Archive of Our Own ^beta

   Moxxie takes a deep breath and leans his head against his forearm. His horns lightly resting against the bar's counter, taking up the empty space. He's honestly quite relaxed, after having two extremely strong drinks. Not Drunk, but the buzz is pleasant and light. His collar is popped open displaying his neck, no tie to be found. His pants are wrinkled and so unkept, making Moxxie feel a little embarrassed. He would usually be so proper, but today's kill really took it out of him.

Striker immediately gave him a hit-list the moment he healed enough, which Moxxie had no complaints about. He wants to help Striker with whatever this situation was, and get back home to his wife. Back to the company, with Blitzo's loud ramblings and Loona's pricky attitude. Back to his normal. So, Moxxie has been following Striker's instructions, killing quickly and effectively. But Today, things had gotten a little messy for the small imp. 

Usually, Moxxie would find a spot high up and take the target out in one shot. But his target was smarter than that. Moxxie has a hunch that someone told the fucker that he had a hit on him. The target immediately wised up, hiding in some barn in the middle of nowhere in Wrath. No buildings to camp in, just fields of grain as far as the eye can see. Moxxie had no places to hide. So for his last kill of the day, he got up close and personal. Moxxie had to sneak in through the bathroom window to surprise the target, but immediately got caught exiting the bathroom. 

The target knocked the gun out of Moxxie's palms, tossing the smaller imp to the floor. Claws and teeth tried to descend upon him, but Moxxie was having none of that. He quickly twisted his body where his legs wrapped around his target's waist, using his body weight to flip his target's back to the floor. Moxxie felt a little pride at the move, learning it from his wife. The larger imp wasted no time, tried to sink his teeth into anything he could reach. Called the assassin every horrible slur in Hell, but Moxxie heard none of it. With sharp eyes and sudden precision, Moxxie pulled out his backup pistol and aimed the gun right at his target's temple. 

They both freeze for a moment, metal touching red hot skin. His Target immediately tried to claw his nails into Moxxie's wrist, leaving little streams of blood. But Moxxie's form is solid and unmoving; he takes the abuse with no intention of stopping. Then the begging began, the larger imp making promises he could never keep, desperate to live to see another day. Moxxie feels some empathy towards his target, wanting to just leave the whole situation. But Striker's warnings and a huge explosion come to Moxxie's mind. He has to do this. 

With a soft whisper of a apology, Moxxie pulled the trigger. 

Just thinking about his last kill of the day made Moxxie's insides twist with guilt. So, while he waited on Striker to get to the chosen Wrath bar, he had a few drinks. He's calm enough to give Striker the run down and not make a fool out himself. If only the snake would hurry up and get there. The Slippery bastard was running at least a hour late. 

Moxxie rubs his eyes with his free hand, mumbling about the importance of punctuality. 

The small imp is in his own little world, not noticing the lively atmosphere of the bar. Live country music is playing on the makeshift stage, demons are dancing with a southern twang in every spin. The bartenders are struggling to keep up with demand. Moxxie looks so out of place, resting on the counter, making it easy for a unknown pair of eyes to look over him.

With quiet steps, Striker enters the bar, soaking the atmosphere in with a soft sigh. The hitman scans the tiny bar, looking for one imp in particular. Striker's eyes fall on the ruffled form of Moxxie. 

Found You.

Striker calmly walks up to Moxxie, ready to greet his business partner. But Moxxie hasn't notice his presence, to distracted with the thoughts in his own little head. Striker can't help himself, Moxxie just looks so good, laid out on the counter.

Easy Prey.

Striker takes a finger and runs it along Moxxie's horn, leaning his snout next to Moxxie's ear. Crowding into Moxxie's little corner of heaven in the bustling bar. 

"Your thinking too hard, my little one." 

The words are soft and lazy, with a hint of amusement. Making Moxxie shiver with dread and another emotion he rather not look into. 

Moxxie quickly lifts up his head, as Striker slides into the open seat with ease. Striker gives the smaller imp a smug smirk, oozing self confidence and ignorance. Their eyes finally meet, Striker notices the cloudy daze in Moxxie's eyes. The smaller imp has obviously been drinking.  

