Warning, the following chapter will contain mentions of violent, fringe ideologies. The author does not endorse or condone political violence or extremism of any kind.
It was another ordinary day at the Hazbin Hotel. Although not a single new soul had even inquired about the hotel's vacancies, much had nonetheless happened that improved the Hotel's standing.
Firstly, the elevators were finally operational again. With two safe and functional units, it would be much easier for guests to travel up and down floors, especially if they had physical characteristics or disabilities that inhibited their capacity to walk up flights of stairs.
Secondly, Charlie had managed to acquire a means by which to consistently maintain food supplies to the hotel. Of course, it had required her to bend her moral compass somewhat, but considering the alternative, she swallowed the sense of betrayal in her heart to realize that this compromise with her ideals was for the greater good.
Instead of trying in vain to grow a vegetable garden or spending money to raise livestock, a grower and landowner under the payroll of one of the Goetic families was bribed to provide food to the Hotel. This grower had no qualms about the arraignment, and assured the Princess in person that such a diversion of crops, meat, dairy, spices, and bread would not affect the normal amount of food for his master. Nevertheless, it shook her that she had taken the advice from Alastor of all sinners.
It was the Radio Demon's candid suggestions and critiques that both helped Charlie and unnerved her at the same time.
Days before...
"So, I wanted to ask for your thoughts about ways to improve the hotel."
Charlie, Vaggie, and Alastor were currently in the office again. As per usual, the Radio Demon, ever confident, swaggered into his seat and gave a sickly pleasant grin towards the Princess whilst Vaggie glared at him in the hope that he would burst into flames and simply turn to ash within her eyesight.
"Well, ask away my dear! I can't promise that I'll speak the words you want to hear, nor will I have an answer for every subject. However, I shall do my very best to assist you!" He answered with a degree of diplomacy in his tone.
"First, there's a pressing issue that I've been putting off for a time. Supplying the hotel with food is a major problem that has to be fixed if we're going to have guests. I asked my mom's secretary about it and she did give me the number for the head of my family's supply chain for food, but they just..."
"Laughed in your face?"
"Yeah..." Charlie admitted dishearteningly.
"And I suppose your status as the Princess and daughter of good old Lucifer merited nothing?"
"The man I talked to only takes orders from my father. And my father is not..." The words that Charlie spoke hurt her heart. "Let's just say he disagrees with my mission."
Alastor hummed in thought for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sorry to say that I have nothing special of note to say on that part. I am more than capable of getting my own foodstuffs, but I assume that going out in person and getting the necessary groceries you require would be time consuming, would it not?"
Charlie nodded.
"Is there another supplier who would be willing to acquiesce to your needs?"
"I think so, but all of them serve other powerful demons, and I don't have the leverage to make them do as I say."
"You could bribe them." Alastor answered casually.
"What?" Charlie looked shocked at the suggestion.
"All demons are self interested, you know. It's just a matter of price. Are you unable to pay for such services?"
"Mom still gives me a large allowance." Charlie said, her tone indicating that she was at least considering the less than moral solution.
"Then meet with one of these professional growers and ask for a price. Bargain with them until they compromise on an agreed sum of money. If they serve us food of literally distasteful quality, blackmail them."
Charlie balked at Alastor's proposal.
"No." Vaggie rose to her feet as she voiced her opposition. "We are a hotel that discourages sin. If we start bribing people to do things for us, won't we look like hypocrites?"
"Oh dear!" Alastor cried melodramatically. "Hypocrisy, what a disqualification in a world filled with the lowest souls imaginable! The horror, oh the horror! Oh the humanity and the swaths of moralizers in this world that would surely bring the hotel to its knees!"
Vaggie seethed at Alastor's attitude towards her concern, though she would be lying if she did not admit that out of the billions of people in Hell, few gave a damn about things such as scruples. Fewer still had the same concern for moral fortitude like Charlie.
The Princess pondered a bit. Silence hung in the air before Alastor relaxed his dramatic posing.
"I do suggest that you remove the childish insistence on a perfectly squeaky clean image. Even for a cause like redemption, it simply won't hold. If you wish to accomplish anything of worth, you will need to compromise. After all, you compromised with your image by inviting someone as irredeemable as I in your ridiculous operation, and yet this hotel has only improved during my tenure as your unofficial sponsor, however incremental that improvement may be."
"That is true..." Charlie admitted.
"Take my advice or simply don't." Alastor added. "I do not own your hotel, but I do hold a stake in its success. I do suggest that you make the right decision. Don't want to risk having its wretched inhabitants starving, yes?"
Charlie hesitantly wrote down the a Radio Demon's commentary. Vaggie looked close to having a conniption about her decision, but appeared to be just as unsure about the fruitfulness of any other alternatives.
"Secondly, about advertising the hotel..."
"I assume you have your edit of the script made up."
Charlie, wordlessly, brought up a sheet of words typed up from her computer. It was a strange thing, that they used drastically different instruments to articulate the lines for a radio ad of the hotel. Charlie, ever modern, used a laptop. Alastor used a typewriter that made scripts at will with a single flicker of his imagination. This union of vastly different technologies collaborated together to build a suitable manuscript for Charlie and Alastor to read once they began recording.
The Radio Demon's crimson orbits looked over the page of text to see if anything looked especially out of place for an advertisement on his particular frequency. He was mildly impressed to see that Charlie had restrained herself from inserting unnecessary fluff into the script.
"Not bad... you detailed the various benefits of the hotel beyond the prospect of being redeemed and leaving the Circles behind for good."
Charlie nodded. "I... had some help from Vaggie. She kept me on track."
A smile crept on Vaggie's face as she looked placed a supporting hand of Charlie's shoulder. "That's my job when it comes to you."
"You do a lot more than that." Charlie retorted cutely with a poke of the Salvadoran's nose.
"Well, I see no reason to not move forward to a recording session. Shall we do this now, or later?" Alastor conjured his microphone cane. It's thin eye crinkled in anticipation of being used for an advertisement for the first time in years.
"How's about later this afternoon, after lunch and before dinner? Maybe 2:30?" Charlie suggested.
"Sounds like a done deal!" Alastor agreed. "So, was there anything else you wished to gab about?"
The present, 9:28 am
That particular meeting had cemented Alastor as a necessary evil, pun intended, for the hotel's survival. Aside from financial help in a pinch, he had the nerve to give advice, however frank, that served to at least illuminate a new perspective on matters. As much as Charlie and Vaggie would hate to admit it, the newfound relationship between them and the audio-themed Overlord was at least somewhat productive.
