Part 2: "Striker's Story"

"From out of the fire
Came a man cruel and bold
Farmhand and a hitchhiker
By night he drank whisky
By day killed weak imps
And the townspeople knew him as Striker"

"Trotting down deserts and volcanos
Adored and feared
In saloons and brothels and the like-er
With snake eyes of greed
And an inferno steed
Pumping guts full of lead, he's Striker"

"Striker!
Striker!
Striker!
Striker!"

"A ladies' man indeed, from horns to his tail
A hybrid-born hitman and fighter
His legend's known well
In the Wrath Ring of Hell
Beware ol' scheming Striker"

This is the twisted tale of Hell's most infamous rootin' tootin' cowboy residing in the wild western Wrath Ring. Although he was an imp, there was something special and unique about him that left him shrouded in mystery. Not many citizens could forget the horned figure dressed in cowboy attire, dashing into the sunset on a hellish black equine aglow with flames. Or during the times when he'd lounge and gab at a nearby saloon, a bottle of Satan's Wrath in one hand and a curved red dagger in the other. Sometimes when he ordered a drink, he'd place a few hellish dollar bills called souls in front of him and stab his dagger through them for intimidation. Those who made him mad received black eyes and bruises in brawls…at least the lucky ones.

Unlike many imps, he had a long pointed tail with four black stripes and eight sharp spines lined up on them. The tail sometimes made rattlesnake noises when it moved, like it had a life of its own. His black and white horns were jagged in appearance, curved upwards. His face was a pale faded red; his eyes yellow and green, glowing in spiral hypnotic patterns. A gold tooth glinted among his sharp teeth. He stood a little over six feet tall, his skin possessing incredible endurance and healing powers. A wheat straw was often seen in his mouth.

Though an impoverished outlaw, he still made a name for himself. Though proclaiming himself a messiah for the downtrodden imp race, he despised the weak and nearly everyone around him. Though developing a hatred for royalty, he ended up working for one. Here was an arrogant, selfish, and sadistic man, marinated in complexity. Rumor has it that he had never lost a fight. Even the roughest toughest hooligans parted whenever they heard the tapping of his tall boots and the ominous hissing from his tail.

In his quest for money, fame, and his vision of righteousness, he was an unstoppable force.

He was Striker…assassin, outlaw, legend.

0 0 0

Early Days

Striker was born in the Wrath Ring to his imp parents. His father was a muscular, snake-like imp named Butcher. Butcher wore a brown cowboy hat, thick pants and had a long spiky tail. The unique feature about him was his yellow glowing eyes and snake fangs. Butcher was the proud owner of the Kill-Count Casino, a popular tourist destination in Wrath. Bucher also prided himself on his beer and brewery. He showed Striker all the fine arts of weapon-wielding, dirty-dealing and occasional stealing. Several of Striker's favorite childhood moments included going on train rides with his family, riding his horse and munching on Paté loafs of meat at family dinners.

Then there was Striker's mother, Ambrosia. She had thick black hair, black pants, and a tank-top shirt. Her tail was also spiky and pointed and her horns were black with white stripes. Tough and sexy at the same time, she was a bartender at a nearby saloon. After Striker's parents had met, they decided to combine their businesses together, to better make ends meet. Both parents loved their son, dearly. They took turns taking care of him, but Striker remembered his mother the most.

As Striker grew up and inherited both places, the saloon was soon called "Striker's Saloon." His father gifted him with his very first horse, Bomb-proof. They had an unbreakable bond ever since. As a young teen, Striker loved flirting with the lady imps and drinking Satan's Wrath Whisky with his friends. Striker's skill at fighting also came in handy when warding off vandalizer imps and rival cowboys.

"I'm so proud of you son," said his dad. "I knew you would be a great asset to our business." His mother kissed him on the head.

Everything was going rather smoothly…until they came.

