room was dark and full of tall, lumpy pieces of furniture covered in white sheets. His tail rattled as he proceeded forward, guard up and knife out.
He stepped on a single corner of a white sheet and the whole thing came sliding off. The supposed table it was covering seemed to disintegrate, tumbling over itself with a paper sound.
The fuck? Striker took out his phone and shone the flashlight: It revealed a loose pile of cash. Picking up a bill, he confirmed that they were all 100s, adorned with Mammon's face.
There's Lascivonne's retainer. Curious, he pulled down another sheet, showing a second stockpile of money roughly in the shape of a wardrobe. They were also 100s, dressed in the face and name of Asmodeus. Next to it was a cache of Gluttony money, as well as Pride.
Damn, he money laundering? Striker chuckled to himself. All this loose cash in a room with bad windows, what a moron!
Undoing the numerous deadlocks, he stayed behind the door as he opened it steadily, gradually, and quietly. Listening for sounds of breathing or footsteps, he chanced stepping into the threshold, ready to pounce.
There was nothing but an empty hallway. The television from downstairs could be heard as Striker crept to the staircase. Through the railing, he saw a paunchy shark in a well-worn recliner watching a seedy-looking movie.
Striker locked in on his prey and prepared his lasso.
String him up and take his stash. His smile grew wide enough to salivate. Easy-peasy payday!
He got the drop on Al, the lasso fastening around his neck according to plan. Kicking over his bowl of popcorn, the shark looked up and saw the green-eyed, spike-tailed demon at the top of his stairs.
"Who—" was all Al could get out, before starting his battle of keeping the rope from becoming too taut and his feet from losing the recliner.
"Collections," grinned Striker sadistically. "On behalf of Explosion 'n' Partners."
"Shit," Al managed to whisper. He wrapped his tail around the recliner, dragging it with him as the cowboy pulled him.
"Bet your ass," taunted Striker. "How much do you owe the firm? Fifty-seven-kay?" He whistled. "Damn, son, I don't know nobody to sit on a debt like that! With a room full of cash? You got some stones, or you're fucking stupid. Given your security measures, I'mma guess the latter."
Striker gained the upper hand as Al's tail lost its grip of the recliner. The lasso pulled around his neck, crushing his hands beneath it.
Just then, the entire front of the house crumbled apart. A blinding-white bird demon with bladed feathers and glowing red eyes dominated the space.
Striker loosened his grip in shock, enabling the shark demon to get it off his neck and climb over the staircase railing.
"I told you!" bellowed the voice of Stella. "Absolution is the new idea, meat!"
She reached inside with one wing, slicing through the house's whole foundation.
"Shit!" cried Al and Striker at the same time. "The cash!"
Striker turned down the hallway, but Al leapt and tackled the cowboy onto the floor. They started to scuffle, but Stella advanced further into the house, taking out the staircase just behind them. Striker elbowed Al directly on the nose and struck his throat with his tail, but the shark demon had the wherewithal to grab him by the hair, pulling them both back.
"I'm going down," snarled Al. "You're comin' with me, cowboy." He spat on Striker's face.
The hitman pulled out a gun; Al's demeanor immediately changed.
"Whoa, alright!"
But it wasn't alright. Stella cut a huge gap in the wall and the house was about to fall. Striker shot Al directly on the kneecap, disabling the shark.
"Aah!" he crumbled on the floor, clutching his leg.
Behind him, the massive Goetia sniffed and peeked with a smile.
"There they are," she cried, before taking the shark in her giant claws. "Secrets!"
"No-o-o!"
But Al's cry was unheeded, as Stella's sharpened feathers cut through him on his way to her mouth. She clamped down, finishing him in two bites.
Striker rushed to the cash room. It was on the verge of tumbling into the street, splitting off from the main doorway. Using the sheet cover as a makeshift sack, he scooped up all the Lust bills he could carry, as well as some from Wrath.
Suddenly, the entire doorway broke away from the house and fell into the room. The floor beneath him gave way and swept him up in a current of gravity, dollar bills, and broken wood.
He remembered his lasso and roped a part of Stella's massive body, swinging away from the collapsing building.
Her bladed feather cut the rope, enabling Striker to swing just long enough to break his fall. He rolled, clutching the bundle of money between his legs and arms.
Bombproof trotted over and nuzzled his face.