"Have you been having fun without me?" 

Moxie feels his temper rise, annoyed with himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. The smaller imp ignores the cowboy's words, lightly poking a finger into Striker's chest. Moxxie's cheeks brighten at the feel of Striker's hard muscles. 

"Your late, you jerk." Moxxie says with a huff, feeling like he won some unspoken high ground. 

Striker chuckles, not offended in the slightest. Enjoying the view of a flustered and annoyed Moxxie. 

"My bad, if I knew I would find you like this, I would of came sooner." Striker says smoothly, like he had all the time in the World. Striker goes to grab the accusatory finger, but Moxxie quickly yanks his hand to his side. Leaning as far away as he could from the devilish imp in front of him. 

Moxxie lets out a small growl. 

"Don't start with the flirting... Why are you late?" 

Striker hums as his eyes leave Moxxie's face to look behind the counter. He finds an unoccupied bartender them to signaling them to come over. The bartender begrudgingly stomps over to the duo, ready to get the next order of drinks. 

Moxxie wants to question and grill into Striker, but he stays silent, letting Striker smooth talk the bartender into getting his drinks first. Ordering himself a whiskey on the rocks and Moxxie a specialty drink. The bartender takes the order and runs off to finish the task. Moxxie opens his mouth, ready to ask his question again. But the hitman beats him to it. 

"Well, if you must know, my last client was chatting my ear off. Took forever to get the fucker to focus on payment." 

Moxxie nods, knowing how clients would sometimes get to wrapped up in other things. Making business that much harder.

"What about you? Had any complications?" Striker continues on, not wanting the conversation to get cold. 

The smaller hitman shivers, feeling anxiety build in his chest. The drinks really didn't help in the end, Moxxie wasn't relax in the slightest. 

"Um...Well, I killed everyone on your list. No loose ends." Moxxie's words are barely above a whisper. Striker has to lean in to hear them, enjoying breathing in Moxxie's scent.  Letting his tail slowly wrap around Moxxie's thigh, trying to bury himself in every part of Moxxie's psyche. Wanting every piece of this stubborn prey. 

"Then....what's the problem?" Striker mumbles, letting the words sink into Moxxie. Just for the Hell of it, Striker finishes with a sexy drawl.

"Partner."

Moxxie has the sudden urge to grab this slimy fucker and toss him across the bar. Which deity thought it would be a good idea to give this asshole such a seductive voice?! It's honestly so unfair. 

The smaller imp stiffens, ready to say just about anything to cut this unnatural tension. But, he never gets the chance. A loud cough catches both imps attention, they turn to face a small male imp. The intruder is nothing really to look at, he's about Moxxie's size. His hair is black with delicate horns that curled at the ends, poking out his plain white cowboy hat. His eyes though, are only focused on Moxxie. 

"Hey! I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I just had to see if it was you." The Stranger says with excitement. Like a puppy finally finding his master after being abandon behind a dumpster. Striker is immediately on edge, not liking the longing in this imp's eyes. Instincts screaming at him to tear this fucker's throat out. The only thing that stops him is the unrecognition on Moxxie's face. 

"Do I know you?" 

Moxxie says it so bluntly that even Striker gets whiplash. No hesitation from the smaller hitman. Straight to business. 

The intruder coughs again, trying to catch his breath. Then laughs like everything was in good fun. 

"Oh no! You don't know me! It's just..." The small imp starts to play with his fingers, like he's building the courage to speak. It's a pitiful display, in Striker's opinion. "I saw your performance at Ozzie's! I was there with my boyfriend of the time. I just wanted to say you were amazing. I never thought I would hear a angel's voice from such a lovely hell-spawn." 

Moxxie feels his already red cheeks get brighter, as he owl blinks at the sudden compliments. Moxxie couldn't wrap his head around about how this is his life. 

"What the hell do you think you're..." Striker starts to growl, ready to obliterate this cocky shit stain. 