Striker's village of imps soon saw tall figures on horses wearing crowns and colorful robes. Two guards rising horses with many eyes on them held up banners displaying various Goetia sigils. Striker backed away behind his worried parents. Trumpets sounded and a tall Goetia bird wearing robes and a mask over his face posted a piece of paper onto a building.

"ROYAL DECREE: All surrounding businesses within the radius of the train tunnels shall be demolished and renovated in two week's time to make way for new malls, apartments, and parks, sponsored by his majesty King Paimon et al. All imp residents shall kindly sell their stores and relocate elsewhere or risk the warning of a fine and the second warning of…you don't want to find out. Many thanks and sealed by Your Infernal Majesties, the Ars Goetia."

"What is this madness?" Butcher asked his wife.

"Are the birds planning on taking our land?" asked another imp.

"Where will we move to?" asked another.

"Move? We can't move! We're Wrathians, we must fight!" Butcher called. Many imps shouted in agreement.

"Fight the royals?!" spat Ambrosia, eyes wide. "Are you fucking insane?! They have better weapons and magic. And don't forget about our son!"

"He can fight if he wants to!"

"No way! He's just a kid!" Ambrosia cried.

Striker anxiously looked back and forth between his parents.

"I agree with Butcher here!" called another imp with his family.

In a matter of days, the Wrathian imps had made protest signs in black marker that read "LEAVE OUR BUSINESSES ALONE!" "FUCK THE ROYALS!" "GO HOME, GOETIA SCUM!" The Goetia, of course, ignored them.

Ambrosia knew things would go south the moment the Goetia returned in two weeks. The young Striker's world crumbled as the imps rushed at the horses and royals to no avail. The horse's hooves crushed the imp's swords and pitchforks. For every beer bottle thrown at the Goetias' heads, blasts of fireballs would incinerate the imps on the spot.

"This is your last chance to leave in peace," the royal leader told Butcher.

"Fuck no!" he spat. "You assholes ain't takin' my casino or my son's saloon."

"Have it your way," the royal added. With the flick of his hand, he hurled a fireball at the Kill-Count Casino and it exploded with an ear-shattering blast.

"Adding to the imp kill-count, sir!" laughed one of the royal men next to the leader. Two other royals ransacked the saloon, burning the contents inside and trampling the screaming imps.

Ambrosia looked at Striker with tears in her eyes. "My son, you must leave!"

"Where?" Striker asked.

"Head down to the mine tunnels. They won't find you there."

"No, mom, I'm not leaving you!"

"I have to help your father, now go before they see you!"

Striker buried his face in her thick hair for one last hug and ran off to hide.

After several hours, Striker emerged from his hiding place…then wished he hadn't. All the buildings were charred and destroyed. All that was left were the Kill-Count Casino sign, the blue snake Venom sign and the Striker's Saloon sign.

To the teen's horror, there were bodies of his imp neighbors, family, and friends everywhere who had died fighting for their land.

But Striker's worst nightmare came true moments later. To set an example, the royals hung the imp leaders in the gallows. Striker burst into tears at the sight of his parent's limp bodies hanging with several others.

As the sun set, Striker realized he was all alone. A lone survivor of the genocide. His family…his businesses…his entire life…gone. The royals had taken everything from him, and he was barely into his teens.

Now he had no choice but to move on. He lifted up the signs and the remaining memorabilia and carried them down into the mine tunnels, making his hideout. His life was hard, rough, and impoverished ever since. His heart filled with disgust as he soon spotted the royals and other imps enjoying themselves in the malls, motels, and tourist sights in the spots where his family used to be. Striker's only companion was his horse, who nuzzled his head to comfort the imp.

From that day forward, Striker swore he'd get his revenge. He became Wrath's most wanted assassin and was willing to go great lengths to get Goetia blood on his hands.

And as for the statue with his big dick…Striker had made that himself in his spare time.

0 0 0

Farmhand by Day, Assassin By Night

It wasn't long before Striker began to make deals in his adolescence in order to gain power. With his reputation as a master hitman, clients from all over Hell would speak with him. Mostly they were other imps, itching to get their revenge on their rivals. Other times, they were Sinners whom Striker recalled, "could care less about who he was."