Yet another fruit of this agreed "partnership" was on the cusp of airing one morning. Charlie and Vaggie were sitting expectantly at a radio graciously provided to them by Alastor himself. The audio was not the most exceptional quality, but it carried a tune just fine. The music currently playing on Alastor's channel was quite dated, but the jazz and blues and other old fashioned songs were pleasing to the ear.
"When is it going to be playing again?"
"Any minute now, when it cuts to a commercial break."
"You really think it'll work?" Vaggie still sounded unsure, even with her part in shaping the script.
"Any means by which we can reach people can only help our cause. If even a handful of sinners listens to the ad and is convinced enough to join as a patron, then that will be a success. We just gotta have faith."
Vaggie gave a quick chuckle. "Faith. Your old man would probably lose his mind to hear his own daughter talking like that."
"Heh heh. Sure." Charlie did not exactly want to talk about her father, especially in the context of her dream to redeem her people.
The door was opened, much to the girls' surprise. In stepped Jersey, who had his tool set in hand and was dressed back in his work clothes from the other day. His rehab session was not due for another six days, so Charlie did not expect him.
As he was speaking, the song on the radio, one made by Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians, concluded. The commercial break was just beginning.
"Excuse me, I just wanted to let you kn-"
"Shh!" Charlie hissed at Jersey. The sharp sound somewhat startled him, and he ceased talking without even so much as asking why.
"Greetings once again, from Alastor, at the bottom of this fine morning hour! I have a particularly special sponsor for the following music block. No doubt some of you might have seen our dear Princess of Hell, Charlie Magne, promoting her hotel to redeem sinners. Oh how it was amusing to see that bitter as vinegar woman Katie Killjoy be upstaged and then handed a bruising by her own guest."
Vaggie growled lightly as Charlie momentarily buried her head into her knees. Her rosy cheeks became subsumed by lakes of pink that clouded the sides of her face.
"Well, I am here to inform you that I have partnered with Ms. Charlie to make her hotel into a worthwhile establishment to any and all sinners who find themselves tiring of the eternally vicious cycle that is life in Pentagram City."
Charlie dared to look up at the radio as the advertisement continued.
"Are you tired of enduring the worst excesses of Hell? Does the prospect of potentially being eliminated by an Exterminator once every year frighten you? Do you wish that there was a second chance to get to the splendid, Elysian world that is Heaven? Fear not! For we have the solution to your wish to achieve a better afterlife: the Hazbin Hotel! A place for has been sinners, you are given the opportunity to better yourself and prove your soul worthy of being whisked away to that haven in the sky that all in Hell have never seen up close. But do not take my word for the splendor of the Hazbin Hotel, just listen to its founder, Princess Charlie Magne!"
The ad switched to Charlie's melodic and energetic tenor. Everyone in the room was intently listening to the ad being played out before them.
"At the Hazbin Hotel, we are committed to redeeming those wanting a second chance. We have many activities suited to ween demons off of sinful activities to get them to Heaven. The Hazbin Hotel provides food, shelter, and protection from all of the usual dangers that Hell is home to. All of your expenses are covered! So come on down to the Hazbin Hotel, located at 4279 Fallen Eden Avenue. At the Hazbin Hotel, even sinners can earn a halo."
"What a marvelous opportunity! Don't forget all of the benefits for giving redemption a chance, ladies and gentlemen. Now, onto a classic by Ruth Etting."
Charlie squealed with joy. Leading up to her feet, she hopped up and down, too energized to care about Jersey's witness account of her little celebration. The Princess of Hell wrapped a fierce hug around Vaggie, who was too slow to get to her feet before her head was trapped within the vice that was Charlie's affection.
"That was incredible!" Charlie exclaimed.
"Good job, hun." Vaggie strained within Charlie's embrace.
"Nice job." Jersey said.
"Thanks. I was hoping for a substantial advertisement, and now we have one!" Charlie said ecstatically. "The 666 News segment was the total opposite of what I wanted."
"I see. I thought your performance on that channel was quite impressive."
Charlie looked conflicted, stuck between flattery and extreme embarrassment. She let go of Vaggie, who straitened out her hair as Charlie addressed Jersey's unexpected compliment. "Impressive? I made a fool of myself. The fight with Katie Killjoy didn't help things."
"You shouldn't have sung, Charlie." Vaggie reminded her.
"I know."
"Of course, Angel made things worse with his turf war bullshit. Helping a friend or not, he destroyed our credibility. He didn't even apologize for it!"
The gladdened mood in the room had been dampened by the reminiscing of the chaotic television appearance. Though Jersey might have had misgivings about the information, or lack there of, given on the 666 News segment, it still left an impression that was not completely negative.
"Well, if it's all the same to you, I thought your tv appearance was pretty effective." He commented.
"How?" Charlie asked, genuinely interested in the handy man's reasoning.
For a few seconds, Jersey looked to the side, his brow and lips scrunched in thought. He relaxed his pale face with a shrug.
"It got me to come looking for this place, didn't it?"
That was partly a lie, for Jersey was already searching for the Hazbin Hotel hours before seeing Charlie's 666 News. That being said, her musical act did brighten his mood. At the same time, the interview confirmed that a hotel existed in Hell that had vacancies available.
Charlie let a little, appreciative smile grow on her face.
"So, I wanted to let you know that I am dealing with the creaks in the floorboards."
"Oh. Is it a major problem?" Charlie asked.
"It's more of a quality of life issue. The hotel's a bit on the dry side, and there is no telling if any of the nails used for the floorboards need replacement. I'm starting with the staircases and working my way up the floors."
"Okay. How much will it cost?"
"Well, I don't have an estimate on how many steps or floorboards this hotel has." Jersey raised his hands to reveal the tools he was using for the job. "I'm just using this claw hammer, some shimming nails, and a generous application of this powdered graphite for the majority of the job. I'd say maybe... fifty dollars for each floor and ten dollars for each flight of stairs?"
"Alright. Good luck."
"Skilled workers don't need luck." Jersey answered with a smirk. He promptly left the two girls. They could now consider future moves and preparations for the hotel, now that they had a means of branching out its advertisement.
