Lucifer had always fancied himself a man of many hats.

  Give him a top hat and a street corner and he’d give you an orator. A beret and some smooth jazz, and he'd be your craftsman.

  Rumor has it that a halo and lax supervision was all he needed to be the helm of the kind of uprising that'll get one of God's favorites kicked out of Heaven. But that's neither here nor there.

  What is important to know is that as multifaceted a man as he was, there were two titles, two hats, Lucifer would never dare claim for himself. And one of them was the backwards cap of an athlete.

  That's why, after no more than a minute into his sprint away from that pushy little pantsuiter, Lucifer found himself braced against a wall, face pretzeled up in abject pain. A charley horse got him.

  Biting back a groan, Lucifer peered around the corner, telepathically willing the boy to stay put. He perked his ears and held his breath and.

  Nothing.

  As in, no oontz oontz from the speakers, no garbled nonsense from the partiers. No crunching and crinkling from the boy fiddling around with his bags of junk. And certainly no footsteps.

  So, once the cramps subsided, Lucifer peeled himself off the wall and crept through the abandoned maze of a house. He cast wary looks over his shoulder each time the wooden floors creaked, working hard to ignore the goosebumps traveling up his arms.

  …

  “Oh.”

  The sound, as little as it was, dropped out of Lucifer like a bomb as he approached the wide open front door.

  Because the lawn was a mess of bodies, slumped over and sluggish. Gone was the electric buzz of the night, and along with it went the chattering mouths and speeding legs. The lantern lights had begun to flicker, too, leaving the island looking as if it had been possessed by ghosts with an affinity for shimmery body paint and no concept of personal space.

  The only evidence of life in sight were the crumbs of responsiveness Lucifer received as he politely forced his way to the shore.

  (“Excuse me.” He said to a group of tightly-packed partygoers, leaning on each other like an intricate circle of dominos.

  Three eyeballs of the ten present rolled toward him. He cringed.

  "Pardon me, my fellow Heavenly citizens, but I'd like to get by."

  Drool dripped from one of their mouths.

  “…Jesus. Well.” He may or may not have knocked them over. “J’adoube.”)

  He made a beeline through the crowd to where his rinky dink little rowboat should have been left untouched—only to find it floating in the middle of those angelfish-infested waters, stolen by a bunch of statuesque partygoers who were too incapacitated to hear his shouts.

  Positively miffed, Lucifer crossed his arms and scanned the ground, looking for two specific someones. It wasn’t long before he found them, planted face-first in their box of t-shirts.

  "He-llo," he spoke loudly and slowly, white knuckles gripping their collars. Because, somehow, in the short stretch of time it had taken him to be kidnapped by the partygoers, accosted by that strange boy, then made to wade through the living dead, the night had begun to wane. The moon was already sitting low on the horizon.

  Lucifer squinted across the water, over the trees, and up at the lights on the top floor of the mansion glaring back at him. He turned back to the greeters and demanded, “Wake up. How do you expect me to get off of this island?”

  And, as luck would have it, his answer came crackling through the air, staticky but still crystal clear.

  "Last call!"

  Lucifer dropped the limp young men back into the box like hot potatoes.

  Last call? Lucifer quickly stood up and dusted himself off. Surely, that means that there's a train nearby! He hurried in the direction of the voice, to that tent he'd noticed on his way in.

  "I repeat, last call! Please make your way to the front counter!” The robotic voice got louder as Lucifer stepped into the tent. He couldn’t see a thing aside from a little sliver of light deep in the tent. He hurried toward it, no longer concerned about stepping on the faces, fingers, or femurs littering the ground.

  "If you have not received your daily dose of Lower Heaven's finest microplastics," Lucifer stopped in his tracks, just as he reached his destination. “Please, make your way to the front of the tent!"

  With a huff, Lucifer abruptly turned on his heel and stormed away. In an instant, a loud whirring sound chased after him like the hum of a very determined fly. He jumped when the voice boomed in his ear.

