[Aug 2005, New Orleans]

"Sir," Moxie snapped in response to his superior's complaining, "we'd have had more time for this if we hadn't spent an hour hauling 15 kegs of old absinthe out of that basement during a hurricane evacuation!"

"You think I'd let that kind of free income generator go to waste?!"

Millie added thoughtfully, "Also, what might 15 barrels of moonshine mixed with flood water've caused for the people on that block?"

"Aha!" Blitzo exclaimed gleefully, patting Millie appreciatively on the back. She grimaced and side stepped away from the contact. "See, Mox? Did 'em a favor!"

Moxie growled under his breath, well aware that he and Millie were the only ones shoveling. "How about doing us a favor and helping out?"

"I'm worn out from the motherf***in' 40 collective feet of digging it took to get to that box," Blitzo complained, pointing at the hole Millie and Moxie had created. "Shoulda started with her."

The imps were digging up a grave. Why go after someone who was already dead? Actually, they weren't—one of many unusual things about the gig. It involved no assassination and wasn't even a quest to desecrate a body for petty revenge. It was a simple search and retrieve mission. Whatever. They were getting paid, and if it wasn't specialty labor, that should only make it simpler, right?

Intel was available and sometimes widely circulated via news media when an Earthly event might cause a sudden population influx. Unfortunately for the citizens of Earth, this was one of those events, and the client was concerned about the implications of severe flooding for items he'd left behind.

The highest priority was digging up a mysterious, well-secured trunk from some deer-hunting grounds in New Orleans, to avoid the flood dislodging the box, possibly resulting in its opening or deterioration. The search took several grueling hours because the box had been hidden with the hope of it never being uncovered. Hitting what they hoped was the top of the box with a shovel only to discover unexpected human bones, several times, made things twice as aggravating. Scouring every nook and cranny of the basement of a derelict abandoned house (where they'd stumbled upon the moonshine) for the key to the large trunk took almost as long. Blitzo's whim to take off with the product consumed another hour. After having planned for plenty of flex time to safely come and go before the devastating storm, they were now well into the first grim signs of something highly destructive welling up, ears hammered every few minutes by shrill evacuation sirens.

Their boss's poor prioritizing delayed the second mandatory part of the mission—retrieving an item the owner had buried in this grave alongside the body as part of some protection spell requiring a 'guardian' figure. While unconfirmed, discussions had implied said guardian was the client's ex-girlfriend, earning caustic roasting from Blitzo once the team was out of earshot. (Millie and Moxie chuckled; Blitzo still retained several 'comfort' items from his most recent partner.) Anyway, whatever Miriam Gamble 'guarded' was quite important, second only to the trunk. They'd likely not have time for the 'optional' (Blitzo's interpretation) step—moving poor Miriam's body to protect it from the storm out of respect.

An obstacle stopped Moxie's shovel. He tapped and heard a hollow, wooden sound. Not bones this time. "Finally!" The imps kicked and scooped the remaining dirt off with their hands and feet and pried open the casket.

The sought object, to their consternation, was a doll. It sat near the corpse's left hand, which appeared to have once been closed around it. A blindfold, which had slipped off, hung limply around the doll's neck. Luckily for I.M.P., after about 70 years, there wasn't much body left—some thin, mummified skin, but mostly bones—and the doll didn't seem stained with grave wax. What a relief! Returning the cloth doll noticeably filthy would be in poor taste. In the spirit of professionalism, they'd have had to dry clean it, and they didn't care to tack another menial task onto the end of this exhausting day. They just wanted a shot of that blessed moonshine.

Still, they paused to ponder the implications of their discovery. Moxie held the doll up, squinting. "Is that who I think it is?" The doll strikingly resembled what the client might have looked like as a human child. Golden brown button eyes, dark brown hair, deep olive skin tone, large circular owl-like glasses, sharp stitched features.

Millie squealed, snatching the doll from her husband's arms to affectionately squeeze it. "Ahhh! That's precious! She must've made 'im feel so safe! How romantic!"

