Bombproof leapt from the elevator, situated in one of Lust's many nondescript alleyways. They interrupted a succubus giving a seedy blowjob.
"Ooh," she immediately forgot her beau when she noticed the rugged, fanged cowboy atop his flaming horse. She stroked his ankle; he hissed and kicked her face.
Striker then adjusted his hat and steered Bombproof out of the alley and to the left. As they sauntered down the sidewalk, demons around them stopped, swooned, and catcalled. He rolled his eyes at the cries begging to ride him and remembered why he didn't visit Lust very often.
He locked eyes on their destination: Explosion & Partners Litigation Group LLC. A tall, cylindrical skyscraper with an angular roof, its pink windows looked tasteful within Lust's twilight. They picked up color and sparkle from its neon surroundings, neither garish nor competing for attention. The building overall stood out for being imposingly tall, structurally modern, and devoid of lighted pin-ups.
In front of its automatic doors, Striker dismounted and tied Bombproof's reigns to the nearby bike rack.
"Don't bite anyone who don't deserve it," he said as he patted the horse's neck.
Bombproof stomped and shook his head.
"Good man!"
He stepped into the building and walked up to one of the security guards, a massive Irish Wolfhound, next to one of the metal detectors.
"You got a business card?" she grunted.
Striker blinked, then remembered. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the business card that had been sent to him.
"This?" he asked.
The hound nodded, placed it under a laser scanner next to the metal detector. It blinked green. Then she held out a plastic bin and said, "Take out everything metal, please."
He rolled his eyes and threw in his entire jacket, vest, and shirt. "Save you some time," said Striker. He stepped through the metal detector and it shrieked in alarm. Groaning, he knew what was coming, and proceeded to remove blades, bullets, bullet casings, cans of mace, and steel-tipped arrows from his boots and pockets.
"Shit," remarked the hellhound, watching her plastic bin strain under the growing collection. "Who are you here to see, exactly?"
"Miss—uh, not really sure how to say her name…"
"Lass-ee-von," the hellhound said patiently. "Lass-ee-von Explosion."
"Right," said Striker. "I'm here to see Miss Lascivonne Explosion herself, or so I was led to believe."
"That's right," trilled a voice from behind the security guard. "Lascivonne's expecting him just as he is, Nora."
An incubus approached, in tailored short-shorts and see-through shirt under his blazer, showing off the array of tattoos he had along his right arm, up his throat, across his collarbone, and down his stomach to his left thigh. Striker noticed violently torn angel skulls juxtaposed with dancing, naked incubi and black runes. A column of tally marks was tatted right on his lower stomach and continued downward, disappearing below his beltline.
The incubus stood too close for Striker's comfort and fluttered lashes that were obviously fake, balanced with thin black eyeliner and glossy red lips. His luscious purple-to-red hair was impeccably styled in a short pompadour with shaved edges. The style effectively tied together the clean, good-boy look with his tattoos and bulbous muscles.
"Striker? From Wrath, right?" He held out his hand, bedecked with rings and more ink. "I'm Rapture! Reynold Rocky Rapture. I'm Lascivonne Explosion's personal and paralegal assistant!"
"Nice to meet you, Mister Rapture." Striker shook Reynold's hand. Judging by the grip, it seemed there was real strength within the broad incubus's arms and shoulders.
Reynold seemed equally impressed, meeting Striker's eye and smiling with the whitest teeth the cowboy had ever seen. "The pleasure is all mine."
His eyes roved up-and-down Striker's body; the slim, Wrath demon with his compact muscles realized that he was still without his shirt. Acting like the oversight was deliberate, Striker took his time putting his arms through and buttoning to the top.
"Lascivonne is waiting for us upstairs," said Reynold. "Her office is on the penthouse floor. Shall we?"
Striker finished putting on his jacket and nodded. "Lead the way, sir."
"Ooh," Reynold bristled. "'Sir.' I like that! Nora—"
The hellhound didn't even look in his direction. "I'm not calling you 'Sir' from now on."
