—BLOODY TEETH & BLACK EYES

『the first pancake is always a lump。』

"WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?"

you have been dead for approximately one hundred years, so you like to think you've got the hang of this hell thing. your schedule remains fixed around the EXTERMINATION, you despise this fact, and have despised it for, appropriately one-hundred years. the bell that tolls massacre leaves just enough time for you to run your errands. 

you are a man of schedule. it's what landed you here, after all.  

as such, you dislike hiccups, this is rather obvious to anyone who has the delight of meet you. you put too much effort into a your system just for it to crash; your work is grueling and you try to keep it as consistent as possible.

this is not new information, and you need to keep that in mind; you are not to be dragged down into obscurity. obscurity is where the powerful die, it is where the weak die, it is where everything dies. you are not looking for a second sentencing on the verdict of wanting. you are comprised solely out of what you make yourself to be: clever hands and sharp teeth. you have not done anything on this urge, you will never do anything on this urge. your impulses remain that. you are in control. you will remain that way. clever hands, sharp teeth, and silver tongue. you're immaculate.

brown oxfords on the throat of anything that has the displeasure of getting in your way.

you lend a sympathetic ear to the woman curled and bloody at your foot, your voice is crisp, "dear, you can't cheese it this late in the game. things like this have big consequences." 

she coughs blood on your shoes and you can't contain the cringe at it; you'll need to clean that when it's all dry and caked. her voice comes out weakly, pleading, pitiful, really. your mama would be aghast at you hurting a lady, but fair is fair. you've never been one to discriminate. 

"what was that, dear?"

her eyes blink out of sync with each other. she says it again and — oh! you knew you were old but you didn't know your hearing was getting away from you. or maybe its your foot on her throat. you sigh, taking it off. 

"again, dear?"

bloody saliva drips out of her mouth, teeth painstakingly removed, one by one by jeż. jeż gets a sort of thrill out of this torture business. you see it as a means to an end; the end here is your money. you aren't a very money hungry person, a gold-digger, nor a greaser in any sense of the word. 

"i..i'm so..orry. i don.. i don' got.." she warbles out.

"don't mumble, dear."

"i. i don't go.. i don't got it, boss."

your foot cramps into way into this dames' blatter; she coughs up another mouthful of red, but she doesn't have your money. this requires a more.. personal touch, you take it.

so, you squat down, cradle her jaw in one hand and get so close, noses touching close, she looks into your eyes like she's trying to find a soul, a pupil, anything  but endless, glassy, black.

you practically purr, "darling, i didn't ask if you had it. i asked for it back. sell yourself, steal it, i don't care where you get it. if i don't have my money back by next week, it doubles, next-next week, your soul is forfeit."

her head jerks back— like she's surprised. 

you pull out her contract, your name in a dashing purple, hers in black, "says so right here! i didn't even put it in fine print. jeż can tell you what a great deal it is working for me. but he's contractually obligated to get me more souls, so. just get me the money, hm?"

you point. the words don't even matter, she's inconsolable.

you bare your teeth. this is your forte. your expertise. this is familiar.

you're good at the groveling, dealing, begging to get what you want, making poeple grovel and deal and beg to get what you want; she's clearly new to this. what to do with her? what to do? well, if she gives you your money, then that's that, but if now? well, you tilt your head and squint.

"do you understand what i'm saying, dear?"

she says nothing, your grip around her jaw tightens to a bruising hold, you repeat, "do. you. un. der. stand?"

her eyes scramble to find purchase on anything but your own; black and merciless as they are.

she tries to shake her head in an agreement, before concluding she can't against the pressure of you palms; smart girl. "yes."

you look at her expectantly. claws digging into her cheekbones.

"y-yessir."

"don't mumble, sweetheart." 

"yessir." she repeats, clearly, this time. from her proper mouth, the one that it's covered by your hand.

oh, you know exactly what you'll do with her soul, you love a bargain. and you're on good enough terms with valentino to know his type is soft and thin with a pretty mouth; you don't know what constitutes as a 'pretty mouth' but you'll use it like you use 'bedroom eyes'; that is to say with only vague awareness of what it's in reference to.

there's a sort of satisfaction ringing it's way through your body.

this doll does have three mouths; one on each cheek and the one where her mouth is supposed to be, which you supposed may be pretty in its own merit.

you let go of her jaw, ignoring the bruises shaped like your fingers on her, you wipe her saliva on the shoulders of her shirt.

"wonderful, it's a pleasure doing business with you dear, quite a pleasure, and you're charmed, i'm sure, but i do have things to do, what with the extermination on the horizon! you understand, don't you, doll?"

she nods. a smile breaks it's way onto your face, why, you haven't been this excited since you got on that boat with your sister! oh, the memories! 

she mumbles another yessir.

"good girl! now, jeż here will take you home. jeż! shake hands with the girl, she looks half dead!"  

jeż looks at you like you're saying something he can't understand; you repeat that, too. he nods, lets out a stiff da, pakhan, and all is right with the world. you're going where you want to go, life is just the cat's meow! jeż takes the doll to outside this cute little basement with a rag over her head — not that she'll call the fuzz; not like there's the fuzz to call! 