Blitzo was unimpressed. "BLEGH. I officially respect that pompous hipster 150% less than I did already. Even more of a lame closet sentimentalist than I thought."

"Well, I think he's a sweetie," Millie asserted, planting a kiss on the doll's cheek.

"Dial it back, hun," Moxie teased. "His ex will get jealous."

Millie regarded the bones in the recently excised grave, turned to Moxie, and winked. "Think I can take 'er, shug."

Blitzo opened the return portal. "Okay, boys and girls, let's call it a day and get hammered."

Moxie was offended on behalf of the client and his sainted ex. "Whoawhoawhoa, boss!" He gestured at the uncovered grave. They'd not only not relocated her, they'd left her more exposed to the elements than before. "Are you forgetting something?"

Blitzo shrugged. "He said move her if we had time."

"I got...slightly different vibes, sir."

Millie looked stern, one hand on her hip, the other pressing the doll against her as though comforting it. "She watched this cute little dumplin' for 70-some years. She deserves to be thanked!"

Blitzo was antsy. "Why's this important to move? Not like she can feel anything!"

"I think it's an emotional request, not a rational one. He cared about her. Clearly," Moxie replied.

"All right, all right, we'll move her," Blitzo acquiesced. He rifled through his cartoonishly deep pockets and produced a flare gun, smirking wickedly. "How do you think she feels about cremation?" Without waiting for a response, he shot the flare into the grave, and its contents promptly erupted into flame.

This approach was more efficient than physically moving the body through the portal outside the storm trajectory and re-burying it, but Moxie was unprepared. "Sweet f***!"

Millie sympathetically covered the doll's eyes and whispered, "She can't feel anything."

Blitzo snapped his fingers commandingly, unaffected by his employees' horrified faces. "M&M, pack up the cars and bring me my coffee thermos."

[X]

The imps drove to meet the client in separate vehicles. Blitzo took the truck, containing the box, double-buckled into the backseat, and the moonshine, piled into the back. Moxie and Millie took the ashes and the doll—which was now blindfolded, as they'd been bizarrely instructed—in their personal car. "So... Can we address that it might be a voodoo doll?" Moxie pointed out.

"That's what it looks like," Millie agreed. She held the doll in her lap and had sweetly positioned its arms around the thermos, where Blitzo had insensitively dumped the ashes. It was a piece of very early Verosika Mayday merch, so the doll looked less like he was sentimentally clinging to his ex's ashes and more like he was copping a feel of Verosika's tits.

Moxie continued, "If that's him...he knowingly gave us access to something we could injure him with or hold for ransom if we decided to be total dicks for some reason... He must've felt desperate. What in the world do you think is in that box, babe?" The imps assumed the doll was protected from whatever was trapped in the trunk.

Moxie and Blitzo pulled into a parking lot about 2 miles from the end destination of the cargo, where their client waited patiently, alone. They understood he commanded a lot of respect (read as: fear) in the Pride Ring, but he was difficult to take seriously at first glance. The fuzzy dear ears teased the possibility of a fluffy tail hidden somewhere under his blazer. Plus, his lanky stature, monochrome dress, and spastic mannerisms made him overwhelmingly resemble a Wacky Wavy Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man. This first impression was compounded by the secret info the imps possessed. The widely-feared creature bearing his teeth in a perpetual fanged, aggressive smile, meant to intimidate, hid a representation of his childhood self in the arms of his dead girlfriend and feared the thing in the box enough to release such reputation-jeopardizing information. And he'd paid them extra to retrieve it.

Still, this degree of awkwardness reminded Millie and Moxie to exhibit extra politeness and deference to the powerful Pride Ring overlord, lest he snap like a threatened animal. Blitzo, not so much. He hopped out of the truck, shades on, stereo blasting hair metal, then threw open the backseat and dragged the cargo out too roughly, driving one corner into the ground with a clatter. Low, growling static burst from the client's radio speaker. Oblivious, Blitzo stated with a bow, "I present to you...your heavy f***in' box. Seriously, what is in this thing?!"

