Once again, the Boss and Norg were moving through the hallways. It was late, and things were even quieter than before, the majority of the demons scrambling about in the darkness outside, in an attempt to try and lay claim to promised prizes.

The Boss stopped to examine a crack in the wall. "What's the situation on the Clark front?"

"He appearth to have gone into hiding."

"He must've gotten wind of the plan," shrugged the Boss with a frown as he scraped at the peeling plaster with a sharply hooked fingernail.

"Already done, thir," confirmed the little demon with a self-satisfied smile. "I have eyeth and earth everywhere."

"And teeth."

For a moment, Norg appeared confused and his smile faltered. "Ethcuth me, thir?"

"Nevermind." Apparently satisfied, the Boss took a step away from the wall. "Take care of him. You know what to do. And while you're doing that, see what you can find out about anything going on with the Slayers."

"It thall be done."

The pair reached the end of the hall, arriving at the threshold of the Boss' office, marked by an impressive door carved from solid oak. He let out a long sigh. "In the meantime, I have to give them a call."

"You have my condolentheth," Norg commiserated solemnly before taking his leave.

Having resigned himself to his fate, the Boss opened the door and entered. It was a nice place as offices for the demon leaders of union-type organizations went. The chair was a shiny black leather, the desk was polished mahogany, and there was even a window, although for security reasons it was continuously locked and barred. The desk sported various knickknacks, like the hollowed-out human skull converted into a pencil holder, and a special set of ink-blood pens.

Settling down in the comfortable chair, the Boss picked up the phone and punched some buttons. A few seconds passed before he spoke into the handset. "Connect me with Demon Resources, please."

He whistled tunelessly and surveyed his office while he waited. The walls were mostly bare but held a few important adornments: awards and plaques for an assortment of achievements with long-winded titles, along with various "Team Pictures". One such photograph featured several demons having a great time and mugging for the camera, while a terrified young woman—presumably a virgin—was chained to a stone slab behind them.

Taking a deep breath, he put on his best smile. "Why, hello, Myrtle. Yes, it's me. Yeah, it's been a while, hasn't it?" He reached over, removed a pencil from the holder and began twirling it in his fingers. "Oh, she's doing fine. Hasn't she called? She asks about you all the time." His forehead wrinkled a little at the response. "Well, I'll just have to remind her then. I'm sure she'll love catching up."

Setting the pencil back in the holder, he began to flip through the sheaves of papers littering his desk. Some of the pages contained lists of names, a few of which had been crossed through in red hi-lighter. But the bulk of the sheets appeared to be some sort of blank form letter.

They read, "Dear. Mr/Mrs. _______, it is our sad duty to inform you that ______ was killed by ______ while..." and so forth. The missive in its entirety was somewhat reminiscent of demented and funereal Mad-Libs.

After a lengthy pause, the Boss spoke up again. "I'm glad to hear that. He sounds like he's on his way to becoming quite a chaos beast, just like his father. I look forward to having him in the fold. But the real reason I'm calling, sad to say, is that I need some headhunting done." He listened to the response on the other end and then chuckled. "No, not that kind of headhunting, I'm afraid. I'd be first in line for that myself. No, truth is, I need a little beefing up for the staff."

He paused again, allowing the other party to speak, then studied the papers carefully before silently counting numbers to himself. "If you could have about ten by tomorrow evening, that would be fantastic. Make it a mix if possible. I know it's tight but this is a busy and exciting time." He listened for the answer. "You're the best, Myrtle. Look for a little something extra next time we get some fresh bones in. You take it easy, okay? Bye."

He hung up the phone and let out an exhalation of breath as all traces of the smile instantly washed away from his face.

"God I hate them," he muttered.

The papers were still awaiting his attention. He selected a quill from the tray on his desk, dipped the nib into a nearby inkwell and started to fill in the assorted blanks, mumbling to himself as he did so.

"Dear Mrs..." He checked the list. "...Pjinty. It is our sad duty to inform you that your mate was killed by..." he chewed thoughtfully on the feathered end of the pen and wrinkled his nose at the taste. "...a rabid and bloodthirsty swarm of Slayers while in the noble act of—" referencing a report on a separate sheet, he went back to the first, "—attempting to blow up a house full of people. We deeply regret the inconvenience that this causes. Know that—" another look at the report, "—Chamalin was the very best among us and his loss will be missed. To pick up his personal effects, please come by the office at your convenience. Signed..."