  "Good evening, esteemed customer.” A small flying robot came to a halt in front of Lucifer, nothing but a pair of purple, googly LED eyes in the darkness. “According to my records, you are the last customer of the night. It is my honor to serve you. May I interest you in an edible microplastic?"

  Lucifer went to wave the thing away but winced when his hand hit up against its cold hard metal body.

  "I'm sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. May I interest you in an edible microplastic?” When he didn’t respond, it continued. “Okay. May I interest you in a drinkable microplastic?”

  Lucifer shot the thing a look and sidestepped it, mumbling, "No, thank you.”

  It kept with him, floating backward as he made his way to the flap of the tent. “No, thank you, esteemed customer. I am happy to help. Which kind of microplastic would you like?”

  Lucifer wasn’t even sure of how to answer the question. “Nothing?”

  “‘Nothing,’ is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  The purple eyes blanched to white as the robot processed Lucifer's request. “Okay. Please allow me a moment to search my inventory.”

  And though he wouldn't admit it later, Lucifer did slow down for a second. For novelty's sake.

  Its eyes went purple again. “Did you mean to say, 'A Whole Lot Of Nothing', ‘Good For Nothing', or 'Next To Nothing?’”

  Lucifer rolled his eyes and ducked beneath the robot this time. "Very funny."

  The robot persisted, calling out, "I'm sorry, what was that?"

  It led the way out of the tent, where Lucifer could see the robot in all of its glory. It was a pitiful little thing, made of a hodgepodge of scrap metals and stripped screws. Its eyes were made of foggy plastic, its purple and black bowtie had been drawn on by a shaky hand, and its hands looked like hijacked claw machine clamps.

  “Go away, robot. I don’t want your wares.” Lucifer grumbled as he appraised the island with a new eye, looking for his way out.

  Just as Lucifer caught sight of a promising-looking gap in the foliage beside the house, it said, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to help you. Would you like to speak with my Master?”

  "No, robot,” Lucifer huffed. He repositioned his bindle on his shoulder and pivoted toward his potential escape route. “That won't be necessary."

  “Okay. Please quietly enjoy the rest of your time at the Bugaboo Bayou.” Lucifer hummed and waved the robot off.

  But he ate his words immediately.

  Just as Lucifer slipped past the robot, the sound of fabric ripping, right in his ear, chilled his blood. Slowly, our poor Lucifer wheeled around with wide-eyes, words caught in his throat.

  To his complete and utter dismay, the cloth of his bindle—his beautiful, beautiful bindle—was pinched between the robot’s filthy talons, torn into two ragged strips. Unaware, the robot kept flying, rushing back into the tent as a millennium’s worth of trinkets, knick-knacks, and mementos trickled out and onto the ground and bodies between them.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "Stop, robot!” Lucifer let go of the bindle’s stick and began fishing his belongings from dirt clumps and gaping mouths. “Wait!"

  The robot halted and spun around, which, ironically, put the icing on the cake.

  Snap.

  The bindle’s stick, caught between a rock and a hard place, broke in half with the force of the robot’s twirl.

  Lucifer froze. And with a quiet steps and shaky voice, he approached the robot and said, “I’d like to speak to your Master."

  The robot's eyes went white once more, but this time, after a moment, a purple pupil appeared in their centers. Next came a gruff male voice, rugged with sleep, grumbling through the speaker.

  “Yeah? What do you want?”

  Lucifer, a bit beside himself, had to bite his tongue. Instead, he put a little lilt in his tone. "Hello, how are you this evening?"

  Then, there was static. Static that sounded a lot like a sigh.

  "Right. Well, I’m not having the best evening, either. Your… employee here has torn my personal property and I'm hoping to find some recourse."

  The robot lowered down slowly and rigidly, no longer bobbing around like a bee, but as if it were under a limited remote control. Lucifer gingerly removed what was left of his bindle from its claws and held it and the cracked stick up for inspection.

  "Your... rag? You woke me up because Dale ripped your dirty rag and moldy stick. Am I understanding this correctly?"

  And.

  Fair.