Alastor nodded in approval, a deep relief flickering in his eyes. With a snap of his fingers, the box was promptly relocated behind a triple-locked, double-booby-trapped closet door in Radio Tower.

"And here's the special little guy," Millie sing-songed, holding out the doll with a wide grin.

Alastor received it and placed it gently in the interior pocket of his suit jacket. "Thank you so much for watching him, miss." He took Millie's hand and kissed it, earning flustered giggles. "I do hope he wasn't too much trouble. I've been told he can be rather hyperactive," he added with a wink.

Unamused, Moxie moved to gently separate Millie and Alastor. Then his expression switched from annoyed to apologetic. "And, uh, your…" He coughed and sheepishly held out the thermos.

"Ammmm I the visitor who won the door prize? Is it a complimentary beverage or just the mug?"

Moxie grimaced, puzzling over how to break the news sensitively. Blitzo jumped in enthusiastically, proud of his approach and considering it an extra service rendered. "The body you needed moved!"

Alastor stared him down with half-lidded eyes, trying to process this cryptic statement. He couldn't mean...?

"We were strapped for time, but technically we got the job done, as promised." Blitzo tapped the side of his head dramatically and whispered, "Creative problem solving."

Alastor offered a performative, hearty laugh, augmented by the radio's laugh track. "Glad to see this line of work hasn't affected your sense of humor!"

"It's not a joke," Moxie replied before mouthing silently, 'I'm so sorry, sir.'

Impervious to the cringe factor, Blitzo removed the thermos lid to illustrate his 'success.' Watery ashes sloshed around; he'd failed to dump out all of the coffee first. "Oh, oops… Uh… Hope she liked coffee and Baileys because she'll be smelling it for a long time."

Bitzo's shenanigans achieved a rare feat—striking Alastor speechless. The deer demon's face was trained to stay locked in a smile, making it challenging to read nuance in his expressions, so the imps couldn't tell quite how appalled he was. Al accepted the thermos and stared into the murky ex-girlfriend ash soup in dismay, covertly turning down the radio volume to avoid betraying his thoughts.

"Eh?" Blitzo uttered a la Fozzy Bear, with jazz hands.

Al decided it was useless to confront this willfully obtuse idiot now. He'd rather not delay moving the doll to its separate, secure location, and had no desire to terrorize the other two employees, who seemed polite and competent. He decided to do some research and hex Blitzo later in a highly personal manner. Through gritted teeth, he asked, "And...what exactly am I meant to do with this lovely gift I didn't expect to receive?"

Blitzo shrugged, "She hosted you for 70-some years. Now you can look over her? Reciprocity, I guess."

"Kind of sweet, ain't it?" Millie interjected, smiling a desperate 'please don't kill us' smile. Had Moxie not been raised in Hell, he'd have been crossing himself.

Blitzo was eager to end the workday. "So we'll be getting a tip for that or what? I expect a 5 star review!"

[X]

[May 2020, Hell]

Agreeing to the promotional event at the rehab center chagrined him enough, since it was certain to be a drag. But children crawling all over the place like maggots on shit made it so, so much worse. Rehabs were on Charlie's marketing list because she reasoned that Hell-dwellers who believed in one form of rehab might put stock in another. Basically solid reasoning. Hosting the event during Mother's Day weekend, on the other hand, was questionable. She should have foreseen the wave of children visiting their parents, but her mind had been elsewhere.

When she approached Alastor about the event, he'd asked about the scheduling and whether she'd be paying a visit to the Queen. Charlie had shrugged, answering that Lilith was traveling for a concert, and left it at that. Alastor agreed to assist. He encouraged coping by throwing energy into productive distraction, and it was difficult even for Al to see the princess this morose, when she was normally energetic and high spirited. He was also her business partner, he supposed. It was a role he'd claimed unprompted, for which he now bore responsibility (even as he secretly enjoyed other perks), as she'd reminded him after the complaint he'd lodged the day prior.