"Call me 'Sir' from—hey!"
Nora and Striker both snickered. Reynold rolled his eyes and proceeded to the lobby.
A massive fountain with purple, floral-scented water adorned the center of an atrium. Stretching all thirty-eight stories, the endless rains and marquis of Lust defined the lighting and color scheme within. Stark whites, platinum grays, and brisk blacks made up every foundation and floor. The elevators were glass, however, lifting patrons with a full view of the reception desk, restaurant, bar, café, mini golf course, gardens, and pole dancing platforms. The fountain itself was a black marble basin, pillar, and decorative statue of a succubus lifting an amphora. The water was supplied by an impressive waterfall, falling down the center of the building, as seen all the way to the ceiling.
Striker whistled. "Swanky place!"
"Thank you," said Reynold. "We are proud of it. Lascivonne bought each office, one business at a time, then gutted the whole damn thing and renovated it!"
"She's got good taste." The cowboy winked at one of the pole dancers, who blew a kiss in response.
They approached one of the glass elevators and stepped inside. Reynold pressed the P button at the very top and glass doors closed before them swiftly and silently.
It ascended quickly, faster than any other elevator Striker had ever been on. The cables made a light, swooping noise that was smooth, predictable, and therefore comfortable. Indeed, the offices across the way flowed with them in a zen serpentine.
Striker winced, then pulled his hat down over his eyes: He knew an attempt at hypnotism when he saw it!
"Everything alright?" asked Reynold.
"Yeah," answered Striker. "Just, sudden headache. Must be the speed."
"Sorry," Reynold responded. "It can be jarring when you're not used to it."
"S'alright."
"It's a Loopty-Doopty original," explained the incubus with a tone of utter wonderment. "The fastest elevator in all of Hell, and that's including Station 666! This was their first prototype."
"Fascinating," yawned Striker. "How long you been Miss Explosion's assistant?"
"Oh," Reynold stopped and thought. "Since she was just a criminal attorney in an office right, there!"
He pointed outside the elevator, but Striker didn't take the bait. He maintained eye contact with the incubus, the two sharing a coy look, as if they knew what game they were playing.
"Are those special in any way?" Reynold pointed a finger back-and-forth over Striker's face.
"What? My eyes?"
"Yeah," the incubus stepped closer, lowering his voice to a more seductive tone. "Do they hypnotize? Mesmerize? Will I start hallucinating soon or feeling—sleepy?"
"You tell me," Striker cocked an eyebrow and angled up his hat. "What do you feel? Looking into my eyes?"
His sudden flirtation made Reynold turn red and pull at the collar of his transparent shirt. "Hot," he answered. "Hot. And bothered."
"Must be working, then."
"Must be."
The elevator halted to a stop.
"We're here," cried Reynold, clearing his throat and pulling himself together.
The door behind them opened. In the stillness, Striker took an opportunity to lean forward and look down. He saw no view of the atrium, only reflections of glass and the outside sky.
"Ahem," Reynold redirected his attention. "This way."
They stepped into the reception area of a smaller office. It looked more like a traditional corporate office: single desk, waiting area, self-serve coffee station. Two sets of side doors could be seen at either end of the room, one behind the reception desk and one beside the coffee.
Sitting at the main office computer was a stout, pear-shaped succubus with a white-to-blonde flapper style bob, darker red skin, and little stars by her lip and eye, like beauty marks. Her buck-toothed smile carried both intelligence and sneakiness, as if she knew more than she told. Several gold teeth, including her front left tooth, bore star-shaped platinum embellishments, matching her gold-rimmed rhinestone glasses and blinged-out jewelry. They glittered like galactic lights against her off-shoulder black body suit, the bottom of which was visible beneath a see-through blue tulle skirt. Its near-thong cut showed off her heightened, heart-shaped backside that had Striker entranced more effectively than the hypnosis elevator.