Drinks are slammed onto the counter, getting the imps attention. The bartender returned with a hungry look in their eyes. 

"You played at Ozzie's. That's incredible. We are doing karaoke tonight, you should sing."  The bartender's voice is deep and carries. Other patrons start to pay attention to the conversation, interest peaking. 

Moxxie's forehead starts to sweat, mentally chanting the word "Fuck." over and over again. Striker's tail tightens and starts to raddle, the vibration demanding his attention. Moxxie looks down and grabs Striker's tail. Tugging lightly on it, he tries to get the clearly homicidal imp's attention. Striker pays no mind, he straightens his spine and quickly answers for Moxxie. 

"Sorry bud, we are on a strictly business outing. Surely you understand?" Striker voice is commanding, but in a entitled boss way. The bartender pays it no mind, letting their eyes meet Striker's. Unafraid and ready to push on. 

"Oh come on! Surely one song won't kill him." The bartender challenges back. Imps and Hell-folk round them start to lean in, feeling embolden by the bartender. The stranger who started it all starts to chant, "One song! One song! One song!" The patrons start to join in, soon multiple voices around the bar are chanting in sync. 

If Moxxie wasn't panicking enough before, this definitely broke the hell camel's back. Dozen of eyes were on him, but Moxxie's eyes are on Striker. The serpent imp looked calm and collected on the outside. But his eyes showed his true bloodlust. Ready to destroy the whole bar, consequences be damned. Moxxie pushes his panic aside in a instant, knowing everyone lives are on the line.

Moxxie takes a deep breath and counts back from five in his head. 

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two. 

One. 

Moxxie releases the breath and lets his mind settle. Striker is too far up his own ass to care about their growing audience, but Moxxie cares. Refusing the offer is making more of a spectacle than anything else. With a sudden moment of clarity, Moxxie takes the reins. His nails sink into Striker's tail, making the larger imp hiss. Striker's eyes finally meets Moxxie's, demanding to know what the smaller imp wanted. But Moxxie just looks back at the larger imp. Silently begging his captor to shut the fuck up and let him handle this.

Striker eyes are wild and ready to argue, but Moxxie keeps his cool. Not even blinking, just patiently waiting. 

The Cowboy must've seen something in his little ones eyes, because he huffs and relaxes. 

The smaller hitman looks away first, his attention now on the bartender. Moxxie tries to muster as much cowboy charisma as he could. Trying to embody every western he's watched with Millie. He's in Wrath after all.

With all the fake confidence in the world, Moxxie's hand leaves Striker's tail. He grabs the drink Striker order for him, lifting the glass above his head in a celebratory way. 

"Well, I would hate to disappoint such a rowdy crowd." 

Moxxie words are heard by the bartender, the patrons, the stranger, Striker, and probably God himself. 

More chants and cheers fill the air, glasses raised high. The whole bar vibrating with excitement. Moxxie looks at Striker, with a wild gleam in his eyes. The hitman chuckles with amusement. Not knowing how to feel about this adventurous side of Moxxie. But, for some reason, craving more of it. 

"One song!"  

Moxxie shouts, then chugs his cocktail like there was no tomorrow. The alcohol burns like crazy going down his throat, but Moxxie plows through. The buzz in his own head returning with a vengeance and getting louder. Cheers and drinking could be heard all around. The bartender nods, satisfied that they got their way. Returning to making drinks. Moxxie places the now empty glass on the counter. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he puts them in his lap. 

"Your so fucking cool! I'm Hash, by the way!" The stranger says with even more enthusiasm, if that was possible. Hash tosses a arm over Moxxie's shoulder, trying to play it cool. Moxxie straightens at the sudden touch, looking over the other imp. He's wearing a half open white button down shirt with black accents, black bedazzled jeans, and a single leather necklace with a brassy coin on the end. Moxxie is mildly impressed with the outfit. 