"Can I ask why I wasn't consulted about this?" he'd demanded of Charlotte after witnessing a Happy Hotel advertisement playing in the storefront full of televisions he often passed during his daily rounds. As usual, Vox had emerged through the static to stare him down, this time with an especially smug glint in his eyes. It burned Alastor that he produced no witty retort and could only aggressively smile back in confusion and rage.

Angel, sitting nearby in the bar area, interrupted, "Shit, Al, they're already all over Voxtagram anyway," and held up his hellphone.

Al's head swiveled 180 degrees like an owl, dial eyes activated. "Pardon?" Sure enough, the page-top banner included a rainbow-clad ad. "How much money did we allocate for this?!" Al didn't really care about hotel finances, but he fixated on how much his nemesis had profited and how ridiculous it would make him look.

"How much money I spent is inconsequential," Charlie answered, earning a whistle from Angel.

"Whooo! Big fancy heiress Charlie, throwin' 'er money around! Don't worry, Al, she won't have to pay for 'em soon. I'll turn it into a gem of a meme. It'll spread fast." Alastor's mood lifted. He wasn't quite sure what a meme was, but context clues indicated the hotel was being mocked. He and Angel snickered together while Al finger gunned at him and mouthed 'Good man.'

Charlie—annoyed by her 'business partner's' love of mocking his own investment and rapidly developing meme anxiety—steered back to the matter at hand. "C'mon, Al. There's no large-scale advertising without interacting with Vox or Velvet. I don't like it either, but we have to play the game. You'd be the first person to tell me that. ...You didn't come back here just to talk about this, right? You really need a hellphone."

"I assure you I did not come back here only to tell you that," he lied.

"Good. Glad to hear you didn't... forget." A deadly sentence. Charlie suspiciously smirked, correctly intuiting Al had meant to slither out of this via convenient absence and he'd just thwarted himself. "We need to prep for that event tomorrow, business partner."

Present Alastor resigned himself to being officially roped in but couldn't help wondering, "Would Angel or Husk have been a better fit for this task?"

Charlie tapped the side of her head, giving the 'use your brain' signal. "It would be a trigger for them, Al. Geez."

Charlie either had no sense of humor or an impeccable one. Sometimes it was hard to tell. This extended beyond the hilariously innocent notion that either Angel or Husk was currently sober. Alastor regarded Charlie, himself, and the sea of rambunctious children hanging off of their exhausted, drug-withdrawn, yet mostly affectionate and engaged mothers like rabid little monkeys. Trigger indeed. He saw rare traces of envy on the princess' face. She was the least entitled heiress he'd ever seen, never expecting she deserved anything, always happy to witness others' good fortune. But now, she looked...almost...

Alastor felt foggy, snapping out of a daze. He'd sensed aggression in her face, like she could've squashed one of the little twits for daring to flaunt their mother in front of her. But that couldn't be, because it was Charlie. He blinked and it seemed to have been a trick of the light all along. She wore an expression of longing and sadness, but not hatred or envy. What had caused him to interpret otherwise? Strange.

Well, he could easily understand how she might feel envious. Despite that the kids were vicious Tasmanian devils and the mothers bleary-eyed and ready to choke them, some displays were surprisingly tender by Hell's standards. He saw one mother play-bite her child on the ear and then, as her daughter giggled, mouth 'I'll do better.' White noise buzzed in Alastor's ears. This sentimentality made him actively nauseous.

So he felt inappropriate glee when he spotted a different mother-child pair squabbling. Alastor honed in on them like a shark and approached with his 'ready to troll' smile on. Charlie internally groaned, unsure of what antics were imminent, and followed close behind. If nothing else, maybe she'd engage the mom in conversation?

"You know," Alastor began, popping up behind the child like a deranged jack-in-the-box, "it's been at least 80 years since I last saw my mother." Was he actually chastising the child for talking back? The little boy didn't look remorseful but was so caught off-guard he tumbled off the chair he'd perched on. Alastor finished, "And every day, she warns me if I misbehave again, she'll take my hearing next. Phhhht, HAHAHAHA!" The child and Charlie groaned in unison at the terrible joke. The mother looked ready to high-five Alastor until she recognized him, at which point she emitted a high-pitched fake laugh she hoped was a suitable offering to the overlord, while aggressively pinching her son on the arm for stupidly groaning.