In a radio studio on the South Side of the Pentagram, a morning political radio show had just concluded. It was the only station of its kind in Hell, and it was an enigma in many ways. Given that Hell was essentially under the leadership of a monarchy, there was little choice for a different type of governance. Lucifer did not rise to power with charm alone, and his command over his corrupted, angelic abilities made him an insurmountable foe for any who dared to usurp his throne.
Nevertheless, this channel had profited much by feeding off of sinners who held onto politically charged grudges. It technically ran on two frequencies, playing to two captive audiences, one far right, the other far left. This was a purposeful decision by the sole owner and personality at this station.
In life, Pete R. Tizan was a charismatic man with no guiding principles. He had made a great success of his life stoking the flames of heated political situations. With one hand, he would speak to the lowest common denominator of the electorate of the importance of a homogeneous nation free of anything even remotely left of Pinochet. On the other hand, he spoke of Das Kapital as if it were the gospel to bourgeois college students who believed everything not in the graces of the left to be fascist.
Today was a special day, because he believed he had the perfect opportunity to subvert his primary competition within the radio world. It was time, in Pete's mind, to end the life of the man who became the Radio Demon decades before his time in Hell.
A young demon, the color of rust, stumbled into the recording booth with a disk in hand. He was wearing tan slacks and a brown dress shirt with its sleeves rolled back. Slim and short, his form was most akin to that of a squirrel, with a bushy tail having lost its erect nature due in no small part to his exhaustive schedule. His large, dark eyes looked at his boss wearily.
"I got the recording of the Radio Demon's morning hour. I think there's something you should hear."
Twisting in his chair was a serpentine demon with two heads, each of which possessed dull grey eyes. His clothing looked as if Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had taken a brief stint in merchandise design. One half of his sleeveless shirt had the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union. The other had a fasces, the axe tied to a bundle of rods which was used as a symbol of power for Roman magistrates. This was the symbol of fascism.
The back of his scaly body looked as if it had been dipped in oil, whilst his underbelly was white as bone. Rings and other gaudy pieces of jewelry were on his spindly fingers, and a gold necklace with the letters AM/FM glinted in the dull light of the recording/broadcasting room.
Most striking was the microphone that sprouted from the tip of his tail, the instrument by which he spoke his venomous words to hoards of malcontents on the fringes of politics. The propaganda that Pete spoke made him quite rich and powerful as a mortal man, and the skill to bend masses towards his toxic rhetoric was carried over to his afterlife as a sinner. Though not an Overlord, he believed himself to be within a hair's breath of earning the title for himself.
"What have you heard, Nutsy?" Pete's voice, spoken at one time through the mouths on both of his heads, was unnervingly powerful, with the ability to charm most who heard it. Otherwise, it had the ability to quell the willpower of others. Its deep tone chilled Nutsy to the core.
"W-well, sir. I think you'd better hear it for yourself."
When listening to the CD that the recording was made on, Pete thought nothing of the music that came forth. He was not the most musically inclined individual in Hell, far more interested in how he could strengthen his own influence and line his own pocket by exploiting the listening power of the most wretched of partisans.
It was when the advertisement of the Hazbin Hotel came about that Pete's interest was sparked.
"Turn it back about four seconds, Nutsy."
"Yes sir."
"So come on down to the Hazbin Hotel, located at 4279 Fallen Eden Avenue!"
"Stop."
The squirrel demon paused the audio.
With a malicious grin, Pete slithered over to a cabinet near the CD player. He pulled out a map that detailed Pentagram City. Glancing over the old parchment with two pairs of stony irises, he found the street in question. Fallen Eden was a somewhat lengthy roadway, but he soon pinpointed the exact location of the address. It was not called the Hazbin Hotel on the map, but unless Charlotte Magne planned to dupe those listening to her advertisement, there was no doubt that the hotel he found and the address she had spoken of were one and the same.
"Redemption." Pete laughed under his breath. "Clearly Alastor has gone soft in the head. But this is the ideal opportunity to corner him and prove that I am the true Radio Demon here in Hell."
"Um, sir?" Nutsy shivered as a little glare was sent his way from his boss' peripheral vision. "N-not to discourage you from taking Alastor on, but are you certain that he will even be there?"
"I know the Radio Demon all too well." Pete answered as he placed his stick-like arms behind his back. "If he is putting resources towards this hotel, for whatever demented reason, then I highly doubt he will allow it to be destroyed in an all out attack."
"Y-you plan to attack it yourself, sir?"
Pete let out a series of low chuckles that shook the room. "Now Nutsy, surely you understand the basics of chess."
His tail loped slowly up towards his face. Instantly, the ring of an active mic caused Nutsy to cringe and duck down and cover his furry ears from the harsh whine.
"A King always lets the pawns go first."
8:00 pm
That night, as the Socialist Speak hour began at radio frequency AM 1665, a most unique speech radiated towards sinners who carried their far left ideas far beyond their graves. The voice was the same that they had always heard, but its rich, bass sound carried a more direct message.
"I speak to my fellow proletariats tonight to alert you of a grave insult to the cause of a class-less society. Even now, as we speak, the daughter of the usurper of the workers of Hell, Charlotte Magne, wishes to whittle away at the working class with false promises of redemption. She, who was born as the heir to Lucifer Morningstar, has used the class privilege afforded to her by her father's wealth and power to divide us by trying to redeem those who cannot afford comforts in the Seven Rings."
Those who listened stood with rapt attention to the ill warnings of Pete R. Tizan.
"She operates with the help of a bourgeois oppressor who has used force and the ruthless drive that is the creative destruction of capitalism to reign as an Overlord for far too long. The Radio Demon, Alastor, seeks to use the working people as his playthings within the so called Hazbin Hotel."
"I say that such a grievous offense against the laborious souls within Hell cannot go unpunished. Tomorrow, you shall be the army of liberators who will crush this farcical attempt to weaken our proletariat brothers in Pentagram City. It is time for the beginning of a new dawn in this Circle of Hell! March upon 4279 Fallen Eden Avenue tomorrow at 11:30, when the Radio Demon and the false Princess Charlotte will begin lurking in their Hotel of capitalist dogma! Leave the building as a smoking ruin!"
Throughout Pentagram City, the roars of hyped up socialists, syndicalists, communists, anarchists, and countless other sinners who felt contempt for the monarchy rose up in raucous agreement.
"We march towards a dawn without Lucifer, without bosses, and without private property! We march to war!"
Twelve hours later...
