― MORE FLIES WITH HONEY

『silent like a fish。』

TODAY IS DREADFUL IN THE WAY ALL WEEKDAYS ARE. you try to keep your eyes closed to service the illusion of inattentiveness that wittman hates. him being bothered and keeping his lacking front of professionalism in the dying light is hilarious. it never fails to cease your boredom.  still, maybe you ought to do something in the time it takes chaput to get wittman away from his precious archives. 

you open your eyes and stare at the paper in front of you - perfectly legible. (it's better to not think of the past in such quaint little spots; you'll find yourself nostalgic, that raw bloody feeling that stings like an open wound. you tuck it away.) 

is a days work ever done? 

you reread the contract again; this moth bastard — always trying to get the upper hand, even when he's trading his own he still wants— what in the finest deck of luckies is this, forty hours a week? does he think you're demented? he wants to exchange your laninga for a dish, no dropper, and thinks you'll just hand him over?

 oh, dear, you think venomously, why, isn't that just a darling idea? 

less than a full day away from the extermination and he wants to do this?  you have half the mind to see if his skull cracks open pleasantly, if he's got a real exoskeleton under that set of wings he wears like a robe. 

you smell feathers.

"wittman, standing outside doesn't get you further away from me." you say. you twitch your ear at his sigh. "open the door, wittman."

he creaks the door open and doesn't even attempt to sit in the chair poised in front of your desk. smart man, "morning boss."

"good morning, wittman, now," you don't even attempt to make neat of the mess on your desk, "how's that budget looking—popă put in everything, right?"

"yes, boss." he says, still by the door—well, that can't be good for his wings. your back aches just looking at him even if your wings are tucked into that place where the angriest parts of any demon go.

"take a seat," you say, calm, polite, "you know how this goes, you've been here for the better part of two decades, wittman. do keep up."

he looks off to the side like you asked him to do you a favor.

"take a seat, wittman."

this snaps him out of whatever dilemma he was facing.

"now, the quarterly?"

wittman sits, wings cramped against the back of the seat. you don't point out that he could turn the chair around. he doesn't ask. 

"yes, boss," he starts. "the money.."

‎

"where in hells nine circles is my money?" naaji asks, holding the throat of one very unlucky hellborne. the hellhound whimpers, "i asked you — "

"i, i goddit— i swear, hells sake. it's with my ex-wife—i—i just needed more time—"

"time? you need time? what the fuck have i been giving you but time?" naaji's teeth would snap at each other if he'd been human.

"i―i'm good for it i just. 's not on me right now!"

"what, did you think i called you over here to play fetch? go for a walk? a cup of fucking coffee?"

"a coupl'a hours's all i'm askin!"

naaji drops him to the ground, then, his eyes slip to you, "what'dya think, boss?"

"well," you hum, stepping into the light, "how about this, naaji here will go with you, and if your wife doesn't have the money, well, your daughter should be good enough collateral, right?"

"ex-wife." the hellhound says, raspy. there's something shaky about him, but naaji can handle himself just as well as chaput can handle running herself ragged just to get your attention at the end of the day, "and—and—okay."

"wonderful!" you say, "now, i for one am dreadfully sick of these cliche alleyways. go on, dear, show my trouble-boy where your debt ends."

the hellhound opens his muzzle and then snaps it shut. good, smart man. you're in a terribly murderous mood today. you hate when you can't control yourself like this, swollen rage seething over your clavicle. your heart started dying in nineteen-twenty-six, but this bloody fist in your chest makes up for it. banging against your ribs makes up for it. 

you try to not think about it.

"oh, and naaji? remember that tonight is the family dinner, so wear your glad rags."

naaji, ever hungry and tired, nods, "yes, boss."

the door closes behind him quietly. oh how you love when he doesn't put up an argument; maybe after all this time he realized how futile it was? sure, everyone hates the first twenty minutes that you're there (barring chaput, of course), but everyone hates their boss—by bitching about you, they become more loyal. they talk about all the wonderful and twisted things you have them do; they think they have the longer straw. that the one next to them has it worse.

barker thinks he's got it better than bolívar (everyone thinks they have it better than bolívar, except bolívar who thinks they've got the best job ever — you had to actually make up running drugs so they wouldn't be pissy. bolívar does not take well to an empty schedule); mwangi thinks she's got it better than barker; charron thinks she's got it better than mwangi, and the list goes on. 

"wonderful." you say to the empty air. it reeks of sex and blood and urine — it reminds you of those trains you used to take with―wait. unimportant. you keep looping back to things that are unattainable. you hate things you can't have.  you should think of something else. 