Alastor returned to the event table with Charlie, who wore a strained expression of extreme tolerance as he continued stifling giggles over his own cliché wordplay. "My, my," Al noticed, "you appear embarrassed."

"No! Nope!" Charlie chuckled uncomfortably and flailed her hands crosswise in front of face.

"Embarrassed by your own friend." Alastor made a melodramatic hand swoop over his forehead. "Deplorable."

"Couldn't you...maybe curb those impulses just for one day?"

"To tell horrible jokes?"

"To scare people but, uh...yeah, that, too." She went for it, since Alastor typically rewarded her meager efforts at 'mean humor.'

"As a matter of fact, I have a brain injury and am sadly of advancing age, Princess. Have more patience for your poor old geezer friend's terrible jokes and poor impulse control due to the bullet in his brain!" Charlie looked mortified, but after a long pause, Alastor's stiff smile cracked. "You believed me!" Over Charlie's twitchy, anxious laughter, he reminded her, "Oh, you know I'm not offended that easily. Calm down, Princess."

Another 45 minutes ticked by and scarcely anyone spoke with them. Alastor hoped Charlie would give up soon and leave, but 'Charlie' and 'give up' didn't go together in a sentence. "Okay, look. I need one-on-one time with the adults. But I need the kids out of the way. The adults might...be more open to conversation if you're…" Charlie vaguely made an 'over there' hand motion. "Because they're…"

"Afraid of me? You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is bad for business. ...But the kids aren't scared!" They both looked over just in time to see one demon child miming big floppy deer ears and blowing a raspberry as a second demon child mimed ramming a shotgun up the first one's ass and pulling the trigger.

"That's because they don't have fully developed brains yet," Alastor explained.

"Will you distract them?" Charlie pitched, sounding hesitant but hopeful.

"No." Alastor received a set of very wide, teary anime eyes from Charlie. "Don't you think you're better with children?"

Charlie sighed and frowned. "They'll walk all over me. You know that."

"You're their Princess. I think that entitles you to walk on them if you like."

"I don't want to walk on anyone," Charlie reminded him, sounding a bit put off by his philosophy. "Anyway, my title only comes from my family, and I'm pretty loosely associated with the royals nowadays."

Alastor wouldn't give into her fishing for verbal comfort, but he was begrudgingly willing to do her a favor. He ticked his head toward the children, looked back at Charlie, and nodded. His business partner smiled, bounced up like a little spring and gave him a hug, which he slithered out of immediately.

"Kids!" Charlie called. "How about you give your parents a break for a little while, huh?" For once, the citizens of Hell regarded Charlie with appreciation; the mothers looked at her with watery-eyed gratitude as though she were handing out $100 bills. "My partner has agreed to entertain you."

"With what?" asked one of the children, looking unimpressed already.

"How about a magic show? Who volunteers to be sawed in half?" Alastor shot back. "I promise I'll put you back together the right way. But do you mind if I borrow one kidney? Perhaps it would be most kind of you to offer your mother the kidney. That would make an apt Mother's Day gift in this case, don't you think?" he asked, radio laugh track warbling in the background.

"Alastor!" Charlie chastised. He couldn't be left to his own devices to saw children in half and make mockery of their parents' addiction-related health problems. Apparently he needed specific instructions. "He'll tell you a story," she informed the children.

The cluster of children pivoted to Alastor in an eerily coordinated motion, sharp-toothed smiles glistening up at him, a gleeful look in their eyes that told both Alastor and Charlie they fully anticipated the chance to rip the storyteller to shreds verbally if not physically. Alastor glowered at Charlie hatefully. He'd be made to perform for some grimy children because he was outranked? Perhaps Charlotte was capable of cruelty after all.

"Go on. This is what you do, isn't it? You perform?"

"Not usually for children."

"I thought you liked children."

"I don't actively dislike children."

"WE'RE WAITING, OLD MAN!"