With a series of fine flourishes, he scrawled a multitude of strokes upon the paper. "Me," he said in a cheerful voice. Tossing the paper aside, he picked up the next. "Dear Mr... Jefferson."

The intercom situated on the corner of his desk buzzed, and the Boss leaned over to push its lone button. "Yes?"

A sultry and beautiful feminine voice greeted him. Its tone was soft and soothing as though honey were being poured over bars of pure golden sunlight—if indeed such had the ability to produce a sound. "Your midnight appointment is here," she sweetly remarked.

The Boss chewed absent-mindedly on his plume for a moment and wrinkled his nose again. "Refresh my memory."

The voice continued its exquisite chiming. "The interview with Fearsome 500. Mr. Qxalgyltmn is here to discuss the successes and challenges of working in the midst of the new Slayer threat?"

Recognition flashed across the Boss' features. "Oh, yes! Please, send him in."

"Yes, sir."

Throwing open the desk drawer, he gathered the loose papers with careful consideration, patting them together and shuffling them into a neat and tidy pile. He then tossed whole thing unceremoniously out of sight and pushed the drawer closed again. He looked up as the door opened, revealing a tall, muscular creature, adorned with at least two-dozen small horns on its head and empty, soulless sockets for eyes. The thing's tongue, too long for the mouth, protruded, flicking and quivering in the air. It was a horrific sight, but the Boss flinched not, merely gesturing for the creature to enter.

The monstrosity opened its mouth to speak. "Mr. Qxalgyltmn, sir," dripped the honeyed words. It was the same melodic tone as had been heard over the intercom.

The secretary stepped aside, and the actual guest entered. In comparison to his escort, he was relatively small, well dressed and sedate. His skin was dark green and there was a total absence of any nasal feature whatsoever. A protuberance of piercings decorated the sides of his neck, continuing down the arms.

"Thank you, Marsha," the Boss said to the secretary who stepped out, closing the door behind her.

He gestured to a chair. "Thank you," the demon replied, settling down and smiling at its comfort.

"Can I have anything brought in?" asked the Boss politely. "Coffee? Blood? Oil for your metal?"

"No, but thank you. I must say, interesting secretary you have."

"Absolutely," agreed the Boss. "Nalliforsch Beast. Very rare in this dimension. As my mother would say, she could scare the fire out of a hellhound." He smiled wistfully before adding, "But oh, what a voice."

Mr. Q produced a pencil and pad from his jacket pocket. Dapping the tip of the pencil on his tongue, he looked to the Boss expectantly. "I know you're a busy demon—"

"Oh yes. Much to do. There is evil afoot. I'm hoping to keep abreast of it, and possibly get a-thigh or a-wing on the side." The Boss grinned broadly, finding himself incredibly amusing. Which was just as well, as Mr. Q didn't appear to share that opinion. Sighing, the Boss leaned back. "So much for levity. You have questions?"

Lowering his questioning eyebrow, Mr. Q referred to the notepad. "First things first—the Slayers. It was bad enough when there was just one of them ruining everything for the rest of us, but now... Most of demonkind has been paralyzed, afraid to move forward. But you, with a nest of Slayers right next door, have thrived. Why do you think that is?"

"Innovative techniques designed to specifically target and enhance our core competency, with an eye toward quality and excellence, while simultaneously shifting the competition's paradigm toward lesser productivity and greater... Uhm, re...cli...vivi...tivity." The Boss' smile was broad and reassuring.

Mr. Q's pencil had been flying over the paper, but he faltered as the answer trailed off and he glanced up with a frown. "I'm sorry, what was that last word?"

The Boss coughed just once before answering. "Reclivivitivity."

"Reclivivitivity," the interviewer repeated, sounding out each syllable very carefully.

"Oh, of course," replied the Boss confidently. He glanced at Mr. Q with an appraising eye and just a tinge of superiority. "You have heard of reclivivitivity before, haven't you? I mean, you must have, being such an outstanding journalist for a top-level magazine. It's all the latest rage in the business world. You know. Among true, serious professionals, that is," he added pointedly.