Striker feels his last nerve snap, seeing this Hash fellow causally touching his Moxxie was the final straw. The serpent imp reluctantly removes his tail from Moxxie's thigh, and winds it up like a spring. Letting the tail fall under the lights of the bar. With a casual sip of his drink, Striker releases the tail muscle and slams the edge of his tail into Hash's unprotected left ankle. Hash immediately yipes like a wuss, hand leaving Moxxie's shoulder to rub against the new bruise. Perfect.

Moxxie blinks for a few seconds, just watching Hash rub his ankle while he hops on the other leg. It's really a stupid sight. Hash immediately loses the few brownie points he gained with his excellent taste in style. Moxxie sighs, and looks back at Striker. He's wearing that condescending smirk that makes Moxxie want to sink his teeth into something.... or someone. 

Striker raises a eyebrow, challenging Moxxie to speak first. 

The alcohol makes Moxxie bold, the smaller imp leans into Striker's space. His claws grab Striker's shirt, close to tearing the fabric. Yanking the Cowboy even closer to the small Assassin, Moxxie's face is inches from Striker's. Striker can smell the liquor in Moxxie's breath. Striker wants to drown in it. The Serpent looks at Moxxie's flush lips, ready to chase after them. But Moxxie moves with ease, putting his lips next to Striker's ear. Returning the favor from earlier, it seems. 

"Behave. There's too many in here for you to fight." Moxxie whispers in a unusually deep voice. Striker has no idea what's come over the smaller imp, but he's memorized. Unfazed, Moxxie continues, "I have a plan. I'm going to sing one song, You are going to do damage control." 

Moxxie deals the final blow with a dangerous, yet seductive tone. Smooth like molasses. 

"Got it partner?"

Striker freezes, feeling far to much all at once. Anger. Amusement. Desire. Hunger. It's too fucking much. 

The sneaky seducer snorts, releasing his grip on Striker's shirt. He pats Striker's chest and slides off the bar stool. His ass is a little numb from sitting there for so long, his hooves bulk for a second. But Moxxie gives a little spin and catches himself. Moxxie looks to Hash and bluntly comments, "Come on now, it can't hurt that bad. " Hash quickly shakes his leg, and tries to ignore the pain now that Moxxie was looking at him. 

"Oh right! Sorry! I can show you where you sign up for karaoke."  Hash offers, trying to get Moxxie to forget his embarrassing display. Moxxie mentally rolls his eyes and chuckles, "That would be so kind of you." 

Hash's red smooth tail waggles, pleased to be of service to this beautiful imp. Hash goes to grab Moxxie's hand, so he could lead the Imp through the crowd. Moxxie slaps the hand away, and says with a sassy tone. "There's no need for hand holding, I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own." Hash's eyes brighten and raises his hands in surrender. Walking into the dancing crowd, heading towards the stage. 

Moxxie takes a deep breath and gives Striker one final look. The Hitman is almost leaning off his bar stool, ready to follow. Like it was instinctual for Striker to follow him.  Moxxie's eye narrow and he gives his partner a stern nod. Striker nods back, just watching. Moxxie turns and walks into the crowd, following a certain plain white hat. Leaving the now scheming serpent to his own devices. 

Moxxie ends up walking to the left side of the bottom stage, finding Hash writing on a suspicious clip board. The area has a small booth with two big speakers for the lone imp manning all the audio. A laptop on full display, with thousands of songs to play. The DJ imp smirks, popping her gum in a obnoxious fashion. She yanks the clipboard from Hash, looks it over quickly. Then she let's out a small snort. Her eyes look to Hash, "I know this fucker can't sing worth a shit." 

Hash squawks, and let's out a mortified "Hey!" The DJ rolls her eyes and looks back down at Moxxie, curious and amused. 

"So, you must be Foxxie." 

Moxxie blushes and coughs, he quickly says "Excuse me?" 

The DJ taps the clips board and replies, "Hash has your name written down as Foxxie. What kind of name is that?", while Hash quickly defends the name like his life depended on it. 