"C'mon, Al… You can bullshit for all I care, just fill some time, please?"

"Any story I tell these children you'll deem inappropriate. What kind of mind game is this?"

"Fff—cripes, go for princess in a tower or something!"

"How am I supposed to make that hold their attention?"

"Put your spin on it, riff!"

Alastor accepted this fate with half-lidded eyes. Charlie didn't know, but Al had such thorough exposure to fairy tales as a child that he knew the formula intimately. He could construct and deconstruct them like Legos. The task was annoying but hardly challenging. "By Your Highness' request I shall tell you a fairy tale."

"BOOOOOO!"

There was deafening, shrill radio static, followed rapidly by silent resignation. "Yes, that's how I feel about it, too, so please remember that we agree."

Meanwhile, Charlie returned to her display table with some spring in her step. Time to instill hope in people who needed her! Suddenly, a nurse's aid walked by to shout, "Smoke break!" This elicited a stampede of every adult in the dayroom for the yard. Charlie eked in surprise and followed, only to have the dayroom door slammed harshly in her face by the snickering aid. Unwelcome and defeated, she slumped into a chair in the corner and turned a half-listening ear to her partner as she waited for them to return.

"Once upon a time, a young prince experienced the misfortune of having two parents who died when he was quite young. Not only did no one take him seriously because he was small, but his mother came from a neighboring kingdom against which there was much prejudice, so the citizens didn't respect him as a legitimate heir to the throne. There was a constant attitude of disrespect. To avoid the pain of this indignity, the prince self-isolated most of the time."

"Why is it an emo fairy tale?"

"This is not what I would have picked, but for your information, all fairy tales start out 'emo,'" Al finished with falsetto and air quotes. "That is the time-tested formula. Have you never read a book?"

"No."

"Did your mother ever read you a book?"

"Nah, she doesn't have the attention span, she's a crackhead."

Al got the socially-programmed sense that he should feel sorry for the child. "… Have a candy, son."

"Ew, Three Musketeers? Gross!"

Al hurled a Snickers bar at the irritable child's head, where it hit with a loud thwack, and the silence resumed.

"...Having no one with whom to converse, he talked to himself frequently and tried his best to be entertaining. Luckily, the large, empty rooms of the castle provided the prince with one friend. He could talk as long as he wanted, and Echo never objected. If he cried, Echo cried tears of sympathy. If he yelled, Echo raged alongside him at his enemies. If he laughed, Echo always laughed with him, never at him."

Charlie—realizing this was not the slapstick comedy she'd anticipated, and not having expected to fall hurtling off a cliff balls deep into Alastor's subconscious—awkwardly sat in a corner making a face like a Muppet breaking the fourth wall.

"Outside in the castle's gardens, the best place to talk to Echo was the deepest, darkest well from which the household drew water. Years passed this way, but one day, Echo did not respond. Instead, a new voice rose from the well, pleading for help. The prince feared his long years spent in social isolation had driven him mad, so he consulted a doctor, who may have concurred were there not multiple reports around the area of apparently sane people hearing the same voice."

"I think they had a problem with their well water."

"Your cynicism is a healthy, even commendable, quality in everyday life, young lady, but this is a story, so kindly shut up. ...Numerous others had heard this S.O.S. The circulating rumor was that it originated from a distressed sorceress who spoke so fervently into the emptiness around her that her magic allowed her voice to emerge from emptiness elsewhere. The intolerant citizens of the village from which she came were influenced enough by her magic that she avoided burning as a witch, but they still exiled her to an isolated prison, in which she would surely starve to death if no help came. Mystifyingly, this voice was heard long beyond the time it would take someone to starve once they had run out of food."

"If she's a powerful sorceress, why can't she—?"

"A handful of curious individuals journeyed to the location described, but none returned. Supposedly a ferocious dragon guarded the prison, devouring any who tried to enter."

"Cliche."

