Zac was sitting in the library, his chin resting on a stack of leather-bound tomes, a thin string of drool connecting his lip to the open page of a demon-to-English dictionary. He was hovering in that fuzzy, twilight state between consciousness and a coma.
“...and so, initially, there were 613 commandments,” Bune’s Left Head droned on, pacing back and forth in front of a massive chalkboard that was rapidly filling up with diagrams. “But God, in His infinite... well, let’s call it pragmatism... realized that the squishy, biological human brain simply did not have the RAM to process that much compliance. So, he compressed the file down to ten. Ten is a simple number. You have ten fingers. Even the dimmest shepherd could count that high without taking off his sandals.”
“Mmm,” Zac murmured, his eyes half-lidded. “Does it count as coveting my neighbor's wife if my neighbor's wife is a stacked werewolf?”
Bune ignored the blasphemy with the ease of a parent ignoring a toddler’s babbling. “The redundancy was inefficient anyway. Why have a rule about not boiling a kid in its mother’s milk and a rule about dietary restrictions? Just say ‘Keep Kosher’ and move on.”
The dragon stopped, tapping a piece of chalk against the board. “Though some were quite specific. Like the prohibition against passing children through the sacrificial fires of Molech.”
“That seems reasonable,” Zac yawned.
“And,” Bune continued, his voice rising with passionate intensity, “the prohibition against wearing garments with fringes on the corners!”
Zac blinked, lifting his head slightly. “Why do those not really sound equivalent? Burning kids versus a fashion faux pas?”
“You noticed too?” Bune sniffed disdainfully, looking down at his own perfectly tailored (though currently tattered) suit. “Fringes are just asking for rips and tears! They snag on door handles, they unravel in the wash, and they are mathematically impossible to keep symmetrical! It is chaotic design!”
Bune got worked up, all four arms moving in a blur as he began to aggressively chalk out the specific laws regarding laundry and fabric blends from the Mitzvot. Zac watched the dust fly, genuinely impressed. It was truly awe-inspiring how anal-retentive God was. The idea that there were souls currently burning for eternity because they mixed wool and linen, or didn’t wash their tunic on the gentle cycle, was a level of pettiness that Zac had to respect.
The rhythmic tack-tack-tack of the chalk was hypnotic. Zac’s head grew heavy again. He was just about to drift off into a fantasy about Marchosias enforcing a strict dress code when he felt it.
A chill.
It wasn't the air conditioning (Hell didn't have any). It was a deep, biting cold that prickled the skin beneath his leopard-print fleece.
Zac sat up, wiping the drool from his chin. He looked around. Bune was too busy ranting about the structural integrity of tassels to notice the temperature drop.
Then, Zac saw him.
Skarg was tip-toeing into the library.
It was a sight that defied physics and reason. A ten-foot-tall, muscle-bound wendigo, trying to be stealthy. He moved with exaggerated care, lifting his massive, hoofed feet high and setting them down with delicate precision. His antlers, which Marchosias had brutally ripped off the day before, were only half-grown back, stubby, velvet-covered nubs that made him look oddly youthful, like a demonic teenager going through a growth spurt.
Zac smiled, a wide, delighted grin spreading across his face. He gave a little wave at the sneaking monster, who was now only a few paces away.
Skarg froze mid-step. He brought a massive finger to his lips, making the universal signal for shut the fuck up.
Zac nodded enthusiastically. He didn't know why the caribou was being so sneaky… it seemed a bit out of character for the primal himbo who usually announced his presence by breaking furniture… but Zac didn't mind. He liked roleplay.
Skarg crept closer, the air around him shimmering with cold. Finally, he reached the desk. He placed a heavy, clawed hand on Zac’s shoulder.
Zac’s body reacted instantly. The chill of the wendigo’s touch didn't register as cold; it registered as a memory. The memory of Skarg holding him down in the snow, the weight, the pressure, the breaking. It was as clear and visceral as the moment it had happened in the dream.