"Charlotte Magne and the rest of her wretched family are the buckle of an antiquated system that prevents the state that rules the Seven Circles and the sinners that inhabit it from becoming one apparatus. They quash our attempts at revolution, and permit the extravagance that has made our afterlife an agony."
A new clientele of listeners paid attention to Pete's morning show. They were just as repugnant and violent as their counterparts on the left, but listened with rapt attention to a different set of ideas and propaganda.
"My friends... today, I call upon you to take action against the weakling Charlotte Magne and her decadent ally, the Radio Demon. For those unaware, he is a Creole, a grave insult to our idea of a master race of sinner. He thinks himself better than us all whilst spreading Bolshevism from his own platform."
From murky corners throughout Pentagram City, growls of indignation and hatred poured from fascists and those with ultranationalist tendencies. Even leftovers from Nazi Germany lended their ears to absorb the foul commands and instructions from Pete's venomous voice.
All of it was blatant lies. Alastor wouldn't waste his energies over something as disinteresting as politics. But the lie was all that the hoards of vile listeners needed to hear.
"At 11:30 today, we shall strike at the Hazbin Hotel, a wretched asylum for Zionists and the agents of Marxism. Come forth armed as well as you can to 4279 Fallen Eden Avenue! Strike a tremendous blow to the monarchy and the socialist filth that seeks to engulf all of Hell with its tyranny!"
Sporadic choruses of affirmation and support rose up in response from those who heard Tizan's decree.
"Butcher the Radio Demon and his feeble allies! Leave none alive in your wake!"
"We go, my friends, to war!"
"Are you sure bringing every political extremist in Hell to strike the Hazbin Hotel is a good idea, sir?" Nutsy was hastily putting on Pete R. Tizan's finest "battle coat" as he called it. It was a trench coat with a strange emblem stitched over where his heart was located. It was as if the hammer and sickle of communism was entwined with the fasces of Mussolini's Italy. Embroidered with gold, the red and black colors that made up the patch reflected Pete R. Tizan's true political theory: anarchism.
"They will be far too focused with besieging the Hazbin Hotel to worry about each other. As long as that fool Alastor is distracted by their violent antics, their fate does not concern me."
Ever since he had built himself a studio and began his broadcasts, Pete had exploited the grievances of politically volatile sinners in Pentagram City. They lined his pockets with their money for feeding them the red meat and confirmation bias they so often craved. It was a cynical business model, but Pete merely exploited his general expertise in political theory for a pragmatic purpose. He was no politician, but he could subtly convince masses of people to bend to his will all the same.
With the battle coat properly affixed to him, Pete R. Tizan looked at the nearest clock. It was 10:45.
"It is time for a new Radio Demon to rise from the ashes of Alastor. There will be no dawn for him and his little cabal of redeemers."
11:30, the Hazbin Hotel
At the fifth floor, Jersey had gone through roughly half of this particular floor, meticulously nailing the subfloor and the floor boards into a solid, largely noiseless entity. He had spent countless hours yesterday and had taken only a token breakfast this morning to get as much done as possible. This was going to amount to a very handsome paycheck, hopefully enough to go out and get some new clothes that weren't just practical for working purposes.
"I'm well over halfway there." Jersey whispered to himself. "If I work almost nonstop, I'll have silenced these pesky creaks."
He was reaching for another nail when something caught one of his ears. It was a raucous sound, filled with ire and noisy rancor.
The noise was coming from the front of the hotel.
Standing up as quickly as he could, Jersey began walking to the nearest stairwell, which was now much quieter thanks to his efforts from yesterday. He glanced down at the claw hammer in his hand. If there was the threat of a scrap, then it was best to go armed. The last thing he needed was to use some of his actual power in the hotel, not just for the sake of potential collateral damage, but to not arouse curiosity about his abilities.
Rushing down the stairs, he staggered into the lobby to see a scene of utter tension. At the concierge desk, Husk looked especially agitated, his feathery tail loping back and forth as he gripped an empty beer bottle in one of his paws. Vaggie was right in front of Charlie, her spear pointed threateningly at the pair of doors that were pushed open by a crowd of sinners armed with makeshift melee weapons. Charlie looked as if she was divided between negotiating with the mob now outside her door and retreating to where Husk was.
"Please! There's no need for fighting in the Hazbin Hotel! Just tell me why you are here! Maybe I can help you, if you want to be redeemed!"
One sinner, tall and panther-like, pointed an iron crowbar at Charlie.
"Princess Magne! For too long, you and your family have kept down the working classes of Hell! Now we are striking back at the heart of one of your vessels of capitalism! Prepare to die!"
The crowd roared in approval as more sinners began to push into the door, prepared to do untold amounts of destruction. It was at this point that Charlie knew that negotiation was impossible.
The founder of the hotel could not help but instinctively walk backwards from the vicious mob. Fear swam in her mind, both for her friends and employees and the hotel's wellbeing. It would be a travesty if it was destroyed when it was barely getting itself into tip top shape.
Charlie placed a firm arm on Vaggie. "Please don't kill them!"
"If it's either you or them, the choice is clear, Charlie!" She roared back, ready to get in the fray of battle.
"Enough!"
Some of the noise subsided as Jersey stomped forward. "What the hell is going on?!"
"We're striking back against the oppressors of the proletariat class here in Hell!" A second militant, this time a walking slime with an amorphous green form slithered forward. His voice was surprisingly stable despite being a walking, talking non-Newtonian fluid.
"And you think ransacking this place will what, deliver justice?"
"That's right!"
"Yeah!"
"Time to eliminate the terrors of private property and a class-based society!"
"I'm part of the working class, you dolts! If it wasn't for Charlie, I wouldn't even have this job! I earn good money at this hotel! If you destroy it, I'll lose my income and the place where I sleep at night!" Jersey reasoned tempestuously.
A few of the crowd that had entered the lobby appeared to genuinely consider Jersey's reasoning. For a moment, the tide of fury from the socialists gathered inside was stemmed. Then, one sinner clothed entirely in black, like a cat burglar, ran into the corner of Jersey's vision. A flash of dark green glass smashed into his face, causing his head to jerk to one side.
Those who witnessed the surprise attack saw a sinner taking an empty bottle without falling to the floor in pain. Several large shards of glass were now embedded in the left side of Jersey face. Aside from a gasp of horror from Charlie, who witnessed the attack from behind Jersey, the lobby was silent.