They obviously didn't know what's Moxxie real name was. This was good. Moxxie resists the urge to correct them, playing into the new persona. Using a fake name would help keep the Purists off their trail. Moxxie just hopes Striker can do damage control like he asked. Moxxie takes a breath and tells himself in his head " Treat it like another mission. Sell it." 

Moxxie laughs and wipes a fake tear from his eyes, "Yeah, my parents were freaks. If you know what I mean." 

The two bickering imps look at Moxxie, and let out a heart felt laugh. 

"Holy shit! You're a riot! Okay Foxxie, what do you wanna sing?" The DJ ask with interest, knocking Hash away from the booth. Moxxie slides in to see the laptop displaying all the  available options. Moxxie barely recognizes any of the songs listed, which a majority of them being country. Only a few songs stand out because he watch Millie belt them out in the company car. Or when she would shower, she play them on her wrecked DVD player. Singing like a siren in the water. 

Moxxie feels a ache in his heart, he misses Millie so much. All he wants to do is sing her song, finding comfort in his own lyrics. But Millie isn't here, she's safe and away from Striker's deadly claws. But, Striker is here. He couldn't sing for his lovely Millie, but he could sing for Striker. Make a statement, if you will. 

The scheming imp spots the perfect song, and points his finger on the tile. "This song."  

The two imps lean in to see his pick, Hash giggles and starts to compliment his choice. The DJ gives a impressive whistle, "That's gonna be a show stopper. Are you sure you got the pipes for it?" Moxxie nods, knowing the song by heart because of his wife. He could do this; it was like a little piece of her was with him. 

"Alright! No Problem! Quick question though, do you want the band to play the music for it or would you rather use the karaoke system?"  

Moxxie thinks over the DJ's question, to him it seemed like a no brainer. Live music will always have more soul and power than anything prerecorded. 

"I'll sing with the band." 

Hash pumps his fists, while the DJ continues to drill questions into Moxxie "Do you need the lyrics on display? We have a shitty tv in the corner, but nobody really uses it." 

Moxxie shakes his head no and mentions "Oh! I don't need all that! I know the words." Oozing drunk confidence. 

The female imp goes to reply, impressed with this first timer, but Hash interrupts " Foxxie is so great! A real professional~!" 

The DJ gives Hash the stink eye, clearly over Hash's showboating. She ignores the little moron, "Alright Mr. Professional, your up next since I don't give a single fuck about the other names on this list. The perks of being the DJ." She gives Moxxie a flashy wink. Moxxie lets out a soft giggle, clearly amused.   

The DJ walks away from the booth and looks to Moxxie one last time, "I'm going to get the band and crowd ready. Do you need anything?" 

Moxxie feels his heart melt a little, this imp was just to kind. He thinks it over, and immediately knows what he needs. "Can you get me a spare guitar?" 

The DJ nods, and runs off to complete her task. Hash coughs, catching Moxxie's attention finally. Hash is a unnatural shade of red, he's fiddling with his fingers again. "I just wanted to say..." Hash mumbles. It looks like a start to some type of confession, a confession Moxxie has no time for. Moxxie shuts it down, not wanting the other imp to get anymore hurt. 

"Look, I need to focus. Can we talk later?" Moxxie's voice is soft and soothing, tempting Hash with the promise of them talking later. If only Hash knew that Moxxie would never allow "later" to happen.  A empty promise. 

Hash nods, not wanting to push. He gives a shy wave and a soft "Good Luck.", leaving Moxxie alone with his own thoughts. He could do this. He could. 

Striker growls, while he scans the dance floor and center stage. He's on damage control duty, whatever the fuck that means. He's resting with his back against the bar counter, another drink in his hand from a different bartender. The pest had passed him on to one of their co-workers. Cowardly Bitch. 

Striker drinks the whiskey slowly, letting his thoughts run freely. Thoughts of Moxxie's hands on his chest. Thoughts of Moxxie's seductive voice. Thoughts of Moxie's lips... Striker wants it all, but Moxxie gave him a job. The little one demanded it, like Striker was his to use. Like Moxxie was the boss, and Striker was the employee. It was truly a conundrum. 