"Just get the job done, imp," they would spit. "I ain't got all day."

"Are you sure you're tough enough for the job?"

"Go back to the ghetto, farm-boy."

"Chameleon fucker can serve us any time."

Despite the taunts, Striker carried out his duties with the silence and grace of a ninja. Whenever he got money, it would just as easily be lost to bets, beer and battles. In harder times, Striker would salvage scraps of food to survive. Water was very scarce in the drought-stricken land. Thankfully for him, he could usually find a few people to kill or kill for. He kept up his trade, because it was what he was good at. It got him enough money to get by. Plus, it was entertaining stomping out the meek and weak so easily.

Oh, but it was never enough. Not enough money to spend for long, not enough imps to bully and taunt. An insatiable bloodlust. He wanted more; he always did. Striker knew that he'd have to possess or do something incredible in order to not be stuck in his second-class status. Once an imp always an imp, it was said.

There were a few times where Striker traveled to the Pride Ring to meet with his Sinner clients. While he was up there, he briefly heard of one imp who had started his own official killing business. He didn't know who the imp was, but he found the feat to be pretty impressive.

Though he could travel easily enough, there was no way he could form a business on his own. Not when he was his own boss.

He moved from motel to motel, stopping at bars and sleeping in alleyways during the night. A few allies allowed him to sleep on couches.

Striker made many deals, killing various rivals while sometimes fleeing from the more powerful demons. He gained more power, energy and respect the more deals he made. He soon grew wary of Sinners, deciding to stick more with the chaotic familiarity of his imp brethren. Tales of the infamous (and sexy) cowboy spread like wildfire throughout the Rings.

"If I can get enough people to fear and respect me," Striker thought with a sinister grin, "I could experience the luxurious lifestyle of an Overlord someday! I could be the first imp Overlord in Hell…then no one would dare mess with me or my kind again. Who needs Overlords or pompous Goetia demons when I could slaughter them all?!"

It was these self-righteous thoughts that kept Striker going each and every day. No matter if he was wrestling a hellish beast or searching for scraps to get by, the spark to survive and thrive never faded.

0 0 0

Striker discovered something extraordinary one evening while he was in town. He turned his head sideways, yellow eyes narrowing as he heard hushed muttering from three figures. They were leaning against a wall, hidden in the shadows. One imp wore a trench coat and smoked a cigarette, his head hidden underneath a dark hat. The two other ones had thick curved horns and black mustaches. The cloaked figure spoke in hushed whispers to his companions.

"Did ya hear what happened not too long ago? After the last Extermination, several angelic weapons were found on the ground. Just a bunch of glowing treasure left there. After all their bodies were disposed of, there was a brawl over the weapons found. A bloodbath, I tell ya."

"I heard that at least a dozen imps offed themselves for good after fighting over them weapons," said the second imp. "Heard that a couple of imps managed to grab hold of one of them before running off. They were planning on giving it to Satan as a gift."

"And?"

"And they decided to raise the price of it even more in front of him," the second imp chuckled.

The third imp spat on the ground. "Too bad Satan's infinitely rich."

"Nobody's as rich as Lord Mammon," said the leader. "Everyone knows that he's the king of Greed, for fuck's sake!"

"Well Lucifer's the king of Hell," said the second imp. "He'll find out about the weapon for sure."

"Hmph," said the third imp, crossing his arms. "It's always the Goetia and the Overlords who can afford the good tools. How I'd love to get my hands on it."

"Too bad," said the leader. "Cause that weapon's gonna be in my possession soon enough."

"Nonsense, Crimson," said Red, the second imp. "It's helluva expensive."

"That's why I'mma use your souls to get it!" said the leader. "They don't call the currency 'souls' for nothin'!"