“You didn’t even count down from ten this time,” Zac moaned softly, leaning into the touch. “You know, some asshole named Leviticus said not to have homosexual relations.”
“That is correct!” Bune said happily, spinning around to face his pupil, completely oblivious to the towering wall of muscle standing right behind the human. “He was quite specific! Do not forget, he also said not to have homosexual relations with your father! And he also specified not to have homosexual relations with your father's brother!”
The Right Head nodded vigorously. “Very thorough regarding the patrilineal line! But interestingly vague about step-bro-”
Bune’s voice trailed off.
His four eyes widened as they finally registered the massive, furry shape looming over the desk. Skarg had already moved; he scooped Zac up by the waist, tucking the human under his arm like a leopard-print football.
Zac swung slightly in the grip, his tail swishing.
“What are you-” Bune managed to gasp.
He never finished the sentence. Skarg slammed his free hand onto the library floor.
CRACK-BOOM.
A massive, jagged wall of glacial ice erupted from the floorboards. It surged upward, encasing the dragon butler in a prison of solid, transparent blue frost. Bune was frozen mid-gesture, one hand raised in admonishment, his mouths open in a silent scream of bureaucratic outrage.
Skarg straightened up, looking at his handiwork with a satisfied grunt. He turned, holding Zac tight against his side, and began to run toward the exit, his hooves thundering on the floor now that stealth was no longer required.
“Leviticus was a bitch!” Skarg bellowed in triumph as he kicked the library doors open.
"Where-are-we-going-Skarg?" Zac managed to get out, the words punched from his lungs as his body swung back and forth like a pendulum with every stride.
Skarg didn't answer. He was too busy sprinting down the hallway, bellowing in primal triumph. His hooves struck sparks on the stone, a rhythmic thunder that echoed through the keep. Zac, flagging behind him like a leopard-print cape, watched the castle stream by in a blur.
Suits of armor became streaks of silver. Doors blurred into dark rectangles. Torches were mere smudges of orange light. Staircases spiraled past dizzyingly fast.
And then, suddenly, the air changed. The scent of old books and stone was replaced by the ozone-rich, metallic tang of the Pit.
They burst through the main doors.
"Oh, hey, spiky flower bush," Zac thought idly as they rushed past the spot where Bune had knocked him over upon his arrival. The thorny plant was still there, looking a bit worse for wear but blooming with vibrant, arterial-red roses. Does March like flowers? Zac wondered, a soft smile touching his lips despite the G-forces. He seems so sophisticated. I bet he prunes them himself.
Zac was getting a bit dizzy, the world spinning around him, but he was thoroughly enjoying being kidnapped. It felt... proactive. It felt like progress.
His mind, naturally, wandered into the gutter. Oh, he's bringing me back to his crypt. Maybe the incubi just weren't enough to keep him satisfied after our little dream-romp. Incubi probably have to do kegels just to keep things interesting... those sluts. I hope March doesn't kill him too much after he's had his way with me... but that is a price I'm willing to let him pay.
"Thanks for taking one for the team, stud," Zac managed to get out as Skarg finally began to slow.
They were approaching the massive iron gate at the edge of the keep's grounds, the same spot where Andras had fought off both Nock and Skarg days ago. The gate was closed, its heavy bars looming against the red sky.
Skarg skidded to a halt, his chest heaving. He looked down at the gate, then back at the keep, his blue eyes wild and victorious.
"I told you," he panted, grinning down at the dangling human. "I told you, you're mine."
Zac smiled up at Skarg, his eyes half-lidded. "Fuck me."
Skarg’s fur seemed to darken around his muzzle, and he looked away, clearing his throat with a rumble that shook Zac's bones. "In due time, you whore," he growled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He gave Zac a gentle shake. "But you're too thin. You feel like a bag of twigs."
