“Let’s go!” Sariel grabbed Seymour and swept him into his arms, taking off from the ground.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—” Seymour scrambled to cling to Sariel as tightly as he could. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ drop me!”
“Never.” Sariel flashed a quick smile, and his wings flapped as they soared over the top of the club.
Seymour closed his eyes, his stomach dropped, and he tried not to think about how high up they were. Of all the many ways he thought he might die recently, being dropped from hundreds of feet in the air by an angel had not been one of them.
“There!” Sariel exclaimed.
Seymour peeked open to catch a glimpse of the scene below.
Monsters were fleeing the club and taking off in vehicles, through portals, and any other way they could escape. In the middle of the chaos was a fluffy ball of calico in hot pursuit of a giant black puddle.
The puddle was taking shape now, something on two tiny legs with a hunched upper body. The overall form reminded Seymour of a moose who lost its antlers and decided to walk upright, but its skin was bright pink and oddly moist, with only thin patches of thick, dark hair. Its head was broad, with a long snout and two big bulging yellow eyes.
It was ugly.
No, ugly was an understatement.
Looking at it caused physical discomfort, and Seymour grimaced as his guts turned.
Day seemed to have no such issue, and her jaw was already hanging open in preparation of devouring the squonk—who, naturally, had no idea of the danger it was in.
“Please!” the squonk squealed. “Please, listen to me. My, my name is Jerry! Jerry! I, I never wanted to hurt anyone?—”
“Hi, Jerry.” Seymour swallowed back a mouthful of bile as Sariel landed and then gently set him down. “We gotta have a lil’ chat.” He wagged a finger at Day. “And you! No eating.”
“But—” Day pouted.
“No, ma’am.”
Jerry blinked his big eyes. “Wh-what?”
Sariel stepped forward, his halo and wings blazing. “You will surrender immediately and face the leaders of the Mostro Family for your crimes. The impersonation of Mr. Heiss Mostro, the impersonation of Louis Morénas-Mostro, the?—”
“The murder of my fuckin’ dad!” Seymour snapped angrily.
“And this!” Day pulled out the crystal and waved it around. “Now! For the disemboweling, I will supply a blade if you do not?—”
“What, what is that?” Jerry blinked rapidly. “How are you doing that?”
Day growled.
Right.
Because he couldn’t see or hear Day, all he saw was a wiggling, floating crystal.
“Hey! Does it matter?” Seymour snapped. “We know it was you that put that thing under the stage! Whatever the fuck it is!”
“You… You don’t know?” Jerry looked at Seymour and then at Sariel, and hesmiled.
Oof, that was rough.
“Well, we know it ain’t fuckin’ good!” Seymour barked back. He turned to Sariel, asking, “Is this the part where we call the real Mr. Heiss to fuck this guy up?”
“I can do the fucking on my own,” Sariel said sternly.
“Fuckingup. Fucking up. Thefuckingup.”