The Imp should be mad at the audacity, but he's more intrigued if anything. The devilish imp wants to see every side of Moxxie. He wants to see Moxxie's.... well... Moxxie.~ He wants to hear Moxxie's unfiltered sarcasm. He wants to feel Moxxie's anger under his skin.  He wants....

He should be mad, but he listens anyway. Moxxie has a way of always coming in clutch, Striker learned that in the Extermination. The smaller imp would have some wild plan, and in the end, it would work. It's weird that the plan was two words "Damage Control." Not very much to work with. Striker sighs, letting his sharp glaze fall on the stage.

Hollering could be heard around the bar as a lone imp takes center stage. A tall female imp is messing with the mic stand. She has soft white curls that poke out her black cowboy hat, her horns too small to be seen. Larger eyes and a small nose, she looks quite mousey. Yet, the way she's chewing her gum proves she's not what she seems. She's wearing this black bedazzled one piece turtle neck with a intricate patterns. The bottom part has a trail made with red tinsel, of all things. 

She lets out a small sigh, the sound is caught by the mic. She looks satisfied at her adjustments, the mic at perfect pitch. She taps the mic softly, the static feeds back into the speakers. Hell-folks settle down, waiting in anticipation with frantic whispers. 

"Hello my fellow Hell-Spawns, How are we feeling tonight?" Her voice is snarky, with a hint of dramatical flare. 

The crowds cheers, being a rather jolly group of demons for being in the Wrath ring. The gum chewer puts her hands on her hips, not impressed with the response. 

"Come on! I know you can do better than that!" She commands the crowd.

They double in volume. Cheers and whistles could be heard all around. A party that truly never ends. 

"Now that's more like it! Y'all know me, Your lovely DJ and hostess Starla." 

The gorgeous imp gives a little spin, showing off her body. The whistles are more desperate and horny. Striker rolls his eyes at the display, while he continues to sip his glass of whiskey. 

"We have a special guest! Someone new to hit the scene!" 

Starla quickly lowers the mic, and pauses for dramatical effect. Hell-folk lean in with anticipation, holding their breaths. Even Striker can't escape the magnetism of Starla's voice. 

"Welcome to the stage, Foxxie!~"  

She says it so confidently that Striker chokes on his drink, making a few patrons turn to look at him. Striker pays them no mind, as he puts his now empty glass down. The bastard wants to laugh, but he holds it in. "Foxxie? Well... she's not wrong." Striker thinks with far too much amusement. His eyes land on Moxxie crossing the stage to the mic, while the female imp disappears to the band. 

Moxxie looks so small under the spotlight, only armed with a beat up acoustic guitar. Yet, his head is held high making him appear far braver. He still looks just as ruffled, but he made it look unintentionally sexy. Striker doesn't take his eyes off him, quickly grabbing some loose souls from his pocket and slamming them on the counter. The Serpent Imp abandons the bar, stalking into the crowd, wanting a closer look. 

Moxxie takes hold of the mic stand, his eyes scan the crowd. After a few seconds, they land on Striker. He's blended in with the multitude of bodies, a predator surrounded by prey. Just waiting to strike. Moxxie wants to be a predator in his own right, he wants to dominate this stage. He wants to feel in control.

"This song is for my business partner." 

His little one says it with such seductive venom that Striker feels a shiver go down his spine. This song was dedicated to him? His eyes are searching in Moxxie's, but Moxxie refuses to break. Standing firm with sharp eyes and a light strumming of his acoustic guitar, Moxxie plays a oddly familiar tone. 

"Oh, oh
Oh, oh
Oh, oh"

Moxxie voice is soft and airy, complimenting the guitar extremely well. The crowd is in quiet awe and glee, recognizing the song immediately. Striker chuckles, knowing the song as well. Striker is beyond words, does his little one think he's a.....Cowboy Casanova?

"You better take it from me
That imp is like a disease"

Moxxie's soft voice becomes more aggressive with each word, displaying his frustration. Thinking of all the times Striker has made his life more difficult. Trying to make him a hostage the first time. Getting ambushed by Striker's ex-partner, and ending up in the extermination with the cowboy bastard. Striker claiming his lips in that fucking hotel. Poisoning him with his terrifying jaws. Kissing him again! Making him leave his family.  