Then, Jersey lifted his face back to the crowd. Purposefully, he plucked the glass shards from his face while barely flinching as the fragments left his flesh. To the astonishment of the socialists, his flesh appeared to be catching fire, but instead of merely cauterizing his wounds, the muscle, blood vessels, and skin on Jersey's face healed, not even showing scars where his face was defiled by injury.
A growl rose up from his throat. His eyes, previously the color of juniper, became as if fire had replaced his irises.
"That fucking hurt..." Jersey spoke with chilling finality.
The black clad militant who had attacked him was suddenly grabbed by the throat. The thug in dark clothes abandoned the shattered glass in his hand and gripped Jersey's arm in a failed attempt to wriggle free. Lifted off the ground to where he was now level with Jersey's face, he could only brace himself as his captor charged forward, forcing many who had entered the lobby to retreat at the infuriated handyman.
Charlie and Vaggie could only watch in both shock and growing concern as Jersey knocked many towards the vandalized front door, leading to a brawl outside the lobby. A few of the thugs who had sidestepped the chaos outside, ran further inside to try to resume their assault on the hotel's interior.
"Please don't kill them!" Charlie screamed at the top of her lungs.
Vaggie hastily agreed, and begrudgingly handed her spear to the normally rosy hotel owner. She instead brandished two knifes that were at least three inches long each.
One rioter swung at Vaggie's head with a baseball bat. She promptly ducked the angry and wild swing, using a forward roll to reposition herself behind her assailant. A swipe of one knife severed his right hamstring, and he collapsed with a shuddering gasp, the swift cut leaving him incapacitated and breathless.
A second interloper aimed a handgun at the one eyed knife fighter's head, a glock by the looks of things. Her heart racing, Vaggie instinctively threw the knife in her left hand, the tip of the blade sticking in the underside of the hand holding the gun. With a cry of pain, the firearm tumbled from his bloodied grip. Leaping to her feet, Vaggie flicked one of her feet with a sharp kick, catching the thug under his chin with a harsh thwack. With a second attacker knocked out, Vaggie only had three seconds to scramble and recover her second knife before another militant confronted her.
Charlie, far too kind to take initiative in any fight, nonetheless took steps to minimize injury to herself. Using the spear handed to her by Vaggie, she blocked swings from a collapsible baton wielded by a humanoid lizard with a hateful glare on his harsh, yellow face. With a hiss, he kept pressing his attack, forcing the Princess to double her blocking rate with the shaft of the Exterminator spear.
For years, Charlie had hoped to prevent the cruel death of a sinner by an Archangel's primary weapon. Now she had to use one of the infamous armaments to protect her from one of her own subjects.
The assault levied against her was stopped when the sound of shattering glass rang through the air behind the scaly sinner facing Charlie. He collapsed in a heap, revealing a very pissed off Husk, who had a second, intact bottle in his offhand.
Charlie stood, catching her breath. "Thank you Husk."
Husk grumbled with a shrug of his arms. "These fuckers are pissin' me off. I thought I left dipshits like them behind when I died. Guess some politics die hard."
Charlie was not familiar with political ideologies made in the human world. Aside from vague understandings about how some sinners were made to arrive due to some authoritarian policy or global conflict, she was largely unaware of the geopolitical situation of the 20th century.
"Sure..." Charlie glanced off, looking on as Vaggie fought like a wildcat against the uncoordinated gaggle of people that dared to fight her.
"Get Al." Husk muttered.
"What?"
"Get Al. He'll put this shit to rest. Even these demented assholes will run away pissin' themselves when he comes knockin'." Husk staked away, using his spare bottle to bash one of the oncoming intruders into unconsciousness.
Charlie, realizing Husk's point, ran towards her office to phone Alastor without the risk of noise or violent interruptions.
At the front of the Hazbin Hotel, Jersey was right in the thick of it. Surrounded by dozens of attackers armed with weapons both makeshift and conventional, he was constantly acting to incapacitate members of the crowd. In one hand, he grappled and punched at people. In the other, with his hand gripping the handle of his claw hammer just under its stainless steel head, he used precise swings and thrusting strikes to break noses, smash kneecaps, and disarm his enemies.
It was a chaotic melee, far more hectic than any battle Jersey had previously faced. Not even the battles of two world wars compared to the pace of conflict he was engaged in. He could have struck with enough force to cave skulls in without the use of a hammer. But he had a persona to keep up, and a few bloodied faces and broken bones would be more than sufficient to discourage the socialist crowd from pursuing the destruction of the hotel and its founder.
A militant with a two-by-four in hand had his weapon broken in half by a fierce swing by Jersey's hammer. With a thrust of his foot, he sent the ragged looking thug packing.
"How many skulls do I have to crack to get you dumbasses to buzz off?" He growled as he looked to see that he was still facing off with nearly three dozen remaining foes.
"Bourgeoisie bastard..." Jersey turned to see a dark red, hulking, bull-like demon with two pairs of wickedly curved horns leering down at him. Nearly two feet taller than the Hazbin Hotel's handyman, a sharp axe was in his beefy palms. His solid black shirt with a communist hammer and sickle, could barely contain the muscle laden torso of its owner.
"Any last words?" The bull growled menacingly, his nostrils flared out in fury.
"Time to take out some trash..." The voice was feminine, and not Jersey's own.
Suddenly, the smack of something wooden brought Jersey's attention to the handle of a broomstick. It had smacked the middle of the bull demon's groin. With a pained whine, the formerly armed demon toppled like a tree, his hoof-like hands cupped protectively over his privates.
Twirling a broom in one hand, and with a sharp knife in the other, a manically smiling Niffty stood, unafraid of the crowd still surrounding her and Jersey.
"Hello~!" She sang.
"Um, thanks for the help, but you should get out of here." Jersey warned, putting himself into a defensive stance, with a fist put up near his right cheek, and his other hand still clutching his hammer.
"I spotted vermin here." Niffty replied easily as she settled into a combative stance of her own, though this one was much more improvised. "Do you know how much I hate vermin, Jersey?"
"If I had to hazard a guess, a lot?"
"Yes." Niffty replied. Placing her knife away, she settled for holding the broom like a spear, the brushing end pointed threateningly at the rioters in her general direction.
Another noise of angry voices caught Jersey's attention down the street. Looking to his left, he saw yet another crowd of rioters, this time sporting swastikas and other far right symbols, heading thunderously down Fallen Eden Avenue.