"oh, and doll, don't go finding my trouble-boys in water, savvy?" you really don't want to bail anyone when you aren't getting anything back. that's just bad business.

you turn back to, what's her name? you can't be bothered.

a final nod.

so, the bobcat dame is on her way out, and you are, too. why, your schedule is always so packed full this time'a year. you have things to do! places to be! debts to collect! people to catch up with! shoes to repair! why aren't you just busier than a busboy?

anyway. 

you could barber all day about malarkey, if you had the time. you have things to do. with things cramping up, your schedule becomes just a lit more urgent; you've got everything fully blocked! you only miscalculated how .. the anniversary would affect you, but that means you only have two extra things to do: get your new shoes (which should have been done three days ago) and picking up a new suit (which you weren't even supposed to be doing, but dvořák couldn't make it because she got sick; what rotten luck). you hate it when things don't go along in a timely manner, you're a man of schedule, after all.

now! your teeth gnash against each other in a valiant attempt at a grin, but you know — you're aware — you look off putting. it keeps people from approaching you, and, hey! if it works for that one smiling broadcaster (who got rid of your tunes for a month, replaced with the grating screams of the grand not-so-overlords), why can't it work for you? 

a gentleman grins and bears it, or grits his teeth and pushes until he's through, and you are nothing if not a gentleman.

today is a good day, no need to bear it. why, things may be a tad rushed, but what's a little rush in hell?

you hum some lovesick toon from the golden year of nineteen-twenty-four and walk merrily along the street. kádár should be doing this on account of dvořák not, but she has better things to be done, bigger errands to run. you need the walk, regardless; being couped up in your apartment makes you dizzy with want. 

nothing in particular. just a want.

which, of course, leaves you doing common-slueth work and common-man work to keep you from dipping farther into the pool of want want want. furthermore, you've got a meeting with darling franklin that's been in the works since this time last month.

why, she's a darling in every sense of the word. 

franklin, is of course, delighted by this impromptu visit, why wouldn't she be? 

"don't fret, dear," you start, "i come bearing gifts!"

"i'm not one to fret, regardless." she says, smiling. 

"it's a turn of phrase, dear, some booshwash to start the day."

"well, can the twit, i don't have time to chin until heaven's extermination; do get to the point, big shot."

"i love to dally, though."

"and i would love to have bat for lunch." she says, casually. oh, how you forget her temper.

you grin, just a little bit, "so demanding, how did a dame like you catch a husband, not once, not thrice — but two times?"

"you'll never get me to sing!" she teases.

"oh, doll, i can make anyone a canary with the right incentive!" you say mirthfully.

"i'm just swooning, handsome." she says, no inflection anywhere in her words; you have to laugh at it. 

"yeah yeah, you wanted to say something about encroaching territory and whatnot?" you ask. the quiet that falls over the emporium lasts a quaint four seconds, you aren't here to cause discomfort, after all, "first! my gift! i know you just love the blue eyes — so, i went through the discomfort of getting you a few!"

you pull out a jar of pickled eyes — it took suárez a good few days to find a vendor in CANNIBAL TOWN that wouldn't go rambling to rosie, and rosie to franklin; the bribery costed more than the jar itself. you smile at the way her face just lights up.

"oh, you sheik! you shouldn't've, i'm trying to watch my figure!"

"it's really the least i could do, they're your favorite, and you've been such a good friend."

she waggles a finger at you, not hers but.. a finger. "well, not you've buttered me up, what do you o-so-desire, big shot." 

"nothing too serious, dear, i just want some information; no need to get so feisty!" you drag out, "there's something going on, isn't there? that radio demon is back, hm?"

franklin's face does this sort of thing where she's conflicted, you don't like that, you smile peacefully.

"i'm not out to get him like that.. moving picture box, i just like to be in the know. don't you?"

"and how!" her voice picks up, whatever avoidance she had disappears, "i can only give this to you for a price, you know."

your eyebrows lift.

she puts her hand out, and the room swells something sinister, "you cannot, under any circumstances, use this information against him, rosie'll have my head!"

oh. oh you like these terms, "why, no skin off my back, it's a deal!"

"nothing i tell you here leaves this room." she says, serious, "or consider our lovely little friendship gone, alright, handsome?"

"wouldn't dream of it!" you say, "that kinda ambitions is outta my pocket anyway."

"wonderful—" she starts.

"not wonderful!" marie ivanova says to you when you ask about business, "these salauds can not tell a fine shoe from a rag," then she, you presume, in the very least, begins cursing up a storm in french. 

"pardon?" you ask.

"i said i have the mind to — to skin these sinners like the cats they are! the audacity? the disrespect? ask if we sell sneakers—" she says with as much distain as she can muster, while managing to put centuries worth of accent into a word, making it sound like snickers, the candy bar, "—chér, you are the only one who knows quality when you look!" 

"i'm charmed, look now marie, you're making this old man blush!"