"I'm a twink," Zac explained patiently, swinging slightly. "I'm supposed to be toss-aroundable. And being little makes your dick look bigger when you're filming. I know I'm a bit tall to be a classic boy toy, but you're so big... I think this is what short princes feel like when they get hit on by basketball players."
Skarg looked down at Zac, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. The cultural references were flying completely over his antler-nubs.
"Not just any basketball players, either," Zac continued, undeterred. "The beefy ones. That are proportional and not all elbows and knees. You know, centers."
"What the fuck is basketball?" Skarg finally asked.
"Oh, I can teach you," Zac said dreamily, reaching up to pat the wendigo's chest. "Get your balls out."
Skarg barked a laugh, a harsh, joyful sound. "In due time."
He turned his attention to the massive iron gate. He didn't bother with the mechanism. He simply grabbed the bars with his free hand. Frost spread instantly from his grip, coating the black metal in a thick layer of rime. The iron groaned, then shrieked as the thermal shock shattered its structural integrity. With a grunt of effort, Skarg wrenched the gate. The metal twisted, shrank, and finally crumpled like tin foil. With a deafening crash, the massive barrier fell forward, reduced to a twisted, frozen pile of scrap.
"Ouch," Zac said, eyeing the wreckage. "I guess the cold makes everything shrink. Not just me."
Skarg dropped to all fours, the movement fluid and terrifyingly fast. With a quick toss, he flung Zac onto his back. "Hold on if you don't want to die."
Zac scrambled for purchase on the thick fur, his legs gripping the wendigo’s powerful flanks. He looked at the back of Skarg's head. "Can... can I hold your antlers? They seem like good handlebars."
Skarg didn't answer. He launched himself forward.
Zac nearly tumbled backward off the demon's rear as Skarg accelerated, his hooves finding impossible purchase on the sheer stone walls of the chasm. They were galloping upward, retracing the path Zac had ridden down with Nock, but this time, the speed was raw, unbridled, and terrifying. The wind screamed in Zac's ears as the Pit city blurred past below them.
The ascent was a blur of sensory overload. The Pit wasn't just a city; it was a living, breathing organism of vice and industry. They passed forges carved into the cliff face spewing rivers of liquid red hellfire, the heat scorching Zac’s cheeks. They leaped over tattered tents made of flayed skin where green, chemical bonfires roared, casting long, sickly shadows.
Everywhere Zac looked, there was chaos. Imps, hellspawn, ghouls, and infernui scurried like rats. He saw souls being tortured in oddly specific, if somewhat cliché ways. One guy was being forced to listen to a demon read his diary out loud through a megaphone, while another was pushing a boulder up a hill made of Legos, barefoot.
But mostly, Zac noticed the fucking.
It was everywhere. Public displays of affection in Hell apparently had zero boundaries. On balconies, in alleyways, pressed against the hot stone of the forges… demons were rutting with a casual, energetic intensity that made Zac’s head spin.
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"Was that a minotaur?!" Zac shouted, craning his neck so hard it cracked. He’d caught a glimpse of a massive, bull-headed figure railing a smaller demon against a crate of weapons. "Holy shit, Skarg! Turn around! We need to go back! I need to ask for directions! Or a phone number!"
"Skarrrggggggg!"
Skarg ignored him completely. The wendigo was a locomotive of muscle and frost, his focus absolute. He bounded up a sheer vertical rise, his hooves striking sparks, and scrambled onto a wide, black-stone plateau.
Directly ahead, a dark, squat building loomed. It looked like a bunker built from obsidian and bad vibes, solid enough to survive a nuclear blast. And Skarg was running headlong at the front door.
"Uh, brakes?" Zac yelled, tightening his grip on the demon’s fur. "Do you have brakes?! That wall looks really solid!"
Skarg didn't slow down. He didn't even flinch. He charged until he was mere feet from the heavy iron door, and then-
SCREEECH.