Something told him they were focused on the same goal as the socialists that arrived earlier.
"Niffty, you ever wanted to hit a Nazi?"
"I never thought about that, but I sure wouldn't mind."
"You're about to get the chance." Jersey answered gravely.
Alastor had not expected such a frantic call on his Kellogg phone, but he quickly understood the terrible gravity of the situation.
"And you require my assistance, my dear?"
"Yes! I can't let the hotel fall so soon when we're trying to get it up and running!"
The phone call was suddenly cut off. Charlie, for a terrible moment, thought that Alastor had abandoned them for the sake of entertainment.
"Indeed we cannot." Stepping out of a dark red portal, Alastor stood grandly in Charlie's office. His appearance had spooked her, but she was very glad to see him.
"Al! Thank goodness you're here! We need to stop them before they damage the hotel any more than they already have!"
"They are in the lobby you said?" He immediately walked with stupefying calmness towards the door leading into the west hallway.
"Yes, and in front of the hotel. Jersey took some of the fight outside."
"Jersey, you say?" Alastor's vermillion eyes glanced at Charlie with interest.
"One of the rioters smashed him in the face with a broken bottle when he tried convincing them to leave. I hope he's okay."
Alastor hummed momentarily. "Quite a brave fellow. Back on topic, I do suggest you stay back while I handle this band of ruffians."
With a snap of his finger, a puff of red smoke accompanied the sharp sound. It was ignored by the miscreants fighting against the unlikely duo of Husk and Vaggie. More than a dozen amorphous, dark shapes slithered from Alastor's shadow. Soon, demon-like shadows with varying colors of glowing eyes fell upon the rioters. Lacking weapons, the shadows were surprisingly formidable, overpowering the shocked and uncoordinated sinners that they faced off against. With simple, powerful strikes of their smokey forms, they quickly incapacitated the intruders in the lobby.
One lone demon in a black hoodie, armed with a crowbar, sprinted at the Radio Demon. Alastor's smile only grew as his eyes turned to radio dials. A static-like atmosphere clouded the room. The loud, hellish sound drained the sinner of his courage and likely robbed him of his full range of hearing. He fumbled to the ground, clutching his ears and shivering in fright.
"Ha! I must say, I'm disappointed." The Radio Demon remarked, his eyes returning to normal.
When a new round of intruders, this time of the far right persuasion entered the lobby, Alastor reacted instantly. Small portals, no bigger than an orange, acted as gateways for tendrils of malevolent energy. Black as pitch, these tendrils wrapped up the incoming attackers with consummate ease.
The heat of battle was soon broken up by a pair of clapping hands.
Alastor canted his head in confusion. Then, through the doorway, slithered in the demon who instigated the attack on the hotel.
"My my." Pete R. Tizan remarked with hungry grins on his twin reptilian faces. "Always so willing to leverage your power against those beneath you, eh Alastor?"
"Hmm... Have you come to request a spot on my morning show hour? If so, then I'm afraid you are a bit late on that end. We already have so many worthwhile advertisements and so much good music to play. I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to waste my time with you." Alastor said.
Pete bristled for a moment, but kept his cool. "Including an advertisement for a chance at redemption?" The radio host laughed at his own statement. "You truly have gone soft over the years. Pathetic."
If Alastor was offended, he did not show it. "I can't say that I know you. Are you, by chance, looking to apprentice with me? I'm rather flattered."
This time, Pete growled audibly. "I'm here," he replied, "to destroy you."
"Ha!" Alastor laughed again. "You surely are not a comedian of any stripe. You would be lucky to keep your station in the black if that was the case. Come now Pete, just return to your second rate station on the South Side and keep spouting that nonsense that you don't even believe in."
"Not without perpetuating your destruction, you old bastard!" With a thrust of his palms, violent blasts of sound rippled through the lobby. Vaggie and Husk were forced to take refuge behind one of the scattered pieces of furniture in the room, trying to prevent the harsh, window shattering sound from rupturing their eardrums.
The entrapped right wingers were pulled unceremoniously by the dark tendrils summoned by Alastor into the portals they were summoned from. With panicked screams and curses, they were completely removed from the battle, squeezed harshly though portals that barely grew to accommodate their indisposed bodies.
With a flick of one hand, a symphony of flapper music formed a barrier around Alastor. The energetic music dispelled the harsh rush of noise cast forth by Pete. The lobby was restored to some level of calm, with only the pleasant sounds of 1920s music to break the silence.
Outside, a frustrated Jersey was still in the midst of cracking the skulls of the far right assailants trying to get into the hotel. Nearly all of them came armed, trying to inflict injury on him. Smoothly, he parried away the strikes of wooden bats, crowbars, and hands covered in metal knuckles with his claw hammer. He would then capitalize on this opening to land punches that more than once knocked out the teeth of its targets.
Meanwhile, Niffty was eagerly getting in on the action. Having traded away a now broken broom for the knife she kept on her person, she dashed back and forth, slicing open the calves and ankles of those at the scene. More than once, a militant of some political faction tried to shoot at her. Niffty, however, was an unconventionally small, fast moving target, and all that came from such distance-based assaults was a sudden cut to the leg and being left on one's back in a painful state.
"How many of you stupid assholes came all this way just to fuck up the hotel? Were you guys too bored to just take a goddamn nap or something?!" Jersey asked rhetorically at the scattered, groaning forms of the crowd that had been beaten into submission.
Suddenly, Jersey was blindsided, too distracted by his growing impatience with the afternoon's events. A hellhound with stocky limbs tackled Jersey in his midsection, forcing him into a wall to the right of the hotel's entrance.
Though a bit winded by the force of the strike against his diaphragm, he recovered quickly, smashing his hammer into he hellhound's back. With a pained cry, the hellhound was forced to the ground. Trying to get back on his feet, the dog-like demon glanced to his left and saw that Jersey was walking around to face his side. With a lash of the handyman's leg, the hellhound was struck in the head and left unconscious on the sidewalk.
Jersey could see that the crowd had been greatly reduced. Perhaps the danger was over.
Suddenly, flashes of demonic power above the street sent Jersey on edge. Multiple portals opened up above the front of the hotel. Instead of summoning monsters or a new wave of thugs, the mangled bodies of right wing extremists fell unceremoniously onto the hard concrete.