"Thank you for calling," she said. Her voice sounded warm, wholesome, and welcoming, like a hot homemade supper. "Bye-bye now!"
"There she is!" cried Striker, approaching the desk and tipping his hat. "Finally! I keep hearin' tell of Lust's great beauty and was beginning to think it was a lie."
The secretary looked him up-and-down, processed what he said, then laughed like a flustered teen.
"Well," she said, not-so-humbly. "You know, the best treasures are kept hidden."
"Sexy and honest." Striker leaned on the desk and hummed as if he had just tasted something delicious. "Mm! You truly are a gift, Miss—?"
"Starla," the short succubus stood and held out her hand. "Starla Blitz. You must be Miss Lascivonne's two o'clock, Mister—?"
"Striker." He shook her hand then kissed it, gazing softly into her eyes. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Blitz."
"Starla."
"Miss Starla."
"Mister Striker," she giggled.
He chuckled.
"What is happening?" asked Reynold, forgotten on the office threshold.
Starla grinned flirtatiously as she spoke into her headset: "Miss Explosion? Your two o'clock is here. Thank you." Then, she addressed Striker in a smooth, sensual tone: "Miss Explosion will be right with you."
"She can take her time," he replied in a low, intimate tone, leaning closer.
The secretary batted her glittery eyelashes, lessening the gap between them even further.
"I could also take you back there," cried Reynold, physically inserting himself between them and leaning towards Striker. "I do have direct, 24/7 access to her office, after all. Like, I don't even know why we're even talking to Starla, you know! She has enough to do, I'm sure."
Starla shrugged. "Miss Lascivonne has kind of a slow day today." She looked at Striker and winked. "I might even get off early for once."
"Really?" Striker by-stepped Reynold to not only stand closer to Starla, but also to run a finger along the top of the desk, towards her hand. "Cause I might need somebody to show me around these parts. I ain't been around Lust in a while."
"I'll acquaint you with whatever parts you like," purred Starla, meeting his finger with a light rub from one of her own.
"That's a 'might' though," Reynold frantically reminded them. "'Might', not a guarantee!"
Neither demon paid him any mind, lost in each other's gilded smiles and sneaky eyes.
The door beside the reception desk suddenly opened. A tall succubus appeared, in a high-waisted miniskirt, suit vest with no shirt underneath, and fitted blazer. While they looked expensive, her buxom chest and wide hips threatened to tear her whole outfit apart at the seams, exemplifying her love handles and formidable cleavage. All her buttons and cufflinks were impeccably polished silver, each individually engraved with a curvy, loopy "LE".
Her skin looked like when orange succumbs to pink during a sunset. Black tiger stripes marked her arms, legs, and the outline of her face. Even her long black hair was highlighted sporadically with white. Wavy strands fell from her bun—well, buns. One on top of the other, one smaller than the other, both embellished with ivory pins modestly decorated with golden symbols Striker didn't recognize. He also took special note of her nails: long, pointed, and curved inward. Like claws. The light silver polish she wore was chipped at the tips, indicating to him that she used them. Her legs were those of an apex cat's, looking strong. Striker would be willing to bet that the feet inside her metallic, designer heels also had claws attached.
"Striker? From Wrath?" She took off her rimless reading glasses and put them in the breast pocket of her blazer. Its shining chain almost tempted Striker to look at her chest. But her yellow eyes held wide, black, and intense pupils that he felt even more compelled to stare down.
"Yes ma'am," he answered, taking off his hat with a flourish and showing his fangs with a smile.
"I'm Lascivonne Explosion, Esquire." She held out her hand for a shake, but her facial expression was as unreadably neutral as a plain gray book cover. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Not a problem." Striker shook her extended hand, noting its strong grip and validating his assumption that her nails were sharp.
"You were very highly recommended. Shall we?" Lascivonne motioned for the door she had emerged from.
"After you," insisted Striker, gesturing with his hat.