"Uh," Striker sat up and scratched the horse's chin. "I'm fine, I'm fine, boy."
Stella screamed, loud enough to break the nearby windows. As if the street wasn't getting crowded enough, with demons investigating the damage to their block.
"For fuck's sake, woman!" shouted Striker. "This is why I told you to go home!"
Instantly, the princess shrunk down to her normal size, all the better to get directly in Striker's face.
"'Go home?'" she admonished. "After I just helped you finish your stupid job?"
"'Helped?'" argued Striker. "Helped, my ass! I had everything handled, till you came in and damn near killed me!"
"You were taking too long," she stated. "I was hungry for steak and had to settle for fish. Fatty, mushy fish."
"I didn't tell you to eat him," said Striker.
Behind them, the fire department was doing more work collecting fallen money for themselves than actually stopping the flames forming from newly broken gas pipes. Cars and people had been crushed by the desecrated building. Yet the ambulance responders were, similarly, too busy fighting over cash.
"Ugh," moaned Stella. "This is the worst date ever!"
"Was less of a date and more of a job, ma'am," Striker corrected. "Like I kept sayin'."
"Well," Stella grabbed his arm. "The least you can do is satisfy my carnal needs before the night is out."
"Hot." Striker rolled his eyes and pulled away. "Not that you'll listen, but my job ain't exactly done yet. Still gotta deliver this."
He tied the money sack closed and attached it to Bombproof's saddle. Stella watched him reach upward, noticing the way his muscles stretched through the holes in his shirt and jeans. He wasn't buff in a big way, but his limbs were toned, visibly strong. Her skin bristled, remembering how solidly rough every inch of him felt.
Stella put a finger to her mouth and grinned. She waved her hand and opened a portal right next to her. Striker recognized it as the inside of Lascivonne's office.
"Go ahead," goaded the princess. "Toss it in and let's be done with this."
The cowboy hissed and rattled. But unhooked the sack and carried it to the portal. He stepped inside, attached a note to it, then texted Lascivonne. He put the whole thing underneath her desk, then came back to Stella and Bombproof.
"Finished?" she asked.
"Finished," answered Striker.
"Glorious!
She opened another portal, this time to their usual rendezvous spot in the palace's guest house. Bombproof jumped through immediately, running out the patio doors to his favorite spot in the palace guest garden.
Just then, Striker's phone buzzed with a message from Lascivonne:
"Excellent! I appreciate that this was handled so promptly."
He looked at the screen, thinking of how to respond, when two more texts from her appeared:
"You are every bit as proficient as I've heard.
"I look forward to seeing the rest of your results."
Striker decided to use his key trick when turning up the charm: always lace it with truth.
"I aim to please ma'am. Will update you soon."
Lascivonne marked the message with a thumbs-up. Striker felt the warm swell of a job well done.
"Why," Stella shrieked from the other side of her bedroom portal, already dressed in nothing but a corset and garters. "The fuck? Am I waiting?"
"Because you can." Striker took a joint out of his pocket, lit it, and gave her a cheeky smirk.
"Oh," Stella bit her bottom beak. "You're in for it tonight."
"Am I?" The cowboy sauntered up to her while dragging from his joint. "Or are you?"
Suddenly, he put his hand on the back of her neck and blew the smoke directly into her mouth. Stella could feel the cocaine-laced marijuana numb her tongue almost immediately. She shuddered and lifted one leg, resting it on Striker's waist. His rough hand clutched through her feathers, pulling them in his masculine grip.
He followed up with a real kiss, wrapping his tongue around hers and directing her head from the back of her neck. Suddenly, Striker bit her, sharply enough to warp sensual with painful.
"Aah!" Stella wrapped both legs around his waist. She closed the portal into Greed, shutting off all the screaming, burning, and alarm sounds. She arched backwards, giving Striker access to her neck, breasts, everything!
Striker ran his teeth and tongue all the way down to her lower stomach and back, lifting her with ease despite their difference in size. Stella threw his hat across the room and pressed on his head, trying to force him further down.
Suddenly, he put her back on her feet, took another drag, then handed her the joint.
"Got anything good to drink?" he asked.
Teasing made Stella turn red and flustered, just the way Striker liked.
"Oh!" She seemed to taken aback to even take a hit. "Yes, sir, of course!"