The little demon picked up on the implications immediately and nodded his green head so enthusiastically the metal bars embedded in his neck clacked together. "Absolutely! Why, I think Simon will be doing a feature article on..." He paused, frowning slightly. "...reclivivitivity for the March issue."

"Smart sentient being, that Simon," responded the Boss with an approving tone. "You can never have too much information on reclivivitivity."

Still wearing a slightly puzzled expression, Mr. Q flipped to the back of his notebook and jotted down a quick note, then turned back to the questions at hand. "The structure of your organization has set the underworld buzzing with excitement. How exactly would you describe your company?"

"Well first, I wouldn't call us a company. In fact, I don't believe a word has yet been created to sum up the totality of our endeavor." Mostly to himself, he added, "Though I'm starting to think I could invent one." Back to the interview, he continued. "We have employees, true, and our foundations can be traced back to the finest companies this dimension has to offer... You know the ones I mean."

Mr. Q responded to the obvious wink with a knowing smile.

"But we're so very much more. We've weaved a union concept into the very heart of our business. In exchange for modest dues, we provide a service to the working class demon." He began to tick reasons off on his fingers. "Direction, focus, unity, and a swell dental plan."

Once more, Mr. Q's note taking was interrupted and he tilted his head, blinking in disbelief at the Boss. "So let me get this straight," he attempted to clarify. "You have employees... But they pay you."

A slightly smug smile provided all the confirmation necessary.

"That...is ingenious," the awed interviewer commented, admiration trickling from every word.

"I try hard," the Boss simply replied, inclining his head to accept the compliment.

Still blinking in wonder, Mr. Q returned to his notepad. "Ingenious," he repeated, "but it does lend a new sinister air to a rumor that's been floating around about your business. Something about a ‘nobody gets out alive' policy?"

The Boss waved a dismissive hand. "Lies. Fabrications. Untruths. Slander created by entities jealous of our success."

"So the reports of you deliberately manipulating events—say, situations involving Slayers, death and mayhem—in order to rid yourself of undesirables are unfounded?"

"Completely. And what's more, those accusations hurt. Deeply. You can't tell I'm hurt because I have too many teeth to pull off complex facial expressions, but take my word for it. There's pain going on here. Big time pain. And if I find out who's spreading those unfounded accusations, there'll be pain going on there, too."

Leaning forward eagerly, the interviewer appeared excited. "Can I quote you on that?"

"Word for word. What good is an evil demonic force for darkness, chaos, and unbridled havoc if it can't posture threateningly?"

Pointedly, the Boss glanced at his wrist, and the demon received the social cue loud and clear. "Just one more question," he urged, proceeding only when he received a confirming nod. "Tabby or Calico?"

The Boss scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I'd actually prefer a nice Mexican Hairless. Not so much to get stuck in your teeth, you know? And it always has a nice spicy kick. But at a push... Tabby. Stick with the basics."

The crack of a cue ball scattering the neat triangle of its colored brethren cut through the air of the rec room. The television blared with the sounds of late-late night programming but neither Kennedy nor Hazel were participating in either activity. Instead, both were focused on a sheet of paper that the senior Slayer held in her hand.

"What did you do to the victim—check all that apply," Kennedy read aloud. "Bruise/stubbed toe, broken limb, organ damage, disembowelment, decapitation?"

"I'm guessing that one's worth more than a stubbed toe," commented Hazel with a mildly trepidacious expression. "Looks like some weird sort of contest. Pretty crazy, huh?"

Kennedy turned the paper over in her hands, studying the front and back as if she expected it to bite. "Where'd you get this?"

"We found it on patrol last night, this demon thing dropped it. Oh yeah," Hazel reached into her pocket. "It had this, too."

Accepting the somewhat wrinkled brochure, Kennedy studied the colored pictures carefully.

"It looks like the sort of thing you'd get at school. Prizes, for selling the most candy?" Hazel offered.

If the first sheet had puzzled Kennedy, she was now rapidly approaching befuddled. She examined the listed prizes critically. "Okay, now I'm disturbed. It's one thing to be a minion of darkness just for the hell of it, but—Oooo, hey! Clock radio."

"I'd definitely pick that over—" Hazel pointed to one corner of the sheet, "—‘a dozen hearts, assorted flavors.'" She wrinkled her nose, disgust obvious. "I'm guessing they don't mean chocolate."