The confusion on Jersey's face shifted to agitation as he sensed a battle of evil power in the lobby of the hotel. One signature of power was all too familiar: it was Alastor's. The other he could not identify, though it seemed nominally of a nature similar to the power Alastor wielded.
This assumption was made more likely when a group of humanoid shadows sprinted out the front door into the battle outside. With slippery efficiency, they clawed at and batted at the violent hoard of rioters.
The battle was truly turning, but Jersey could not help but recall the powerful presence in the lobby who was confronting the Radio Demon.
For a moment, Jersey was conflicted about staying outside or returning to the lobby to defend the hotel's interior. He quickly determined that Alastor could handle whatever aggressor was facing off with him. He sprinted to Niffty to aid her.
Without feeling even slightly winded, Niffty was still cutting at the legs of rioters left and right. At this point, she was taking advantage of the fact that some of the crowd had recognized their political enemies and had started fighting each other rather than focusing on her. Unfortunately, the space around her became especially small as sinners grappled and dueled with each other with the finesse of raging bulls. Niffty realized that she was in a mosh pit of street brawls and stopped in her tracks to find a way out of the melee she was stuck in.
"Perra..." A voice growled from the side. A lynx-like sinner with a shirt colored black and red with the acronym C.N.T on it pointed a revolver in her direction. The hammer on the gun had already been pulled back, and Niffty could just see the movement of the demon's trigger finger about to grace the firing mechanism of the weapon.
Suddenly, knocking away two quarreling rioters, Jersey grabbed the barrel of the gun and forced it upwards. The 38. caliber round was shot harmlessly into the air. The demon wielding the gun screamed as his forearm was broken by the swing of Jersey's hammer before he was clocked in the chin by a second strike with the tool.
"You okay?" Jersey asked Niffty.
The little maid blushed a bit. "I am now that you're here, handsome."
"Would you mind flirting with me when there are fewer jackasses trying to kill us and destroy the hotel?"
"That's fair." Niffty conceded shyly.
Back inside the lobby, the duel of power between the Radio Demon and his talk show host rival had remained static. Currently, both were wielding their powers with precision and terrible force. The carpet had been shredded in places and the ceiling was a mess. The span between both radio themes demons was practically a death zone, with each attack able to cause terrible damage.
Husk and Vaggie had been forced to leave through the ruined doors at the entrance to the hotel to avoid being caught in the crossfire. Charlie, huddled behind the concierge desk, was in awe at this second opportunity to observe Alastor's power.
Pete R. Tizan spun the microphone at the tip of his tail, conjuring a foul wind of red energy that flew rapidly towards Alastor like the line of a whip. The Radio Demon didn't even flinch as a portal opened above his right shoulder, producing a black tendril that swatted the energy as if it was a fly, dispelling it completely. The tendril was soon followed by half a dozen other openings in the lobby which allowed a volley of demonic tentacles to race at Pete. He swiftly curled his tail, and from his tensed limb, a sphere of protective energy held the tendrils back from harming him.
"It seems we are evenly matched, Alastor!" Pete called as if in a friendly competition.
"Ha ha ha ha!" Alastor gave a raucous laugh, as if Pete had told him a clever joke instead. "Are we?"
The Radio Demon's smile only grew, and his eyes became dials once more. Pete soon became alarmed to see that his shield was becoming constricted by the tendrils. The anarchist radio host tried to match Alastor in power, but began to realize the gap between them. This was but a fraction of Alastor's potential.
And he was losing.
Groaning, Pete soon felt his own barrier beginning to squeeze him in. Hairline cracks appeared, and the panic in Pete's heart only grew. He could only let out a roar of anger and hatred before his shield was destroyed and he was at the mercy of the tendrils now crushing his serpentine form.
"You lost this game the moment you bothered to wield your followers like a collection of fragile cudgels. You merely provoked a sliver of the power I possess, Petey. No amount of antics from the abject failures you call listeners will ever help you beat me."
Alastor waltzed towards Pete's constricted state. With a smile that could only come from a cat who caught the canary, he leaned in, basking in the snake demon's pathetic circumstances.
"There is only room for one Radio Demon. You are but a pretender who drawls on about the most boring subjects imaginable. Even the trash other stations play can at least be pantomimed as music. You just rant and rave and pretend that you're making a difference. I'd commend you for making your talk show somewhat profitable, but no amount of pennies in your pocket will make you a true Radio Demon."
Alastor walked forth slowly to approach his entrapped upstart of a rival. "Let me give you some advice, Petey. Don't forget your limitations. I do hate wasting my time and energy on desperate fools like you who think you are entitled to be the top dog just because you are the so called innovator."
He turned around to see to Charlie, only to stop as if he recalled something important.
"Oh, and one more thing: just because you make a lot of noise, does not mean that it's worth listening to."
With another smoky snap of his fingers, the portal that summoned the tendrils crushing Pete changed location, appearing just underneath where the defeated radio host was entrapped. Hardly a sound was made as the tendrils took their prey and dragged him into a realm of pure pain from which no mortal could hope to survive.
Then the lobby was silent once more.
"Well! That was quite the explosive excursion, and it isn't even lunchtime! Talk about having a show way before the dinner." A laugh track accompanied Alastor's own musings of the ordeal.
Charlie carefully stepped out from behind the front desk. "Um, Al?"
"Yes, Charlie?"
"Where did you send him to?"
"Oh not to worry." Alastor waved off the question. "I merely gave him a dramatically swift detour back to whence he came. If he's smart, he won't be bothering us again."
"That's good." Charlie said offhandedly.
The Princess of Hell glanced about the lobby. The damage was substantial, but it could be repaired. Of course, her parents would question why it needed repairs and it was frustrating that she would have to spend capital to repair what was once a disorganized but functional lobby area.
"Charlie!" Vaggie ran up to her dearest friend, sheathing her knives before she wrapped Charlie in a relieved embrace.
"I'm okay, Vaggie." Charlie could not help but smile in spite of the chaos and mess around her. She noticed a small bruise on Vaggie's right cheek.
"You okay?" Charlie brought up a finger, but hesitated to touched the small welt on Vaggie's sweaty face.
"Eh, it'll heal soon enough. You should see the guy that gave me this thing."
"All's well that ends well! Who would care to join me in ensuring the rest of the hooligans in front of the hotel get the message that they are unwelcome here?" Alastor remarked cheerfully.