"oh!" you eloquently enunciate, again, to thin air, "i need to find bomb that job." 

actually finding bomb without summoning her is a splendid distraction on account of her having forty trails to follow and half of them lead nowhere. if you weren't enjoying the scenic route you'd be losing your mind; you are, though. enjoying the scenery that it. 

then a bombshell goes off. you turn thirty five degrees and follow the sound of cackling and explosions. you spot her hair before anything else, that ridiculous outfit she wears — even the skirts that were payed to wear their birthday suits wore decorum better than her. 

"bomb!" you shout.

she turns her head and winks at some poor sinner before annihilating him. she steps languidly towards you, eye filled with mirth, "yeah, boss?"

"my dear, i may have found the perfect way to engage your time lucratively without leaving you to die at the hands of monotony." you say, tone down right gleeful in the face of your stare.

"uhu, an' what's that mean?" she says. you look around at the rubble around the both of you, realize that the sinner she killed is, quite possibly, the last one around this side of pride.

"how do you feel about engaging in terf wars for the foreseeable, hm, eternity?"

she lights up like christmas. "fuck yeah, boss-man — i just gotta kill anyone where ya' assign it?"

"ain't you as sharp as a circle." you say, smiling softly. "nary worry, dear, after those pesky exterminators return to that pearly gate, i need you to take that strip between the radio demon and those v's."

her eye narrows, but she must perish the thought, "yeah, boss-man. gotcha."

"oh, and win," you say, just to clarify the obvious, "win and bet it on your.. glad rags. remember the dinner, dear. it's mandatory—and annual! see you then, doll."

"yeah yeah, boss-man, see ya then." she turns, throws another explosive into the unpopulated dilapidated city. 

you take your leave. 

‎

you never leave your room silent. you're in hell, but the best musicians are, too.

the radio's jazz is sputtering it something a little newer than typical ― the fifties. you didn't think the host would get to 'forty-five, let alone the fifties. you give it side eye, but commence in your recreation of your favorite childhood dish. with chilis!

if there was one good thing that came from your entire early adulthood, it was the fact that you could purchase spices imported from further south of the states. your father did not appreciate this, but you, your mother, and your sister outranked him and the fact that man could not cook to with his life on the line.

you aren't going to get nostalgic about it.

you add another chili to the pot. you have better things to do, you think, like finishing this stew. 

you hate unfinished work, you end up doing paperwork ― which exists because this is hell ― over your stew. which packs a punch straight outta hell. you smile to yourself, it's a small thing. it's real, though.

maybe, maybe ― (you live in a delusion of your own making. where you are on business very far away from your own family, and letters always end up caught in transmission. you live in a delusion of your own making where your family is sending you little updates that you never receive. you can imagine it, though. maybe, maybe.)

ah, no use thinking too hard about it.

you have better things to think about, anyway.

‎

your phone is ringing. "hello, remirez! have you found her?"

theres a buzzing on the other side of the phone. the sound of nothing. the phone line cuts.
‎

you have this irredeemable belief in yourself that you are a strategic man.

growing into this obsessive mindset is what let you get your hands bloody enough to shake the old boss into giving you his empire instead of his son. it was hard to explain to that brat how you were the better pick. he didn't take it well.

you think about it smugly when you're feeling especially glum.

not that he took any bad news well. that's probably the tipping point that led the cards to your favor. him falling out of his father's good graces. his short fuse, above all else.

still, he made something out of himself. something good, if you aren't mistaken. the fact that he's not here is telling in its own right. he's a winner. he did good and you, well.

you, yourself, are a man of schedule.

you like to be in the know. especially when change is flouncing about. especially when it concerns what's yours. you're the possessive type. you don't know a single soul who isn't. you just have the means to do more than scratch.

you're a man of schedule, after all. those sorts of things upset you deeply, you hate being upset as any normal human would. as anything with feeling, would.

you prefer pleasure; the emptiness of your room is not pleasurable; the place where you get stuck between dreaming and staring at nothing nothing nothing crushes your teeth at breakneck speed, the rate that you clench them ― is not pleasurable; the grip you have on pleasure is tied to memories you keep imbeded to an alter of what you lost.

perhaps you are not made for pleasure. you are fine with this. just fine. you are well enough acquainted with waiting in taut silence for something that never comes.

disappointment is a tenant you house restlessly.

your capacity for care is abysmal, but your appetite for control is insatiable. you are only ever at calm when they world is your oyster.

you have things to get to, a dinner party to plan. you're a man of schedule, after all.

