"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 maître 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."