Just as Crimson raised a knife before them, Striker plunged his sharp tail into his chest. He gasped, shuddered and gagged before Striker pulled his tail back. Red and Burgundy swiped at him with a mace and large fists, but Striker was too slippery. He slid underneath them, dodging the mace and tripping Red to the ground. Burgundy held out a pistol and fired close to Striker's head.

"You gonna kill me, little man?" Striker grinned. He knocked the pistol out of his hands and shoved him away. He then kicked and gripped at Red, shoving him against a nearby wall.

"Ah you fucker!" growled Red before Striker slammed his head hard against the wall. Black blood spilled out and Red slid to the ground. Red collapsed by his leader, their eyes slowly glazing over. Striker then turned to the cowering Burgundy, grabbing him by his collar and pinning him against the wall.

"So then…" Striker began, wrapping his long tail against the struggling imp's throat. "Tell me about this weapon of yours?"

"It ain't mine, asshole!" Burgundy sputtered. The tail tightened. "Ah, aurgh, shit…"

"Talk, you pathetic little pig," Striker spat.

"O-okay! It's a .42 caliber pistol, blessed-tipped with bullets to kill demons instantly."

"Where is it?"

Burgundy wheezed.

"Answer me!"

"In the b-black market! Just down the lane! Good luck tryin' ta get it!"

"Oh, I won't need luck," Striker said, before he promptly shot the imp through his chin with his weapon. The imp slid down in a black mess as Striker blew smoke from the holes of his pistol. He examined his brown weapon.

"I could use a new one of these," he mentioned.

Striker strolled down the lane, a wheat straw in his mouth. He entered a dimly lit alleyway and then went down a darkened flight of stairs. His eyes allowed him to see easily in the shadows.

A vast underground chamber was revealed. Bustling among the torches were hordes of chattering imps and demons, anxious to purchase rare wares. Striker looked and saw an exotic manticore locked in a black cage while snakes with many eyes slithered in silver cages at a booth. Lava lamps glowed and clothing made of soda taps shimmered on hooks. A sign read "Human Hides, 25% Off!" while another sign shouted in bold, "Demon Meat Made Fresh!" Rows of stuffed animals were also selling fast by a taxidermist imp.

Several stalls sold occult books, cannibal recipe books and various porn magazines. Another stall consisted of jewelry made of silver, gold or in some cases, wires. A tattooist hunched over and inked a flaming horned skull onto the chest of a beefy male imp. A cacophony of discordant music echoed throughout the vast space. Imps were playing guitars, drums and electric keyboards while several demons sang in ancient foreign languages. It sounded like Latin at certain times, Indian at other moments, ever changing.

"Get your wares here!" called a large woman selling bottles of aged liquor and a row of skulls.

"Get your fixes over here!" called a scrawny imp with a white beard selling cocaine, meth and weed in plastic bags. "Don't go for the regular prices, get ours at only 666 souls."

Striker noticed a family of chained saddened imps beside a man who hollered, "Slaves for your every need! Farming, sex, murder, you name it, we got it!" Two of the imp children cried in their mother's arms as other consumers looked them up and down.

"Fresh fish from Envy Ring over here!" called another imp dressed as a sailor in blood-stained clothing. Eels, fish, crabs and sharks swam in small tanks. "$66 per fine specimen. Nearby lost my life trying to fish for these!" He waved a hook in place of his hand as Striker continued on.

"Scarot cards! Intense incense! We tell your fortunes better than royalty!"

"Rumor has it!" called a man, "That this black key can allow Sinners to travel to any Ring in Hell! No more being restrained to Pride! You can kill and visit those former humans anytime, anywhere!" He held up an old-fashioned black key with wings and a pink eye at the top. "The Sinner's Key!"

A crowd of imps "oohed" and gathered around.

"Um," said the imp beside the vendor. "Isn't that just an old-fashioned key painted black?"

"Shut your trap," the vendor seethed to his companion. "I'm tryin' to make a good sale here!"

At last, Striker came across the largest section in the area. A large wooden sign in bloody capital letters read "WEAPONS!" He quickened his pace as he entered. The area was packed with imps and demons of all shapes and sizes. Indeed, in addition to food, the Wrath Ring was known for its vast selection of weaponry.

