Chapter Text
- Come on, hurry up, you idiots!
Hell wasn't a welcoming place, but since the worst scum were there, it was good for business. The production manager inspected the merchandise and deemed it good enough to be delivered.
Following the Hazbin Hotel's victory over the exterminating angels, parties were taking place all over Pentagram City, and what's a party without a little something to make you smile?
- The customer asked for a kilo, I don't want my head to fall off my shoulders because you can't count how many packages it takes!
The manager didn't care about the orders, but he was going to deliver to Monsieur Vox and Valentino, so he really didn't want to screw up.
But if he succeeded, a possible promotion in their industry was on the horizon, and that meant more money. The warehouse they were using as a base was well-defended, and there was no danger of any competition. While he was lost in thought, a loud commotion was heard outside the warehouse.
- What the hell are you doing?! I said no fucking...
He didn't have time to finish his sentence. The warehouse doors flew open, pouring out a ton of smoke that stung the manager's eyes.
- Damn! It must be the other bastards! What the fuck are you waiting for?! Shoot!!
- We can't see anything, we have to...
- We have to what?! Why aren't you answering?
- It's him!!
The last thing he heard was the employee's scream, a long, loud cry of agony, but the worst part was the other sound. A powerful noise filled the air, continuous, deafening like an engine. An arm landed squarely in his face, filling his mouth with the employee's blood. The arm fell, the shoulder shredded and reddening the entire floor.
- I guess you'll have to interview again for his position.
This was the last sentence the manager heard before his employees' gunshots echoed through the warehouse, the gunpowder they were producing flying. The impacts on the metal echoed, the smell of gunpowder filled the air, and the engine roared even louder.
"I have to get out of here, or I'll die."
He ran toward the back of the warehouse, where all the inventory was stored. He could see the door, a little closer, and he'd be far away from everything. His money was sleeping in his car, he could escape this stinking hole.
An intense pain suddenly appeared in his back, and he went into a gliding flight and found himself flat on the ground. As he screamed in pain, he felt a hot liquid running down his back, while footsteps of boots approached. The manager had the unfortunate idea of looking behind him and saw the instrument of death. Tall, well-built, holding a Winchester 1887 shotgun in one hand and the other holding a Labrys with fine teeth from which escaped the engine noises heard earlier. The man wore knee-high brown boots, blue jeans, and a shirt of the same material but in black with a large gold "A" as a crest.
"Wait, I know who you are! I can supply you with anything you need, I have a contact with the Vees!" You want money, power, gunpowder? Ask and I'll give it to you.
"Too bad, what I want isn't within your reach, you little shit."
The man put away his Winchester, activated a lever on his Labrys, and the teeth began to rotate around the blades like a chainsaw. The manager crawled to put as much distance between himself and death as possible, but his efforts were wasted when one of the blades pierced his back.
He didn't even have the strength to scream as the small teeth sheared into his intestines and gorged themselves with blood. The man finally removed his Labrys from the manager and, avoiding the spreading pool of blood, quietly left the warehouse, the smell of fresh blood and cut flesh lingering in the air. The man fixed his Labrys on his back, returned to the alley adjacent to the warehouse, and began to hum.
That day, a warehouse exploded in Pentagram City. Almost nothing was found inside, just burned and mutilated bodies. But one detail seemed to stand out: the large "A" painted in blood on a car where bundles of bills were burning.