Lascivonne led the way, with Striker following and Reynold bringing up the rear. Her private office was at the end of a beige hallway that seemed wholly unnecessary: none of the doors had knobs, the smell of plywood and drywall was pervasive, even the carpet felt thin and cheap. A stark contrast to the rest of the lush, shining, designer building. The entire atmosphere felt hollow; their footsteps echoed ominously.
Striker rattled his tail, on his guard. Lascivonne turned and gave him a small but visibly satisfied smirk.
When they reached the door at the end of the hall, she touched a section of the wall, watched it turn blue, then opened the door.
Her office was a return to the high-class aesthetic as the rest of the firm. The entire room was curved, with the whole outside wall being a glass window overlooking Lust. Striker recognized it as the curved end of the eclectic roof. He also noticed a set of sliding doors leading to a sleek, chrome patio. There was no furniture, however, as it only seemed large enough for one or two people, and the railing was just a single flimsy chain.
"Have a seat," Lascivonne gestured toward a set of couches and end tables in the middle of the room. Her actual desk was a sleek, wide, waved desk with an assortment of drawers, built-in file cabinets, two computer screens, an intercom system, a set of four security monitors, jars of writing utensils, and piles of files organized by color and urgency. A second, smaller desk was attached, where Reynold sat down and turned on his own computer.
Striker chose the least luxurious chair situated in front of the desk. It was lighter, easier to turn. He casually angled it to face the office door, the sliding glass door, Reynold's desk, and Lascivonne all at once.
Her eyes and teeth flashed as she smiled and settled in her massive, plush, office chair. The endless rains of Lust pounded the window behind her, illustrating just how high above the ground they were.
"I want to thank you again for answering so promptly," she said. "You were recommended by a very high-end source. The kind of work I have needs to be handled quickly and discreetly."
"Shouldn't be a problem," Striker responded. "What sort of work we talkin'?"
"It would be a multifaceted position," she explained.
"How so?"
"I need someone to oversee my—shadow operations."
Reynold typed something on his keyboard, then looked at Striker, waiting for an answer.
"'Shadow operations?'" asked the cowboy.
"Sometimes," answered Lascivonne. "Certain witnesses need extra encouragement to remember events and details…correctly."
"I see."
"Others need to be dealt with more permanently. I also require a strong bodyguard during appearances in high-alert settings."
"I see." Striker leaned back in his chair. "How often do you have a need for such services?"
A sarcastic chuckle emerged from Reynold, as if holding back a snarky truth. He clicked on something, then checked his phone.
"Often enough." Lascivonne's affirmative answer drew back Striker's attention. "With large sums of money on the line each time. I need a trustworthy professional to handle things quickly and discreetly. As I said, your reputation precedes you. So, if you're interested, I'd like to offer you the job."
"I appreciate your generosity, ma'am. What sorta pay we talkin'?"
"A monthly salary."
Before she could even look over, Reynold pulled out a green folder from his desk and passed it to Lascivonne, who gave it to Striker.
"I think those numbers should compensate for time spent, personal risk, and miles travelled."
Striker opened the file, looked at the numbers on the paper, and whistled.
"That is a generous amount," he admitted.
"Well, the position would be a lot of work," she said candidly. "You'd be my personal bodyguard as well as Director of Shadow Operations."
Striker had to hold back his laughter; he had never heard such a corporate, shady title. "I'm sorry, director of what?"
Reynold caught his eye and shrugged from behind his boss's back.
"Director of Shadow Operations," repeated Lascivonne, perfectly non-plussed. "As I said before, you'd be in charge of eliminating threatening parties, transporting individuals to explicit locations, redirecting focused memory in accordance with company needs, and providing personal security during choice meetings and events. All while ensuring that any and all witnesses remain coherent and cognizant enough to testify in court."
"Of course," agreed Striker. "Wouldn't want to invalidate company goals and methods."