Striker's eyes grew wide at the collections. All around him were weapons on display. Swords, knives, spears, daggers, scimitars, tridents, axes, hooks, chainsaws, harpoons, katanas, so many silver blades in one place. Maces, clubs, catapults, crossbows, darts, crowbars, chains and rods were located in another section not too far away. Then Striker stopped at the last and more modern section. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, revolvers, sniper rifles, tank missiles, even nuclear bombs were all prepped and ready for purchase.

Striker didn't notice a dark shadowy individual sneaking nearby, watching his every move.

Striker took a close look at the most expensive weapons. A few swords, harpoons, rifles and pistols had strange glowing white patterns on them. Unlike the other weapons, they were propped up within glass cases.

Striker strut over to the counter and his eyes landed on a pistol. A brownish blessed-tipped pistol with a glowing white trigger handle. On the bottom in glowing white were cloud designs and a small eye surrounded by six angel wings.

"That must be the one that imp was talking about," he thought. An angelic weapon…one that could kill demons for good.

All it took was one bullet.

"Howdy, sir," Striker greeted the mustached imp.

"What weapon do you have in mind?" the imp asked. "Rob" was on a name tag.

With a slight wiggle of his finger, Striker pointed to the pistol in the glass case.

"That's a big buy," Rob smirked. "It'll cost you an arm and a leg…perhaps literally." He snickered.

Striker grinned and hosted up the bag of money he had retrieved from the horse-riding imps. Rob counted the bills and coins.

"A lot of souls for sure," he mentioned. "But see the price tag? It says 66,000 souls. You only have 9,000."

Striker's eyebrow raised, his eye twitching. "It's over 9,000! You sure you counted right?"

"Absolutely. The calculator doesn't lie…most of the time. But I don't have all day. Come back when you have enough."

"I have to have it," Striker said, coming up with an idea. "My family's been killed off by an outlaw and I have to kill him before he steals water from my town!"

The imp scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "A likely story. Tell ya what, I'll take the money. You can have the weapon, but only if ya suck my dick first!" Snickers and catcalls came from behind him.

"Not a chance."

"Scram, chameleon cunt!"

Striker's rattlesnake tail hissed menacingly. "Do you not know who I am? I am the only and only man who makes ladies drop to their knees and men cry from seeing me in their nightmares."

"Get lost, punk."

Striker pulled out his older pistol. "I'mma blow so many holes in ya, your guts'll be leaking lead!" Striker mocked.

Rob merely grinned as two other imps pointed long guns at Striker. "Try me."

"Vermin," said Striker in a husky voice.

This time, Striker was surrounded on all sides. He could flee easily if he wanted to. But fighting a group in such a packed place…

"Anyone want 66,000 souls for this here pistol?" Rob called. "I may have not stolen this from Lucifer himself after donating money to the Morningstar family and being a groundskeeper all these years."

Rob smirked as Striker stood his ground, eyes darting back and forth. The imps clicked their guns, daring him to make a move.

"Y'all be sorry you messed with the infamous Striker!" he called, still unafraid of death.

Rob called out. "Anybody? Going once, going twice…"

"Put it on me," said a low demonic voice. Several imps parted as a figure in a long dark hood strode over to him.

And who are you?" Rob asked.

Without a word, the figure held up a badge with a sigil on it. A handful of golden soul bills were placed in front of him. Rob reached toward them, but they became transparent in his hand. He growled in anger as the figure held out a hand.

Rob laughed nervously, eyes wide. Though he was selling the weapons, he secretly wanted both the money and weapons for himself. "This must be some mista…"

A force and a terrible screech emitted from the figure, Striker and the imps covering their ears. Rob's head exploded in black blood as the nearby glass cases shattered. The figure tossed Striker the angelic pistol while they retrieved an angelic rifle.