"old, you, oh, chér, don't even begin!"

"now marie, i'm well over a hundred years old, even you have to admit, that's rather old." this particular argument is repetitive and dull, you love it dearly.

"nonsense—me and peter are well over a millennia, and there's still a spring in us! you are as young as you look, no matter how old-fashion you act. the youth are so energized, be like them, yes?" she hounds, as she always does, about how strung out you are. "your mama will worry you have no friends, have fun, chér! even me and peter have fun, and me and him are much older than your measly hundred and more years."

"i—" you start, there's an excuse at the tip of your tongue, then, you give up, "—alright, you nailed me, dear! i'll get the jive tonight and the hoofers'll think me wild with folly and ferver."

"i have no idea what you're saying, chér, but you go have some fun."

"will do, dear, my shoes? i need a pair of dancers if i'm gonna go up with the flappers on the stage, i ain't no flaming youth, you know?"

"i will be fast like the mouse in the cat house," she says, "pick them a week after the big killing, yes?"

you smile, "course, doll, and tell peter to send me the name of his favorite whiskey, i owe 'em one-or-two; you still like those chocolates, yeah?"

"small with the strawberry in a middle." she clarifies.

"got'cha!" you say triumphantly, "i'll drop them when i get my shoes, charmed as always!"

"have fun, milo!"

"and how, marie!"

your first step into your very own turf is accosted by chaput, frazzled as she always is, wanting and wanting and wanting, you don't spare her a glance, if you do she might think you care, "oh, boss, i've been meanin' to talk to ya—"

ot might be something important, but you aren't stopping for a call up of the day. she skirts around the streets to keep up with you.

"jeż got that girl home safe, so you don't gotta worry a thing, dirks kept that porno guy from scheduling until afta' the extermination, morīta kept on task for once in his damned existence and got the entire west-end working like new, mcroy an' o'riley started clearin' the streets for the extermination. barker got someone to sign on for an iou—some noah gabriel miller. that's today."

"and popă?" you start, "they were intended to finish budgeting for the next year — where did they leave off?"

"ah, just needed to add in new contract girl an' that wreck from that property damagin' —"

"bomb," you sigh, "always causing trouble. someone needs to get her on a terf-run. she gets destructive when she's not doing something fun."

maria's grip on her pen snaps it in half. she keeps writing with a polite, "yes boss. i'll get her on standby for after the extermination."

"and olivia?" you ask―you only call gordon by her first name in front of chaput - to keep the distance between the both of you insurmountable.

"she―ran all her stuff, made a list of to-be-debters and suchlike. remember she's got tomorrow off so i can't ask her to babysit knežević."

you blink, rearranging it in your head, "knežević stays with suárez. she needs someone intimidating behind her when she has to fend off valentino tomorrow."

"why does suárez always deal with that creep?"

you raise an eyebrow at her insolence; if she can't see the humor you won't explain it, "are you questioning me, chaput?"

her eyes drift to the floor, "no sir."

"good girl." you say, and then with politeness you didn't know you could muster, you ignore how red her face gets.

"oh. one more thing―aiza is still outta commission. he's doing that metal hunt job in carmine's territory and can't risk coming here ― his words not mine. says he's got a lead on the knock off angelic steel. said something about second hand sellers diluting it. sellin' it cheaper."

"will he be here before the extermination?"

"don't know. wouldn't bet my last dime on it, though."

you finally look at her as you reach the door to your apartment, as in yours, that you own. in your possession. yours. "thank you again, chaput, fill me in for tomorrow."

her eyes sparkle, you try not to show disgust, "'course boss!"

"that's jake!" and then, as per your schedule, "i'll be off."

you slam the door in her face. 

(how in the seven circles is she the only one competent enough to work as a secretary without being scared shitless of you?

you wager it has something to do with her being stuck on you.)

what a day! now, your bed is a temptress you cant your head towards her, victim to her soft pillows, warm blankets, and various wiles; you don't bother with eating—you're already dead, after all. sleep is much more tempting. 

your shower is clean, clothes freshly changed ― the outside is filthy and letting it into your house is egregious; that should be it's own sin. then, your bed.

climbing into the softness of it all is your guilty pleasure. falling to blackened silence.

you dream of what you always do.

that ugly, disappointing nothing on faces you can barely remember. you don't sleep soundly, but you suppose nobody would. sleeplessness is everyone's personal hell, after all.

it doesn't deter your day. you can't let something so small ruin your routine.

you are a man if schedule, after all.

» zero. мой брат не ангел - my brother [is] not [an] angel.

» one. the man who first dropped in hell with murder in his mouth & blood on  his hands only got more calculated in how he disects it; a well trained dog knows knows not only how, but when to bite.

» two. milo is a nickname derived from milan, which means kind, loving, and / or gracious. marie means star of the sea. peter ― pronounced pet-er ― means stone. franklin means free-man. these are the only people that milan refers to by first names. only marie calls him milo.

» three. i have an unhealthy obsession with unreliable narrators. & apparently hazbin hotel. have fun with this.