‎

"really boss, fish?" bolívar asks, balancing a glass of some sort of alcohol. your annual dinner is of your own making; you do enjoy cooking, truly. dinner is a very loose term, though, this is more of a potluck. "marley didn't even cross your mind?"

"fish is a wonderful main dish, it's mizushima's recipe, or his aunts if i recall. mcroy doesn't have to eat if they don't want to." you say, fork tentatively tearing the tender trout to shreds. or hell's version of trout. human merchandise can be taken, but the reselling in hell is downright damning.

"yeah, yeah. boss, did'ja head that barker―"

"yes. chaput is on top of everything for a reason. clever stag, that one. i can't fathom why she's in pride. seems more the wrathful type." your eyes scrape over bolívar, looking for something. another advantage. another thing to hold over their head.

"well, anyway, 'parently talks been coming up of valentino—the vee—losin' 'is temper. thinkin' irrational an' all." he's getting to a point.

"and what does that have to do?" you ask, pleasant as ever.

"well, that means he don't have money and—well, only thing that's his t'give right now are his contracts." they finish.

"this was charron's information, wasn't it?" you ask, tilting you glass toward them. the slimy look on their face, one you'd think was permanently etched, dies a little bit. "i think i'd like to hear it from her. you, my dear, have an entertaining habit of overselling! if you'll excuse me."

you hand your drink over to them, like they're a bussboy.

"right," they move to the side so you can pass them by easier, "right boss."

"it was charming seeing you again, keep your lot in check, dear!"

"course, boss." is the only thing they manage to muster.

charron is bumping gums with laninga and stanford about wilson (who is also in the conversation; who is in fact the main contributor of this conversation) and how grating vox is. conversation ceases the moment you come into view.

"charron, i hear you've scouted out a flame for the moth?"

"yeah―raul don't finish yet. i wanna know if velvette kills her fav model or if she's stopped just in time," she turns to you, "—so, what's cooking big boss?"

"your modern slang is deplorable!" you start, as one does; cheer is only used as a tool, "now, you and the v's are close enough that—bolívar tells me valentino's on a leash of some sort?"

"oh, yeah. he's in trouble big-time with that vox-head." she says, casually, like it's not supposed to be in her report, "he apparently lost a soul to carmilla carmine! who'da thunk, right? and he's in deep shit about it. soooo—i know you're tryin'a score extra arms for, well, arms dealing on crack—so. like. you could probably score a couple part times, but you could def get a whole soul outta it if you spin it juuust right."

"well, i do thank you for your service," you dismiss her, "have a marvelous evening, my dear."

"goddit, big cheese!" she says, tilting her accent to mock-new-york circa nineteen-twenty. 

"keep your tongue in check before it's gone, dear." you bid, turn your back to her, and vanish into nothing.

‎

under your room is one of the largest spaces you own. there is a desk neatly tucked into the corner with a typewriter, vinyl record with one of you fathers favorite albums that plays restlessly. an empty wall with all your sisters favorite singers and their debut albums as well. the rest of the room is shelving. shelves and shelves and shelves of medical textbooks, ornate fabrics, and shoes. they line the walls, labeled by section.

medicine is organized by year and type, fabric is organized by color and type ― jean, silk, and cotton folded and dyed in seperate section; you keep it meticulous. shoes are done by type; they're all the same color. when you were alive you liked the shoes with bright, obnoxiously placed leather. you don't have the stomach for that now that you're alive.

you breathe in deeply; something more habitual than necessary.

that moth and his tacky business is about to go down like a hand grenade and your mouth is watering at the prospect of his downfall. a smile, sweet and innocent as a bottle of moonshine in twenty-six, squirms it's way to your face; your hand meets pen. pen meets paper. you write.

you double, triple, quadruple check on the clauses, for any water that he could drown you in ― not that he could; he has vox check all of them.

if there's one thing about him that you know, it's that he never learned to read english, you have half the mind to be petty and write the whole thing in cryllic ―

you could rip the antennae from his head, burn his empire to dust with a meager order, but you don't. no matter the temptation‎ .. you don't. that'd be unprofessional, that'd be unlike you.

and you, well, you are a man of schedule after all.

» zero. пожалуйста, дает ему покой. - please, give him peace.

» one. what could be brewing in the mind of a bat outta hell?

» two. what's your favorite season? mine is autumn, though i am partial! it's my birthday season!

» three. fun fact! this chapter was based off of mx. sinister by idkhbtfm and my undone math work! everybody say "hi" to my prof & wish me luck on that inevitable final.