"Tell Lucifer I wish him well," the figure spat at the dead Rob. "He won't be needing these anymore." Striker walked along on his way, twirling his new pistol. He dodged several imps clawing desperately for the weapon. Then the shadowy figure materialized in front of him.

"Holy shit, wha…"

In a flash of light, a piece of white folded paper appeared in Striker's hands. He glanced down with a glare and saw elegant handwriting.

"Sinister Stars Saloon, Wrath Ring
12AM sharp tomorrow
Come alone."

Striker looked up, but the mysterious figure had vanished.

0 0 0

True to his word, Striker entered the Sinister Stars Saloon at midnight. A bunch of drunken imps were still roaming around, smoking and chatting. A smoky haze filled the small dark room, no light save for overhead red lights along the ceiling borders. A few imps were playing cards and telling stories of tribal wars. Several demons and hellhounds feasted on a hellhog in a booth. An ogre trimmed his long yellow nails with a knife.

Striker looked around before barely spotting the cloaked figure in a corner. Striker hovered a hand over his pistol in case a fight broke out. Behind the figure, a wooden door opened slowly by itself. Seeing the figure suddenly appear not too far behind him, Striker made his way inside the small room. The door closed behind them. Striker sat in a wooden chair while the imposing figure stood before him.

"So," said Striker. "You're the one who called me?"

"Yes," they said. "And I warn you. I'm not here to fight you. But one word of this gets out, and you'll be disposed of for good like the common scum you are."

Striker seethed, fingers clenched, tail waving in warning. This figure was powerful; he could feel it. The figure was no ordinary imp. His hair stood on end. Was it fear? Or anticipation?

"My lips are sealed," Striker said.

The figure's eyes glowed bright pink. "Good. Because I've come to you with a…prince problem."

The figure removed the hood.

Striker gasped. "Who are you?"

The white swan demon spoke, wrath in her eyes. "Lady Stella Goetia," she said. Her dress was light pink, and her crown was small and golden on her head. From underneath her cloak, a small red imp butler appeared, shivering in fear.

Not wanting to appear rude, Striker played it safe with a small bow. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your majesty." He took her long black hand and kissed it. Stella didn't bother to hide her disgust. "Yeah, let's brush past the formalities."

"As you wish," he said, stepping back and sitting down. He propped up his boot-covered feet onto the table.

"So first of all," Striker asked, "What does a high-class demon want with someone like me?"

"I've heard stories about you, Striker," Stella answered. "From the newspapers and the news. Once I saw you in person at the market and heard your name, I had to see if the legends were true." She paused, looking him up and down. "Apparently they were."

Striker beamed with pride. "I'm not surprised. Even royalty knows who I am."

"As much as I despise your vile violent kind, you imps are experts in killing and war. And no one else seems to match your level of expertise."

Striker grinned. "I'm flattered, ma'am. To be honest, I see myself as better than all those pathetic excuses of demons. They're nothing but brawn and no brain. They just use brute strength and argue all the time instead of being civilized and making a real life for themselves."

Stella nodded. "I mentioned before that I have a prince problem that needs to be addressed. If you can do this job for me, I will elevate your status beyond that of a regular imp."

Striker cocked his head before bursting into laughter. "Lady, please! Don't fool with me! I've never been a 'regular' imp!" He then spoke in a serious tone. "But for your request, I charge a great deal of money."

Striker was cut short when Stella tossed a bag full of souls, bills and coins in front of him. "Would this be enough?"

A bowl of meat and several large bottles of fresh water appeared as well.

Water…actual water! Water that could help many imp farmers, but more importantly help his parched throat.

He stared into the bag with a greedy expression on his face. He reached in for a handful of coins, only to have the majority of coins vanish. One lone gold coin was left in his hand. Striker reached for the water and food, but they vanished, too.

Striker stared in annoyance. It was too good to be true.

"Don't forget the one who helped you get that rifle. And the pistols and rope and knife. You won't earn your rewards until the job is done."

Striker took a breath. "So, you want me to kill someone."