"All's well? This place is a fuckin' wreck." Husk observed. He instinctively pulled up a bottle to drink its contents, only to realize that its bottom half was gone, smashed in the fight he had readily engaged in just minutes before.
"Oh..." The feline demon carelessly tossed the remains of the bottle to the ground. The sound of breaking glass that followed immediately after caused Vaggie to feel agitated.
"That's just great, and just when we were getting this place cleaned up! Maldicíon!" Vaggie swore as her silky locks sharpened like razors.
Charlie sighed, her head slumping down. Her head perked up when Alastor presented her with a small, neat bundle of hundreds of dollars.
"Will this be a suitable starting payment for the restoration of the lobby?"
Charlie mechanically took the money in shock. She quickly flipped a finger through the bills to ensure they were legitimate. "I... why?"
Alastor's smile almost looked apologetic. "I suppose I underestimated the lengths that Pete R. Tizan would go to just to see me unseated from the title of Radio Demon. Consider this an apology for not suspecting such an act of vandalism."
Vaggie stared at Alastor as if he grew two heads. Her defensive instincts would not relent even in response to the Radio Demon's charity.
"Well, thank you." Charlie replied, having collected herself. "Wait, we forgot about Jersey! And where's Niffty and Angel?!"
"I believe the former two of our companions are outside right now. I can't say for certain where that philandering scoundrel Angel is."
"Work." Vaggie grumbled. "Morning shift, he called it."
"Well, since we have an idea where everyone is, shall we finish this debacle with the thugs out front?" Alastor offered again.
Needless to say, whatever fighting spirit the rioters had was drained when the Radio Demon stepped forth and announced his intention to crush anyone who persisted in attacking the hotel and its staff. So exhausted and frightened where the extremists, both left and right, that they did not even bother fighting each other as the miscellaneous crowd scattered from the front of the Hazbin Hotel.
Soon, all that was left was a messy, bloodied section of street and six workers at the Hazbin Hotel.
Charlie and the rest found Niffty fiercely hugging one of Jersey's legs. Jersey looked quite uncomfortable with the whole arrangement.
Aside from some dirt and blood from the rioters, both staff members were not injured, seriously or otherwise.
"Please tell me those jackasses are gone." Jersey asked tiredly.
"Yes indeed!" Alastor answered. "Peace has returned to our humble reservoir of redemption."
Jersey sighed heavily as he stretched his limbs. It was an unexpected workout to a lesser extent, and he just wanted to clean up and rest a bit before going back to work. He realized that Niffty was still clinging to his leg.
"Um Niffty. Boundaries."
Niffty giggled as she let her apparent crush free from her little, spindly embrace.
"Are you okay, Jersey?" Charlie asked. "One of them smashed a bottle in your face."
It was unfortunate that he had to receive a wound that activated his healing factor. As usual, the fewer questions about what he was capable of, the better. Jersey thought up a lie on the spot.
"It was a clean hit, but thankfully the glass didn't hit me at an angle that broke the skin. Cheek feels a little sore, though."
Charlie accepted the answer easily enough, but Vaggie looked confused.
"You look like you didn't take a scratch."
Jersey made a conscious effort to maintain eye contact and not look suspicious in the slightest. "I'm just telling you what I felt."
"Oh Jersey was so brave!" Niffty swooned dramatically as she began to recount the tale of the fight that took place on Fallen Eden Avenue.
With everyone distracted by the maid's fast paced narrative, Jersey was quietly thankful for his little coworker's boundless energy.
A taxi cab rolled up just a fe yards away from the hotel. It dropped off a none the wiser Angel Dust, coming back from a morning shift at Valentino's studio.
"Holy shit what a morning!" He cried out as he left the car. When he looked and noticed the messy hotel front and the entire hotel staff outside, he asked the obvious.
"Uh, did I miss something?"
Husk, back to drinking an unbroken glass of liquor, answered him. "A real shit show."
"Ha ha ha ha! I woulda loved to see that scaly asshole get punted through whatever hellhole you sent him." Angel Dust found the fate of Pete R. Tizan to be hilarious.
"It was hard to tell, considering that he was tied up at the moment." Alastor's witty reply was accompanied by a laugh track.
"So, what the fuck's for lunch? I'm starving to death over here!" The porn star asked loudly.
Soon, Niffty eagerly volunteered to begin a cleanup effort in earnest. Most everyone was heading different ways whilst waiting for lunch of be served.
Charlie returned to her back office to call the royal contractor to see about repairing the lobby and the front of the hotel. Alastor strutted off to the kitchen, likely to start or badger her for more details about the fiasco that took place just under half an hour ago. Husk stumbled back to the front desk, too preoccupied with quenching his unending thirst. Angel Dust slumped onto a couch, stretching his six limbs like a cat as he relaxed. Jersey walked upstairs,wanting to clean himself up and return his claw hammer, which was covered in dried blood, to his toolbox (after cleaning it of course).
Vaggie was going to follow Charlie, only to step onto somethi that clinked loudly. Looking down, she saw shards of glass that had caked blood on parts of the jagged edges. She soon realized that the color of the glass and the location of the shards could only match one object: the bottle used to bash Jersey's face.
Though Vaggie had only one good orbit remaining, she had a keen, precise eye for detail. Jersey claimed that the glass coincidentally did not break his skin, yet some shards from that bottle contained what one would assume to be his dried blood were found. Granted, most sinners could heal from even abhorrent injuries if given enough time. However, to heal so completely in the span of less than half an hour with multiple puncture wounds to the face was extraordinary.
Vaggie quickly thought about this discovery. Being able to heal from wounds quickly was not a crime. Yet this brought up a few questions. Why would Jersey tried to lie about this ability? Was he unwilling to disclose what he was capable of, or was he unsure of what abilities he had as a sinful soul in Hell?
After a moment, Vaggie quickly placed the lone shard she held into a pocket. She walked away to join Charlie in her office. A discussion about Vaggie's suspicions about the hotel's handyman could wait. Now was the time to help clean up and rebuild.
My hope for this chapter was to showcase how Alastor could act as the conduit through which conflict arises at the Hazbin Hotel. This was based off of words spoken by Vivziepop herself about how the series proper will play out. Without any episodes to draw from, I made Pete R. Tizan, and I hope I made a somewhat decent soft rival to Alastor who is not Vox.
Thank you very much for your support for this story, and I hope to see you all next time.