"Quiet, you. ...Now the existence of the voice had been corroborated, but the prince hoped other details were imagined fabrications. Had anyone seen this dragon? In any case, he felt tremendous sympathy for the woman, whose prison was so small, she likely had not even an echo to accompany her. The voice promised any reward desired for rescue, but he wanted only her friendship. He decided to travel to this location himself and see if it was viable to rescue the lonely sorceress. After several days' journey, following the mysterious voice's directions, he arrived. There was indeed a tall isolated tower, but when it appeared there was no dragon to slay, the prince felt only momentary relief before worrying that he may find the whole tower abandoned. Amazingly, he found the woman inside alive and well."

"You're not going to explain how he made it in?"

"Child, I have not had enough caffeine, and I don't care. ... She was quite pretty and charming and quick-witted, such that the prince would have befriended her quickly had he met her anywhere else. Why would anyone want to lock her up? He praised her resilience and asked how she'd lasted so long in such hostile conditions. Then the sorceress smiled, too wide, revealing rows and rows of sparkling, knife-like fangs. As she dropped her glamour spell, the prince had just enough time to feel foolish before the dragon swallowed him in a single gulp. Of course! The whole place was completely barren, so what else could she have been eating?"

"Um, you just introduced rows of fearsome teeth, and she doesn't even use—"

"I'm still talking."

"You suck at this, mister."

"Quite astonished that he was still alive, the prince explored the cavernous gullet of the beast—"

"What the shit."

"—and at last came across its heart."

"It's like a cave? He's wandering around one internal organ somehow finding other internal organs?"

"Did no one teach you about metaphors?"

"This is stupid."

"It's a magical-[radio static] fairy tale land, so suspend your disbelief, cretin!"

Charlie shot Alastor a frustrated glance, which was undeserved, in his opinion, given the completely unreasonable expectations these children had for fairy tales.

"...He marveled for a moment at how, despite the organ's impressive largeness, it beat exactly like his own. It differed only in its scale. Otherwise, they were totally alike in function, complexity, and vulnerability. It struck him, deeply, and for a moment he was quiet with his thoughts."

"You're not about to tell me he empathizes with the monster that just ate him and they live happily ever after?"

"HA! Of course not, simpleton!" Alastor slapped his knee with one hand and aggressively tweaked the child's nose with the other, causing the boy to tumble backward.

Charlie grimaced. Normal Alastor had returned. What was she about to hear?

"He realized she was ultimately as vulnerable as he was. All traces of intimidation and illusions of inferiority disappeared." The nature of Alastor's smile changed, and the children may not have noticed, but Charlie did, because she'd had practice. "The prince was no longer afraid of the prejudiced townspeople, nor the vicious dragon. Without mercy, he stabbed the dragon's heart straight through, sliced the dead beast open, and bathed in its magical blood in celebration. After absorbing his enemy's magic, he returned home as the most powerful sorcerer his kingdom had ever seen, and those who still not did respect him feared him, so it no longer mattered. But more valuable than any magic was realizing he was never weaker than any enemy. No matter how formidable they may appear, everyone has weaknesses to be exploited, and if you always aim straight for the heart, any enemy can be conquered!"

The children were silent.

"Except zombies," Alastor added helpfully. "It's always best to take their heads off!"

The kids blinked quietly for about 1.5 seconds before a repetitive and merciless chant of "COOOORN-YYYY!" began.

Alastor hatefully glared at Charlie, who grinned/grimaced innocently as though she'd expected something else, before the first few splatters of goo hit them.

[X]

"You were the one who begged me to try again so you could talk to the parents," Alastor reminded Charlie as the two walked through the city, covered in ambiguous red splashes of liquid that could just as easily have been tomato juice or blood, given where they lived.

"What did you say to them, Al?" It was hard to imagine how he could have overshot the mark by so much the second time after so woefully undershooting it the first time. The same fearless brats who'd taunted them were hovering around their mothers for comfort by the time Charlie and Alastor were finally asked to leave.