Stella nodded.

Striker grinned wider. He could not resist an interesting proposition such as this. To be able to have not just money, but food, fame, freedom…

Stella pulled out a framed picture and held it in front of his face.

"Do you see this demon?" she asked, venom in her words. Her dark finger pointed to the owl Stolas, who was lying on his belly on his bed, smiling. His feathery chest was bare, his arms were tied, and a ball gag was around his neck. He wore his black top hat and crown. "This is my husband, Prince Stolas Goetia. He's the man I want you to kill."

Striker was taken aback. "Oh my. Marriage problems, I see."

"Oh, there's more than that!" Stella barked. "You see that thing?" She pointed to a naked Blitzo who was riding on Stolas with his member fully erect. "That's the monstrosity imp that he's been fucking with behind my back! I found this picture lying around on his work desk."

Striker grinned. "Now things are getting interesting. You want revenge for adultery. Never thought I'd become a marriage counselor! Hahaha!"

Stella seethed. "I want you to frame that imp for Stolas' death."

"Hmm. That can be arranged, I think. What's his name?"

"I don't fucking care! I just want them dead!"

"Okay, okay," Striker said, keeping his cool.

"That imp rides my husband like a horse and what's worse, all of Hell will soon know about it! Do you know what will happen next?"

Striker could only guess.

Stella continued. "Once everyone knows what my husband did, the whole Goetia family will be a laughingstock. Lucifer, the Overlords, the Seven Deadly Sins…they'll all bring our line to the ground, and I'll be no better off than you and the commoners!"

"Right," Striker began, narrowing his eyes.

"And I cannot just divorce him, either. Our marriage was arranged, and I had to work hard to get my position. I married him and I got money and power like I wanted. But then my Octavia was born and then Stolas ruined everything. He slept with that imp in our fucking bed! Fooled around in a motel like plebeians! He doesn't respect his loyal royal wife of one thousand years, but instead goes for a childish perverted scum he just met! If I divorce him, I'll lose my status and his imp toy will replace me as his consort!"

Striker laughed nervously. "Oh, really?"

Stella leaned in close to his face, "Yes, really!" before leaning back.

"Well, I can see why you're desperate," Striker said.

"Once Stolas and that imp are gone, I'll finally be able to regain some proper power in Hell. I'll restore the Goetia tradition and help Octavia be a worthy heir." Then she added in a demonic voice, "Whether she likes it or not!"

In the blink of an eye, Stella grabbed onto a nearby white mouse and promptly consumed it. She chewed and swallowed before looking at Striker again.

Striker folded his hands together, wheat straw in his mouth. "So now begs the question, how can I kill demon royalty? And what do I do to frame that imp?" He spit out the wheat straw.

Stella smiled sinisterly and beckoned the imp butler over. With effort, the butler hosted up a long brown case onto the table. He opened it and there lay the carmine colored blessed tipped angelic rifle with the Christian fish symbol, eyes and crosses glowing on it. Striker studied it in fascination. "How beautiful."

"You remember when I got this from the market," said Stella. "Supposedly Rob got the weapon from Lucifer's people."

Striker licked his lips.

"You'll use this weapon to kill Stolas," Stella explained. "A hand-crafted weapon not from Hell but from Heaven. This can kill high ranking demons. Consider it a blessing gift to aid in your task. Make sure no one else gets a hold of it. And be protective of your other weapon too."

Striker nodded and took the rifle and case.

Stella then presented him with more weapons: two black angelic pistols with halos and wings decorated on them, white blessed rope, and a sharp angelic knife with glowing white lines on it. Striker grinned widely. Maybe being a temporary underling wouldn't be so bad.

"And to answer your second question," Stella barked. "During every full moon, Stolas and that imp screw around so the imp can access his grimoire to kill humans on Earth. We know that traveling to Earth isn't allowed and by letting the imp have his book, Stolas is neglecting his duties."

"Indeed he is."