"Certainly not." Lascivonne gave him a legitimate smile. It was short-lived, but gave both demons a moment of understanding, even relief. "I don't expect an answer right away. But I do have several subjects I need dealt with as soon as possible."
"I'll do those," said Striker. "At my usual retainer. Then, I think I'll have a better idea of what this position's all about."
"Very well," conceded the succubus. She unlocked a cabinet in her desk with a key from up her sleeve, pulled out a red file, and handed it to Striker.
Inside, he found not one but four dossiers on several demons in the Greed and Pride rings.
"One will need to be killed," explained Lascivonne. "His is the black tab. The other three only require some…fright. Perhaps pain, disfigurement…I honestly don't care what you do to them. Just keep them alive and sane enough for court."
"Not a problem." He put on his hat and gave Lascivonne a wide, sinister grin. "In fact, sounds like fun."
He rattled his tail. His sinister energy made Lascivonne bite the end of her tongue, then her bottom lip. She crossed her legs and composed herself with a sharp breath.
"Excellent." She shut the drawer, then faced Striker again. "So, your price?"
"Kidnapping and intimidation's twenty-five thousand each," answered Striker. "Killin's fifty-kay. Cheaper than what you just offered me here." He waved the paper from the green file, gesturing. "I want you to see what I'm capable of, too, before you hire me."
"I appreciate it. Here—" Lascivonne gestured at Reynold. He unlocked a cabinet close to him, took out a cash box, turned the combination out-of-sight from Striker, then took out a credit card. He passed it to Lascivonne.
"Hold out your phone," she told Striker.
He complied. Rather than take it, Lascivonne simply placed the card on top. It glowed, opened his banking app, and displayed a deposit of $120,000.
"You'll get the rest once the file is completed," she told him, taking her card back.
"The rest?" Striker was confused. "This is the whole amount right here."
"Yes." Lascivonne looked him in the eye. "Your starting price. I'll pay the other half when the entire file is completed. In a timely manner. Consider it a sign-on bonus, should you accept a permanent position here at Explosion & Partners Litigation Group."
Reynold seemed to type every word she said into his computer.
"Well, shit." Striker looked at his banking app in disbelief. "That sure gives me a lot to think about."
Behind Lascivonne, Reynold nodded in agreement.
"Good to hear." She folded her hands, rested her chin, and gave him a once-over with a coy expression. "I look forward to seeing your results. Mister Striker."
Striker and Bombproof slid down the rails of the abandoned mineshaft to their favorite lair so far. The inside of the mountain was perfect, with plenty of space for his large mementos, fortified surroundings away from prying eyes, and plenty of tools and junk left for the taking. Striker had already turned an old miner's saloon into his bedroom, got the mining company's old generator running, utilized the carts into torture cages, and hung meat hooks from the track rafters. If he could just lift the caravan cart off its side, he'd be able to put together a new lounge area. A homemade sauna was also on his to-do list.
He slid off Bombproof's back. The horse immediately trotted over to the side elevator. The old shaft served as a food dispenser, which Striker turned on. The red light flashed, which Bombproof knew as the signal, and a pallet of meat clamored to his feet.
The cowboy unsaddled his horse and removed the bridle, hanging them on stakes jutting unceremoniously from the rock wall. There also hung a bucket, where Bombproof's brushes were kept. Striker liked to give his saddle area a brush after every ride.
"Whatya think?" he asked the horse, as the spiked currycomb loosened away clumps of dirt and scratched itchy, sweaty areas. "Think we're cut out for corporate work?"
Bombproof stopped eating long enough to give a shrill bray, as if laughing.
"Yeah, it's not really our scene," agreed Striker. "But the money's real good."
He switched to a more bristle-y brush that was better at flicking the dirt away. It was also good for massaging Bombproof's muscles, making it the horse's favorite part of the groom. His hoof pounded the ground in ecstasy while he continued stuffing his face.
"If Stella wasn't so stingy," Striker growled between his teeth. "I'd already have a cache of blessed weapons. Then I wouldn't need to think about takin' jobs like this."