Alastor himself seemed mystified by the extreme reversal. "I just told them a story my mother used to tell me about a hallway. A mysterious hallway that feeds on loneliness and eats people who have grown apart by luring them in and separating them in a dark, featureless maze. It tricks them into running further and further apart with a menacing growl. The hallway turns out to be but a throat or a tongue that coils up and digests them in the even larger beast's stomach. Eventually. First it tortures them by letting them wander and realize they'd never anyone's voice ever again, just the sound of their own lonesome, echoing cries!" Amused by her aghast expression, he wiggled his fingers and allowed the radio to play cartoonish, stock ghost sound effects.

"That was what she told you as a bedtime story?"

"I think it was her way of telling me she never wanted us to grow apart."

Charlie decided she didn't want to touch this with a 39.5 foot pole. "Forget it. ...I was surprised by the first story, too. Gotta say, Al, I was expecting a comedy."

"Yes, I considered going that route." Al shrugged. "But that was just what I came up with once I got going." Truth be told, Alastor was forcibly shutting down thoughts of various factors that may have compelled him to tell that story—Charlie's angst over her family being one, the mothers and children being another.

"Huh," Charlie uttered neutrally. Alastor seemed unbothered by the initial fishing comment, so she pressed forward. "Yeah, it was pretty formulaic, if unconventional."

"I became quite familiar with the formula. My mother must have liked those stories because there were several volumes of—" There was a hesitant break before the continuation of the sentence. "—Grimm's Fairy Tales and the like...left behind."

Oof. Charlie switched to another subject of interest to her. "...I have...some questions about that story…"

"Such as?"

"Well, first of all, the messaging."

"What could possibly be wrong with reminding children they're no less than anyone else?"

"Nothing, if that's the takeaway. But you really played up the violent, merciless slaughter of your enemies and 'fear is better than love' bit."

"Did you never play with other children in Hell when you were growing up? And as you can see," Al pointed out, gesturing at the red blotches on Charlie's face, "even that was nowhere near enough to satisfy them. I dialed it back to please you."

"Okay, well, point taken. But what about, like…" Charlie made a cartoonish facial expression of exaggerated discomfort and gestured awkwardly at the air. "The whole princess and the dragon being the same character, and literally 'women with pointy teeth,' as a trope."

"We're in Hell, Charlie, dear. All of the women have pointy teeth," he replied with a wink.

"C'mon, Al, you know what I mean."

He was so naturally over-the-top, it was hard to tell when Alastor was going for comic melodrama and when he was actually offended. He gasped, hand over heart. "Charlie! I'm surprised you think such an unflattering thing about me! I have nothing but positive opinions of women. I learned everything I know about psychological warfare and leveraging the element of surprise from females. I value their expertise. They're genius tacticians, really."

Charlie struggled with the calculations. If Al immediately attributes a bunch of negative qualities to women but his unironic opinion is that all of those negatives are positives, is he still sexist? Her eyes crossed. "Fine, fine. Last question, promise! The echo thing. Were you…" She coughed and shifted, hesitant but too curious to stop. "Were you...describing...a laugh track?"

Speaking of sound effects, you could practically hear a record scratch. "Excuse me?" Al responded curtly.

"Speaking into the emptiness for company and hearing the echo… Were you talking about your old job?" Charlie ventured.

Al glowered at her out of the corner of his eye. "No. None of that was autobiographical." He didn't think she was stupid; he was offended that she'd dared pose the question out loud. She cringed as he continued walking ahead of her while obviously aware that she had stopped.

Despite feeling guilty for embarrassing him, Charlie was frustrated. Why share something about yourself, publicly, metaphor or not, and expect your friend not to comment? She trotted to keep up. "Wait! Al…" At this point there was no reason to feign politeness. "Who's the dragon?!"

"I thought you said that was your last question."

"MmnmnnsrjeaHDGRHAQGRAHHH!"

Of many things that intrigued and haunted Charlie about this exchange, one stood out. Alastor had insinuated that his mother died before he had many memories of her. Yet Alastor frequently mentioned his mother—usually positively, regarding specific memories. So...who had he been talking about all this time?

[X]

Note: Sigfried is a character in folklore who slays a dragon but ultimately takes on many of the dragon's characteristics.