"You're runnin' and tryin' and tryin' to hide
And you're wondering why you can't get free"

"That's right, you can't get away from me." Striker thinks with vicious glee. Taking every word Moxxie sings with greedy anticipation. But a boney elbow hits his arm, Striker's eyes leave the stage to growl at the perpetrator. The shit stain is back, with a overconfident smirk. 

"Your business partner is amazing. Why is he hanging out with a stick in the mud like you?" Hash says with a taunting chuckle, puffing up his chest. 

Striker feels his left eyebrow twitch, having the sudden urge to strangle this bastard. 

The band joins in with Moxxie's stumming, making the song louder and bolder. Moxxie sings the next few lines with the now active crowd. Harmonizing with all voices from all walks of life. But Striker doesn't hear the words, his sole focus on Hash. 

"Wouldn't you like to know, vermin." 

Hash growls, pushing past Striker with a angry scowl. Striker lets him, watching Hash's back go through the crowd to get to the back of the bar. The idiot was heading towards the restrooms. Striker thinks of following, but He remembers Moxxie's voice in his ear. "Behave. Damage Control." 

Oh, he'll behave alright. He'll follow Moxxie's plan, showing his business partner that he could count on him. But, he's gonna have some fun while he does it. With a sinister huff, Striker's glare digs daggers in Hash's form. "Later." Striker promises himself. The hitman looks back to Moxxie, he's singing the chorus. 

"He's a good time cowboy Casanova
Leaning up against the record machine
He looks like a cool drink of water
But he's candy-coated misery"

Moxxie isn't looking at the crowd anymore, his eyes are closed tight. Letting his voice carry every dark feeling he's been burying inside. Thinking of Striker's body on his. Thinking of Striker's talented lips. Thinking of Striker's hold on him.

"He's the devil in disguise
A snake with red eyes
And he only comes out at night"

Moxxie opens his eyes, pushing the traitorous thoughts away. Letting his anger carry the rest of the chorus out.

"Gives you feelings that you don't wanna fight
You better run for your life"

Moxxie finishes the chorus with a heated breath. Someone from the band hands him a mystery shot, Moxxie swallows it down with one gulp. The crowd cheers, raising glasses in the air and quickly drinking them down.

A few imps have their phones out recording, making Striker bristle. Having video evidence of this performance would cause problems with them staying low-profile. He obvious couldn't allow that, after all, he's on damage control. The Hitman chuckles, finally understanding what Moxxie meant. 

Striker disappears into the crowd, like a shark in the water. He causally grabs imps cell phones with sneaky precision, only leaving a trail of confusion and crushed devices. All the while, keeping his eyes on the stage.

Moxxie sings with all the force he could muster, the crowd is echoing his every word. At some point Starla grabbed a mic, singing in sync with him. Making Moxxie glow, feeling not alone for the first time in a long time. It's amazing to Moxxie, how music can bring demons together. 

Moxxie gently places the guitar down, and yanks the wireless mic off the stand. He hops down from the stage, joining the crowd. His voice is brazen, as his flows through the masses. The performer spots the hitman immediately, He's crushing a blue cell-phone and dropping the remains on the floor. Striker eyes are far to pleased, making Moxxie even more irritated for some reason. Moxxie crosses over to him with drunk vengeance. Striker lets his prey get closer, rattling his tail. The hitman leans down a little to be at eye level with Moxxie. Just waiting.

Striker watches Moxxie somehow crowd surf back to the stage, feeling mildly aroused and upset. He rubs at his head, letting his fingers run against his hair. Feeling odd without the weight of the hat. That little shit just grabbed it and... Why does it look so good on him? 

The hitman ignores the heat in his gut, scanning the crowd one last time. Everyone is far to drunk or they have wised up enough to stop trying to record. Excellent. Meaning Striker has done his job. Now, he can have some fun. Striker leaves the dance floor, heading straight for the male restrooms. 