Striker sighed, then ruminated in silence. When he finished grooming Bombproof, the horse stopped eating once more to whinny.
"You're right," conceded Striker. "Best get to it."
He left Bombproof to eat and relax while he went over to his bedroom. There, Striker threw off his jacket, hat, and boots. He stepped into his "kitchen area," which was little more than a firepit in the ground, a couple sitting logs, and a minifridge plugged into the generator via extension cord. It was here that Striker sat down, took out a can of beer, and proceeded to read the contents of the file Lascivonne had given him.
Striker decided to look at the actual hit first: an unassuming, sad-looking imp from the Greed ring. They had, according to the dossier, witnessed some mobsters commit a murder and was going to testify. He would need to be dead before his court date in two weeks.
"That's plenty of time," Striker said to himself. He flipped back to read about the other jobs: One demon needed extra motivation to stick to the "right" story during trial, another needed assurance that they would actually show up, and the third was no longer a client but still had past due payments.
Striker chuckled to himself and sipped his beer.
"Damn," he mused. "Director of Shadows or an overpaid mobster?"
Just then, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and it showed the name "HER".
"Ugh!" Striker groaned and rubbed his temple in frustration. His thumb hovered over the red hang-up button. But then, he thought about the single blessed knife he owned and the angelic cache she possessed, and put on his most charismatic voice.
"Hello, m'lady," he answered, succeeding at sounding more sincere than he felt. "I've been thinkin' about you."
"Really?" On the other line, Stella was so loud that her girlish giggle sounded more like a bombastic shriek.
Striker held the phone away from his ear and winced.
"As you should be," she said, meaning to be flirtatious but only coming across as pompous to Striker. "My entire evening has freed up and I want to see you."
"I can't really—"
"Meet me at the café I like in Sloth," continued Stella, cutting off Striker, as she did in every conversation. "Five-thirty exactly."
"Tonight's not—"
"I want that hallucinogenic boba tea before we go out for dinner this time," instructed the oblivious Stella. "Then I want you to take me back to that steak place in Wrath. I cannot get their rib cuts out of my mind!"
Striker sighed. Memories of partying with Stella tempted him to go. But then, he'd be giving in to her demands. Her abrasive, careless, shrill demands.
"I actually have some work to do."
"Work?" Stella sounded shocked. "I haven't given you any work."
"You're not the only one who gives me jobs," quipped Striker.
"Well, I should be," retorted Stella. "Starting now. You're my personal assassin and, therefore, are forbidden from working for anyone else. It's settled."
"Settled nothin'!" Striker stood up at the sheer audacity. "I work for myself, so I pick my own work! You don't tell me where to go, woman!"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Her voice grew menacingly low. "You know, I can just keep you in my palace. Then you'll always be available."
"I ain't no pooch," he snarled. "And I sure as hell ain't no mooch."
"I didn't understand a single word you just said," dismissed Stella. "However, considering it's you, I'm going to assume it was something moronically macho and will insist, once again, that you meet me at the café in Sloth at five-thirty."
"I have work tonight," growled Striker.
"Pity," said Stella. "Because my body has been hungry—"
Striker facepalmed and held the phone away from him again.
"—for a rugged, dirty, badass fuck!"
He brought the phone back to his ear. "Look, I said I'm—"
But she kept going: "I want to suck them both dry. With my beak and fuzzy, wuzzy lips."
Striker spitefully adjusted his pants.
"Do you remember?" Stella continued. "How well they both went in? At the same time?"
She made a wet, sucking sound that reminded Striker exactly how it felt. He involuntarily put a hand on his inner thigh and clutched his jeans.
"Five-thirty?" Her voice sounded softer, more vulnerable. "Sloth?"
"Five-thirty Sloth," he promised.
"Glorious!" cried Stella, then promptly hung up.
Striker looked at Bombproof. The horse snorted and shook his head.
"Yeah," conceded Striker. "I know."
