Chapter Text
"I get home from work
And you're still standing in your dressing gown
Well, what am I to do?"Black Star, Radiohead
On the game show, an imp who looked a lot like Blitz’s first boyfriend had just won a million HellBucks.
The trio of RoboFizz presenters presiding over the show spun their arms wildly, spitting sparks that erupted in whorls and fired up in plumes and skittered across the floor of the stage. The enormous slot machine tumblers constantly spinning behind them through cherries and crosses and the number seven locked into place on a set of huge, glittering dollar signs. In all the excitement, one of the curtains at the back of the stage caught fire.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Blitz went to answer it.
‘Mox,’ he breathed, the shock of recognition tearing through him. ‘Hey.’
His old friend was stood there in a hoodie and jeans, a canvas duffle bag hanging off his shoulder. He was staring directly into Blitz’s sternum. Without saying anything, Blitz stepped aside.
Moxxie wandered into the apartment and set his bag down by the sofa, then looked around as if trying to ascertain the presence or absence of a thing he had been expecting, or perhaps dreading. His little hooves tapped quietly on the wooden floorboards.
Blitz watched him from the door. It was ten at night. Outside, a drizzle was fogging up the city street in a fine mist. Moxxie’s shoulders were damp, his mop of white hair glistening as tiny beads of water clung to it like fine glitter. His horns had a shine to them, as if composed of two-toned metal rather than bone.
Soon his friend’s eyes came to land on the TV. Onscreen, the robots had grabbed the imp by the arms and were tossing him between them, his stunned glee replaced by fear as those aluminium claws skated over his navel and the curve of his ass. The dollar signs kept blinking, however, but no sound came from the speakers. Blitz had muted the programme when he heard the knock.
He tried to think of something to say, but the words wouldn’t come. His mouth filled with an excess of saliva. He swallowed it down and more saliva replaced it.
Moxxie walked around to the front of the couch and sat down, leaving only the tips of his horns visible above the horse-patterned throw Blitz sometimes slept beneath if he couldn’t be bothered to get into his actual bed. Silently, he shut the door, lingering in the doorway.
It had been three months since he’d last seen him. A shaky call on the phone and a trip in the van to help him move the last of the items he hadn’t sold off yet into storage. They had parted at the edge of an industrial estate, in the shadow of a warehouse. To his burning shame, Blitz had been almost glad to see the back of him then—to be out of sight of those glum, lifeless eyes. He hadn’t asked where Moxxie was going.
This time round, he was determined to better.
So, when Moxxie, his gaze still locked onto the screen, said the words, ‘Can I stay?’, Blitz said: ‘Of course.’
His friend nodded, an almost imperceptible rising and falling of his chin in the gloom. He grabbed the remote and unmuted the TV, knocking up the volume a couple of notches.
Shock horror!—the imp hadn’t won the million HellBucks after all. The robots had lied. They grabbed the oversized cheque and between them tore it into three, raising the pieces to their mouths and chewing them into ribbons, shrieking like banshees. The tumblers behind them flicked to enormous, forbidding red crosses, while, at the side of the stage, the imp stood, his clothes torn, his bottom lip trembling.