Regaining her composure from the sudden clock radio outburst, Kennedy settled into nonchalance. "This is all pretty junky. Or just plain weird." She squinted at the paper. "Why do I not feel reassured by the presence of cute, fluffy kittens on this thing?"

"Oh, but hey, they have daggers too," Hazel pointed out, indicating the bottom of the page marked "Special" in huge lettering.

"Really?" Kennedy asked, suddenly interested. She looked at the aforementioned section, then her expression drooped. "Oh, they're sacrificial, not for combat." Glancing at Hazel, she questioned, "What kind of demons had this?"

Hazel frowned as she searched her memory. "Little. Blue. Kind of like... Big Smurfs. With horns." Using her fingers, she demonstrated the approximate placement of said horns, then lowered her hands and sighed. "So much of my childhood has been tainted since coming here."

"I suppose we can tell everybody to be extra careful, but little demon guys in a contest to win cheap prizes?" the Slayer summarized. "Not feeling too intimidated."

The discussion was interrupted by the entrance of another Slayer with short blonde hair, who marched into the rec room, carrying Norg by the scruff of his suit. He was making a valiant effort to remain dignified, despite the fact that such was well nigh impossible.

A few of the Slayers playing pool turned to look at the newcomer, then, having perceived an utter lack of threat, returned to their game.

"We have a visitor," the newcomer announced.

"Norg?" Kennedy asked.

Norg bowed slightly at Kennedy. Or tried to. Given his situation, it came off more like he had an itch he couldn't quite scratch. But he tried, and that was the important part.

"Mith Thlayer," he greeted.

"You know him?" Hazel asked Kennedy.

Kennedy nodded. "Yeah. He showed up a while back. Gave us info on how to find some baby-eating demon."

At this, Hazel's disgusted expression from earlier made a surprise return. "Eww?"

"Turns out the demon just liked playing with dolls, though."

The look of disgust shifted to disbelief. Hazel shook it off. She pointed to the diminutive evil. "So, he helped us? Why?"

"Look at him. He's tiny, weak, pathetic, and needed our protection," Kennedy replied with a shrug.

"Truly, you know how to flatter," Norg responded dryly.

Cutting to the chase, Kennedy demanded, "What do you want?"

Norg put his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. "I come theeking thancthuary."

Immediately, Hazel's face melted. "Oh, listen to him! He's just too cute!" she cooed.

At Kennedy's nod, the blonde Slayer set Norg on the ground. The little demon straightened his jacket, preening for Hazel and favoring her with his least-fangy smile. He even threw in a wink for good measure.

Unmoved by the small demon's attempts to be charming, Kennedy crossed her arms. "We're not hell's halfway house here, Norg, but you're in luck. I'm kinda bored. So you got info on some action for me? Something a little more solid than Mr. Barbie n' Pals?"

"Ath a matter of fact, I do." Norg turned to her with a smile. "A demon by the name of Clark hath been cauthing grief for the localth. I happen to know where he'th hiding."

"Wait, ‘Clark'?" Hazel asked, shaking her head as though something had lodged in her ears and was preventing her from hearing correctly. "The demon's name is ‘Clark'?"

Neither Kennedy nor Norg acknowledged the question. "Gimme the address and we'll go check it out," the Senior Slayer declared, then jabbed a decisive finger in his direction. "You stay here until we get back."

Hazel pulled Kennedy to one side. "So we listen to his info then let him hang out here?"

"He's harmless enough, as demons go. If we can get some tips to really dangerous types, seems an even trade-off. Plus, if it turns out to be a trap or something, I know where to go to kick his ass later."

Hazel remained a little dubious at the logic involved, but accepted the judgment. Kennedy's eyes lit up with a thought. Grabbing the papers she and Hazel had been looking at earlier, she turned to the demon. "What do you know about this?"

Norg accepted the offered sheets and studied them carefully. Not even a champion poker player could have read his face. "Well, I'm not well-verthed in thethe matterth, but the clock radio appearth to be of ekthellent craftthmanthip."