Skarg stopped. It was instantaneous. One moment they were a blur of motion; the next, they were statues.
Zac, however, was not a statue. Newton’s First Law of Motion took over, and Zac kept going. He slid forward, right over Skarg’s head.
"Oof!"
He didn't hit the ground. Instead, the back of his onesie snagged on the velvet-covered nubs of Skarg’s regrowing antlers. He swung forward and then swung back, coming to rest upside down, dangling directly in front of the wendigo’s face.
Zac blinked, trying to orient himself. He was face-to-muzzle with the anthropomorphic caribou. He braced himself for a wave of halitosis, surely a creature that ate raw meat and Bicorns would have breath that could peel paint. But as Skarg panted, Zac caught the scent of pine needles, fresh snow, and ozone. It was crisp. It was clean. It was intoxicating.
"You are amazing," Zac whispered, the blood rushing to his head.
Skarg froze. His icy blue eyes widened, focusing on the upside-down human dangling from his antlers. The primal rage and the thrill of the chase melted away, replaced by a soft, vulnerable look of pure longing. He wasn't used to compliments that didn't involve his strength or his brutality. To be called amazing just for existing...
"You're amazing," Skarg murmured back, a low rumble that vibrated through Zac's chest. "It's nice... someone finally realizes."
Zac smiled, a soft, genuine expression. "Do I get to say thank you this time?"
He reached out, cupping the wendigo’s furry cheeks. He pulled himself up slightly, moving in for an upside-down, Spider-Man style kiss that was destined to be the romantic climax of his afterlife.
CLANG.
The iron door of the building swung open violently, outward.
It slammed directly into the back of Zac’s head and Skarg’s nose with the force of a battering ram.
"OW!"
Zac flew off the antler-nubs, and Skarg stumbled back. They both collapsed into a heap on the dusty ground, a tangle of leopard print and fur.
Zac groaned, rubbing the back of his head. He looked up to see who had ruined the moment.
Standing in the doorway was a six-foot-tall housefly. It was wearing a greasy, blood-stained butcher’s apron. Its multifaceted eyes shimmered with iridescent malice, and it was wiping its front legs together in a sinister, rhythmic motion.
"BZZZZZZZZZ!" the fly buzzed loudly, vibrating with impatience.
Zac looked at the giant bug, then over at Skarg, who was holding his nose and blinking away tears. "Uhh..."
The fly man buzzed again, louder this time, and gestured aggressively with one spindly leg toward a sign hanging above the door that Zac couldn't read.
Skarg sighed, a long, defeated sound. He pushed himself up, dusting off his knees. The romance was gone, replaced by the crushing weight of capitalism.
"I know, I know," Skarg growled, reaching into a pouch at his waist that Zac hadn't noticed before. "I've got money this time."
Zac groggily watched the giant fly snatch the pouch from Skarg's hand, its multifaceted eyes twitching. This was not exactly what Zac thought would be happening. He had seen plenty of non-sexy beings in Hell so far—the imps, the spirits, the amorphous blobs of meat that had too many mouths and eyes—but the fly man was disturbing in its own special way. Much like no one should ever put a cute ladybug under a microscope, this fly was very high definition.
The fly ran its mouth bits over the pouch, tasting the currency or the leather or something gross.
"That should cover my tab from last time," Skarg growled, clearly annoyed.
The fly buzzed its wings aggressively and pointed a spindly leg directly at Zac.
"Oh, me?" Zac said, trying to be charming despite his upside-down headache. "Do you give discounts for souls under a thousand years old? I'm practically vintage."
The fly slowly lowered its arms. Its mouth parts stopped twitching. "No," it said, its voice silky smooth and shockingly baritone, catching Zac completely off guard. Why hadn't it just used its words from the start? "We all know you are not a minor, Ose. Don't be weird."
"And you shouldn't be a cunt," Skarg snapped, grabbing Zac by the onesie and shoving past the insectoid bouncer. "If you keep crying I'll tell Baal."