Striker enters the restroom with a quite rattle. Hash is leaning over the sink, memorized by his own reflection in the mirror. He's putting on some kind of Chapstick. "Hello. misplaced aggression." Striker thinks with a sinister smile, pulling out a sharp curved dagger. The Serpent creeps behind Hash, letting his face show in the mirror. Hash squeaks, turning to face Striker but the larger imp is faster. He sinks the dagger into Hash's right palm, slicing through the flesh and coming out through the other side.

Hash screams, black blood pouring out of his hand. He quickly grabs his injured hand and holds it to his chest. He screams for help, while he tries to get pass Striker to the exit. His cries are drowned out by the crowd cheering outside. No one is coming to save him. Strike strikes with no mercy, letting his dagger do all the work. He cuts into Hash multiple times, but the smaller imp refuses to die. Trying to sink his pitiful teeth into Striker's arm. Striker takes his other fist, and slams a punch into Hash's jaw. Instantly a loud crunch followed by pitiful sobbing can be heard. 

Striker leans in close to Hash's bleeding form, enjoying the smell of fear on him.  The scent wasn't as sweet as Moxxie though. Nothing could compare to Moxxie.

Did this little shit honestly think he could one up Striker? That some nobody could lay claim to what was rightfully his? That Striker would let anyone take his prey from him. No, Striker wouldn't allow it. 

Striker leans in close to Hash's ear, mumbling with baleful intent "Who's the stick in the mud now?" 

Hash tries to reply, but Striker's dagger is in Hash's jugular. Striker watches the life leave Hash's eyes, as his body gives out. He's just another corpse to walk over. 

Striker leaves the restroom with a pep in his step, looking around for Moxxie. He spots him on stage, drinking another free shot. Starla has taken over singing by this point, and by the sounds of it, they were on the last few lines of the song. "Alright, time to go." Striker thinks with a delighted huff. He passes through crowd quickly, standing in the very front of the stage. Striker tries to think of a way to get on stage and grab him before anyone notices, but there's no need. 

Moxxie, obviously completely gone, laughs and lets himself fall into the crowd. Wanting to ride the hands again. Loving the feeling of being high up. But, he lands into Striker's waiting arms. Striker is warm and firm against him, claws holding him like he was precious. Moxxie looks at Striker with a dazed smile. He boops Striker's snout with no hesitation. 

"Where did you come from?" Moxxie asks, barely able to get his words together. His vision is spinning and his skin is burning. "Don't worry about that. It's time to go, my little one." Striker chirps, carrying Moxxie through the crowd. Moxxie holds Striker's hat close to his head, no wanting to lose it.  

"Okay~" Moxxie mumbles the words with quiet acceptance. Striker purrs softly, glad that he wouldn't have to chase a drunk Moxxie. They make it to the front doors as Starla sings the final verse.  

"Oh, you better run for your life (oh, oh)
Oh, you better run for your life (oh, oh)"

Striker closes the bar's door with his hip, looking around for Bombproof. His horse is aggressively gnawing on a carcass in the distance. Striker gives a sharp whistle, Bombproof's ears perk up. Bombproof gallops over to them, then waits patiently for Striker to mount him. 

Striker swiftly tosses Moxxie onto the saddle, making the smaller imp shriek. Striker quickly hops on behind him, holding Moxxie in place with his right arm. Striker grabs his hat off Moxxie's head, placing it back on his own. He leans in close, "Next time you borrow my hat without asking, I'll punish you." 

Moxxie nods, not really hearing Striker's words. His eyes are to heavy to pay attention to anything. 

Striker hums, then lightly kicks his foot to Bombproof's side. Bombproof takes off, taking the imps to the direction of their hotel. 

They ride in silence for a few minutes, Striker thinks over the night with bewilderment. He thinks about the way Moxxie commanded the crowd. 

"I think you're the Cowboy Casanova." 

But Moxxie never hears Striker's words, he's fast asleep under Wrath's red sky.