"I mean, do you know who's behind it?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea," he admitted. "But I will keep my eyeth peeled and let you know the moment I learn anything. It'th the leatht I can do in return for your kindneth." He started to put the pages in his pocket. "I can take thith to my thourtheth and thee what they know—"

"Don't think so," Kennedy retorted, snatching the papers from his hand. "We'll have better luck with it here. But thanks for the generous offer. Now where's this Clark?"

"You'll find him in the downtown dithtrict. He'th holed up in the abandoned bookthtore on Twelfth Thtreet."

Kennedy glanced to Hazel. "It was just about patrol time anyway. Haze, round up our group. At least we've got a new first stop tonight."

"They say variety is the spice of life," the girl agreed sunnily. "Though I always thought it was nutmeg."

Grinning widely at her joke, Hazel waited expectantly for a reaction other than the stare being leveled at her. She let out a small embarrassed cough. "I'll just go, then." She nodded to herself, clearly thinking this the best possible option, and jogged out of the room.

The Slayer who had brought in Norg had stayed for the conversation, and Kennedy addressed her. "Lock him in one of the empty classrooms, will you, Kelly? He doesn't get out until I get back."

Kelly nodded, and Kennedy quickly moved out of the room. Renewing her grip on the scruff of Norg's jacket, the blonde lifted him into the air once more and carted him down the hall, much to the amusement of passersby.

"Tho... What'th going on tonight?" Norg asked casually.

Frowning, Kelly regarded him with curiosity. "What?"

"I mean, any planth to go out anywhere? Perhapth to a nithe graveyard or darkened alleyway? A group gathering of thome thort?"

The Slayer slowly swiveled Norg by the collar so she could stare at him, narrowing her eyes. "You're... Are you asking me out?"

Norg appeared genuinely shocked at the concept. "No, no of courth not! I thimply—"

Kelly either hadn't heard his exclamation or chose to ignore it. "Because first of all—demon. Snappy dresser, but still. Second, you're what, three feet tall?"

"That'th a low blow," Norg responded in a wounded tone.

"Well, you're a low guy," she countered. "Get some lifts, and we'll talk. Until then..."

Arriving at her destination, she opened the door and placed Norg firmly inside. The room did indeed appear to be mostly unused, inhabited only by a few chair-and-desk combinations. There were no windows and no wall adornments.

Kelly closed the door behind her, and Norg heard the click of a lock. He glanced around despondently at the bare, drab walls of his surroundings. "Well, that could have gone better." His expression turned to one of concern. "I can't go back to the Bosth empty-handed. He'll be tho dithappointed... And pothibly violent."

With some effort, Norg was able to clamber onto one of the chairs, situating himself in it studiously. He produced a small pad of paper and a miniature pen from inside his jacket pocket and, after much contemplation, began to write, speaking aloud as he did so.

"‘Thlayerth planning big move thoon. Much redecorating occurring, which is jutht ath well becauth Thlayerth have no fathion thenth.'"

He examined his handiwork and rubbed his chin. "Hmm. Not bad, but let'th go for thome real dirt... ‘Appearth to be intenth rivalry between Thummerth and Faith. Gileth, ith thick with an unknown illneth which, praithe Halinor, could be fatal...'"

The Boss continued to work at his desk, completing the form letters but with an air of glee that seemed inappropriate, given the subject matter. He scribbled away, no longer bothering to refer to the reports as he did so.

"Dear Second-Leiard Kor'kchal. It is our sad duty to inform you that your mate was killed by... A twenty-foot flying vampire slayer, while in the noble act of... Attempting to buy a grape slurpee..."

The door to the office flung open, and in burst an iridescently-colored, scaly demon. The Boss looked up, the beginnings of irritation settling into his face.

"Boss! You gotta come quick!" the demon begged.

"What is it?"

"It's Thompson," the demon declared. "He's captured the Dark Slayer!"

An expression of surprise and elation suffused the Boss' features. Without delay, he leapt from his chair and dashed out the door. He had only gone a few feet before he found Thompson, a large demon with almost as many scars as he had muscles. A squirming bag rested on the big demon's shoulder, the sack made miniscule by comparison to the demon's mass. He gently set his swag on the floor, as though careful not to damage the goods before the captured Slayer could be disposed of in the most suitable unsavory fashion.

As the Boss came to a stop in front of him, Thompson flashed a broad smile. "That lava lamp is as good as mine."