Skarg hauled the heavy iron door open. As they passed through, the fly yelled after them, "KING BAAL SAID YOU CAN'T RUN A TAB ANYMORE, FURFUR!"
Zac stepped inside, and his brain stuttered. He was expecting a dank cave or a butcher shop. Instead, he was in... a five-star demonic bistro.
The interior was a study in gothic opulence. Dark red velvet drapes hung from the obsidian walls, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and expensive incense. Near a bubbling fountain of blood, a set of disembodied, ghostly hands played a mournful tune on a massive pipe organ. Waiters—more human-sized flies in tuxedos—buzzed between tables, carrying silver platters laden with horrors Zac didn't want to examine too closely.
"A lunch date," Zac thought, delighted, as Skarg flipped off a fly in a ma?tre d' outfit near a podium and strode right into the dining room.
"Furfur! Pants are not optional in Baal's establishment!" the host fly buzzed indignantly.
Skarg didn't even look back. He casually waved a hand, and the arthropod host’s face was instantly encased in a block of ice mid-sentence.
Skarg led Zac toward a prime booth near the blood fountain. Unfortunately, it was occupied. Two well-dressed abyss constructs sat there, entities made of shifting shadows and void-stuff that seemed to be existing in three-dimensional space only with great effort. They were sipping something that smoked.
Skarg loomed over the table, drawing himself up to his full, imposing height. "This table is taken."
The abyss creatures looked at each other, their forms flickering like bad reception. One of them projected a thought directly into their minds, a voice like static. Yes. By we.
Skarg slammed his hands down on the table. Frost crept rapidly across the wood, freezing the silverware to the tablecloth. "Don't make me tell you my name."
Furfur, the abyss creature’s mental voice was flat and unsurprised.
Skarg bellowed in anger, the sound shaking the glassware. "DON'T CALL ME THAT!" The frost spread aggressively, beginning to creep up the constructs' legs, trying to freeze them to the booth. "If you know who I am, then fuck off!"
The void demons didn't flinch. They simply absorbed the cold, their forms rippling slightly. They looked profoundly unimpressed.
Zac tugged on Skarg’s fur. "Hey, babe, it's okay. We can go sit at the bar. I think I saw another minotaur over there getting milk. Maybe we can share a stall."
The two creatures in the booth froze. They looked up, their void-eyes widening as they finally registered the leopard print. They visibly tensed, their forms shrinking back against the cushions.
Oh. President Ose, one of the voids projected, the static suddenly sounding very apologetic. Our apologies.
Without another word, the two constructs scrambled out of the booth, bowing low to Zac and murmuring mental apologies for their rudeness before dissolving into puddles of shadow and fleeing toward the exit.
Zac frowned, watching them go. "Wow. First Timon and Pumbaa, and now this." He looked down at his fleece pajamas. "What the fuck did that asshole leopard demon do down here to make everyone fear him so much? Did he make them watch Cats?"
Skarg looked deflated. He slumped into the booth, the ice on the table melting into a puddle. He looked genuinely upset that he hadn't been the one to intimidate the lesser demons.
"Stupid void-trash," he grumbled, picking at a frozen fork. "No respect for the classics."
Zac slid into the booth across from Skarg. "Oh, this place is kind of nice," he thought, running his hand over the crushed velvet upholstery. "And Skarg even bullied some underlings to get me a nice seat. Such a gentleman."
He looked over at the wendigo, who was now absentmindedly scratching his armpit with the frozen fork. "Such a gentleman."
The seat was plush and comfortable, and the pipe organ music, while definitely evil, created a surprisingly intimate atmosphere. The other fancy demons seemed sophisticated, nibbling on delicacies with clawed hands. Well, some of them did. Others were a bit too wet and oozing to be fully fancy, leaving slime trails on the velvet.