"Plus," Stella continued, "If Lucifer and the Overlords find out Stolas' mistake, I will be stripped of my status, be banished or worse! The Goetia line will be reduced to stardust. With powerful demons and traveling to other dimensions, everyone could be fucked!"

Striker nodded. He couldn't believe it. Now was finally the chance to prove himself.

"Well ma'am, consider yourself a widow," Striker grinned with a tip of his hat.

Stella grinned and held out her hand. "So, it's a deal then?"

Striker stood up and shook her hand. Sparks and light flew from their palms. "Pleasure doing business with you," he said. "You have engaged my valuable services, your majesty. Just tell me, where and when I can find this prince?"

Stella spoke lowly and Striker chuckled. With his imp tail, Striker impaled his red dagger into the picture, creating a torn hole where Stolas' face was.

"Stella's pretty face will be next!" Striker thought.

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Far out in the desert countryside, two imps were sitting by a recently dug hole and a makeshift gravestone. One imp was beefy with red skin, white hair, a small white mustache and white scars on his arms. His wife sat next to him, her black hair wild, skin red, eyes yellow. Both of them wore farming clothes and had their heads lowered. In front of them was the body of their last farmhand. On the gravestone were the words, "Here lies Fred, he is dead."

Joe comforted Lin and briefly stared at the charred burned remains of their cottage.

"I can't believe it," Lin sobbed. "Fred was just doing his job, tending to the farm. But then this fire twister blew in outta nowhere."

"Thank Satan we and our family could take shelter underground," Joe mentioned. "Fred stayed behind to try and save the animals."

"Our crops, our home, our farmhand…all gone." Lin sighed sadly. "The kids aren't gonna like this when they get back from visiting town."

"What will we do now?" Lin asked.

"Well until we can get our place fixed up, we'll just have to sleep in the wilderness somewhere. Or maybe a motel."

"Well, howdy," Striker called to the two imps.

Both of them looked up to see Striker trotting toward them upon his horse. "Sounds like you two could use a helpin' hand."

"You bet we do," said Joe. "What's your name?"

"Call me Striker, sir," said Striker, hopping off his horse and shaking his hand.

"A fine name Striker is," Joe mentioned in approval.

"Reminds me of the battles we fought in our younger days!" Lin added. "Crushing the heads of imps who tried to raid our land. Even just blowing other imps away in competitions. All we had to use were our bare hands and stamina."

"I must've strolled along to the right place," Striker said with a grin.

"I'm Joe and this is my wife Lin," Joe drawled. "You new here?"

"Lived in Wrath for a while."

"Well then, Striker, if you can help us repair our cottage to start, consider yourself hired!"

So that's what Striker did. After a week, the cottage was restored, and the family returned to their old life. To Striker's delight, Joe and Lin paid him reasonably well for his hard work. Besides fixing their house, Striker helped fight off coyotes, wrestle hellhogs and slaughter their livestock when it was time for dinner. Even the rival farmer imps didn't come sneaking to the May property anymore.

Joe later showed Striker a picture of his family. "You've already seen my sugar pie Lin. These are all my kids. Mildred, Sallie, Billie, Willie, Dillie, and Tillie."

"My, that's a lot," Striker remarked. "Why does Mildred sound so different?"

Joe pointed to the picture of Millie. "We sometimes call her Millie."

"Ah, makes sense now."

"Yes, she's a wild one. She and her sister Sallie are perhaps even more rambunctious than their brothers. They killed several competitors at last year's Harvest Festival. Millie killed nine in one round and now she's off doing freelance work in Imp City. She is an unstoppable force."

"Heh. Mighty cute, too." Both men chuckled.

Striker paused. "The Harvest Festival, huh? I've witnessed it a few times."

"It happens every year. The Pain Games is a competition to see who can be the toughest imp of all."

"Now that sounds like fun!" Striker grinned.

"You'll be great for sure. The festival is just a few days away!"

"How interesting," Striker thought. Stella had told him that it was the event that Stolas would be attending. It would be the perfect moment to make his move!