Zac kicked his feet back and forth slightly in the big booth. "This place seems classy," he said, eyeing a nearby table where a demon was eating something that was screaming. "I hope it's not too pricey."
Skarg picked a clump of armpit fur from the tines of the fork and flicked it onto the floor. "Don't worry about that. You need to eat."
Zac nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've kinda been a waffle-holic for the past few days. I usually have chicken nuggets too. It’s all about balance."
Skarg growled at a passing fly waiter. "Hey! Waity! Get your thorax over here!"
The waiter paused, balancing a tray of steaming entrails. "One second, sir, I need to deliver these to table four—"
"NOW!" Skarg bellowed, slamming his fist on the table again. "You dare make royalty wait?!"
The fly looked quite unimpressed. It couldn't roll its multifaceted eyes exactly, but Zac could feel the spiritual eye-roll radiating from it. The waiter sighed, a buzzing sound, and walked over to the table. Then it finally noticed Zac.
"Oh my," the fly squeaked, nearly dropping its tray. "Ose! Sir! Please forgive me!" The massive insect avoided looking directly at Zac, bowing its head so low its antennae touched the table. "The host did not inform me that you were here! We will have your meals brought out right away!"
The fly waiter didn't even wait for an order. It turned and practically sprinted back toward a pair of double doors at the back of the dining room.
Behind Skarg, a pair of demons sitting at the next booth began to complain loudly. "Unbelievable! We've been waiting for our appetizers for twenty minutes!"
Skarg turned in his seat, snarling. "Shut the fuck up!"
The larger of the two demons stood up. He was a classic specimen—black fur, massive curled horns, leathery bat wings. He looked like he walked straight out of a heavy metal album cover. He turned to face Skarg, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Do you want to die, you oversized reindeer?"
Skarg laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He stood up to his full height, looming over the other demon, chest to chest. "What's someone from Heresy doing here? Shouldn't you be poking prisoners with a pitchfork or something?"
The black demon hissed. A fiery circle appeared in mid-air next to him, and he pulled a wicked, glowing pitchfork from the void. "I'll poke that little fucking bitch you're trying to wine and—"
The demon’s voice trailed off. His eyes had drifted past Skarg and landed on the spotted feline pattern of the onesie.
The demon went pale. His wings drooped. The pitchfork dissolved into ash in his hands.
Skarg was already winding up for a headbutt when Zac coughed politely.
"Leave 'em alone, Skarg," Zac said, leaning back and putting his feet up on the seat. "They are probably just hangry and jealous you're a famous celebrity who gets special attention. It's hard being an icon."
The black demon’s face contorted in confusion as he looked at Zac again. "Wait," he squinted, peering at the fleece ears. "You're not Ose. What in the hells is—"
Skarg’s hand shot out, grabbing the other diner by the mouth. A mask of thick, glacial ice began to spread instantly from his grip, silencing the demon mid-sentence. "That is Ose," Skarg growled, his voice low and dangerous. "And if you say one more thing, I'm gonna face-fuck you with an icicle."
"Oh, don't be dramatic," Zac said, still leaning back casually. He looked the classical demon up and down appraisingly. "The classic look is kinda nice, actually. He’s like a werewolf-vampire mix. Very vintage."
Skarg and the half-frozen demon both looked back at Zac.
Zac smiled, batting his eyelashes. "Just imagine... if he defiled me, then March wouldn't have to kill any of you guys. Just putting it out there. Loophole?"
Skarg’s eyes narrowed with sudden, intense jealousy. The ice in his hand surged. "If anyone is getting killed for fucking you, it's me."
CRACK-BOOM.
A massive ball of ice expanded instantaneously inside the black demon’s skull. His head exploded like a dropped watermelon, showering the booth, the floor, and his dinner date in gore and ice shards.
The date screamed, a high-pitched, banshee wail.
"Sorry about that!" Zac called out, giving a little wave. "Skarg, tell them you're sorry for killing their date. It's rude to ruin lunch."
Skarg pushed the headless, bloody corpse away from himself, wiping icy slush from his chest. "Yeah, I'm sorry this ass-clown was asking to get skull-fucked. I didn't realize his gag reflex was so strong."
The date stood up. They were a slender, terrifying creature made of what looked like polished porcelain and razors. They moved toward Zac and Skarg, shaking with fury. "Asmodeus will hear about this!"
Zac noticed Skarg flinch. The wendigo actually looked nervous. "Uh," Skarg grunted, glancing at the exit. "Maybe we should get that to go."
"Hey," Zac said, leaning forward. "There's no need for tattle-tales."
"Tattle-tales?!" the furious demon roared, pointing at their ruined outfit. "HIS SKULL IS IN MY HAIR!"
Zac frowned. There was, indeed, a lot of exploded cranium covering the incensed diner. "True, true," Zac panicked, his mind racing. "But, uh, that wasn't our fault! Don't you know demon's heads just kind of... explode now and then?"
Zac felt a sudden, profound chill coat his tongue. It was heavy, metallic, and cold. He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, as if his energy was being physically sucked out of his body and poured into his quick, unthoughtful words.
The dining room went silent.
Skarg slowly turned to Zac, his eyes wide. "Did you just—"
POP.
The demon standing at the table’s head spontaneously exploded. No ice, no fire, just a wet, fleshy pop as their cranium detonated for absolutely no reason. Their body crumpled to the floor next to their date.
The restaurant descended into instant, screaming chaos.
It started as a ripple. The demons at the nearest tables, who had overheard Zac's declaration, stared in horror at the headless porcelain body. Then, one of them, a stout toad-demon in a tuxedo, grabbed his own head. His eyes bulged. POP.
Panic spread like a shockwave. Fancy lesser demons overturned tables, scrambling for the exits, their screams cut short by the wet, sickening sounds of cranial detonation. It was a domino effect of spontaneous combustion. A succubus near the blood fountain shrieked, then pop. A ghoul trying to crawl under a table—pop.
Zac sat frozen in the booth, a frown on his face. A chunk of grey matter slid slowly down the shoulder of his leopard onesie. "Uhm," he said, his voice small. "What the fuck is happening right now?"
The dining room became a slaughterhouse. Demons yelled, cried, and bargained with invisible gods as more and more heads popped like balloons, leaving a mass of twitching, headless corpses strewn across the plush carpet.
Skarg sighed, a long, weary sound, and sat back down heavily in the booth. He looked around the massacre with the bored expression of someone waiting for a bus.
"Did I do that?" Zac asked, his voice trembling.
He suddenly felt incredibly weak. The world tilted sideways. His vision grayed at the edges, and his limbs felt like they were made of lead. He collapsed onto the table with a groan, his cheek resting in a puddle of spilled wine and... other fluids.
"Avatar," Skarg growled softly. He reached out, his massive hands gentle as he scooped Zac up and pulled him into his lap.
Zac curled into the warmth of the wendigo’s chest, feeling the steady thump of Skarg’s heart. "I did a woopsy, I think," he mumbled, his words slurring.
"You," Skarg said, stroking Zac's hair with a clawed finger, "didn't do anything wrong. That Karen was asking for it."
Zac lay there, feeling like he was in the throes of a low-sugar diabetic attack. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the carnage. He had the power of lying. Ose had said his words would carry the weight of truth. He had just made a little joke, a deflection. He hadn't even really thought about what he was saying since he knew Skarg would just beat up anyone who messed with him. He did not plan on becoming a serial killer while waiting for the appetizer menu.
The kitchen doors swung open with a bang. The fly waiter emerged, carrying a tray of drinks. It took one look at the headless devastation, dropped the tray with a crash, and buzzed its wings in fury.
"FURFUR! OSE!" the insect screamed. "WHAT THE FUCK?!"
Favorite Demon