  But ever the gentleman, Lucifer reasoned with the man through gritted teeth. “Though it may appear that this is just a dirty rag, in actuality this is a one-of-a-kind, priceless linen, hand-woven by none other than the great—”

  A loud gasp interrupted him.

  The robot loomed closer, so close that Lucifer was able to see that the purple blip in the center of its eyes wasn’t just a cosmetic pupil—it was a minuscule live video of the... man (?), Dale’s Master. Lucifer couldn’t see much beyond his bug eyes filling the screen.

  Lucifer could have sworn he heard the man shudder.

  “W-wait! This pattern… The material... It can't be…!” The robot got impossibly close, its cold claws brushing against Lucifer knuckles and its metal dome a hair’s breadth away from his face.“The Great Tayt?!"

  Lucifer stepped back instinctively.

  “My sweet, well-traveled friend~” His voice was suddenly an octave higher and dipped in artificial sweetener. “I offer my most sincere apologies. It appears I was a bit… hasty in my judgments.” Lucifer nodded stiffly. “I’m sure that we can make this right. I’d just like you to verbally confirm that without a shadow of a doubt,” the man in the pupil lunged at the camera, dead-eyes staring straight into Lucifer’s soul, and lips moving at a mile per minute. “That thisclothisanoriginalworkofTayt, theindomitableEgyptiangoddess, nottobeconfusedwithaderivative, aninspiredpiece, amimickry, oratributetosaidindomitableEgyptiangoddess'stimelessart.”

  Lucifer wasn’t too sure of what was said, but nodded anyway.

  “Indeed, it is.”

  The man’s face drew back from the camera as he wiped frothy saliva from the corner of his mouth.

  “I see. Well. How about an exchange…?” The robot clamped down on the fabric again. “Or would you prefer store credit? Whatever you’d like, my little bottlecap, come right this way and I’ll make it happen~”

  Lucifer felt a light, experimental tug on the fabric and tightened his grip in retaliation. “Excuse me!” He said indignantly. The robot let go before it could cause anymore tears.

  "Yes?" The voice had gone stale and impatient again.

  “While I appreciate your stellar customer service,” Lucifer deadpanned, “I’d prefer to carry my own items, if you don’t mind.”

  Reluctantly, the robot gave Lucifer some space as he gathered his belongings and tied them into what remained of the bindle, then led him back through the trail of bodies and into the tent.

  When they reached the front table, the robot switched on a light, circled behind the counter, and extended its claws expectantly.

  Lucifer hesitated, blinking against the harsh light. “What would an exchange entail?” Lucifer’s voice trailed off as he took a look at the back wall, filled with baggies of candy wrappers, straws, and debris.

  Another crackly sigh came through the speaker. “You give me the cloth, and you’ll never have to purchase another bag of plastic, micro or otherwise, for as long as you, my little Bugaboo, reside in The Bugaboo Bay. Doesn’t that sound lovely?” He paused for a moment before flexing the claws in a grabby motion. “Too stunned to speak? Understandable. Now, please, if you’ll present your payment.”

  Lucifer gripped the bindle tighter to his chest. “How about an equivalent exchange?” He looked down and trailed his fingers over the frayed bits. “Or as close to it as possible?”

  The man took a moment to consider. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Payment, please.”

  “…May I see the replacement item first?”

  Then his voice went razor sharp as he commanded, “Dale. Fetch our new friend the prettiest bag in the storehouse.”

  Without another word, the robot dipped down low, disappearing behind the counter. And at first, Lucifer thought that he was reaching down for low-hanging inventory, but the whirring faded more than Lucifer expected, then stopped all together. Curious, he leaned in and peeked over, only to find a Dale-shaped hole in the ground, lit up by a faint, purple glow.

  Lucifer only had a second’s worth of silence before the man’s voice came from speakers lodged somewhere above. “Hey.” Lucifer looked around in confusion but couldn’t find the source. “How did you get your hands on a Tayt original? I heard that those were reserved for royalty and deities.”

  Uh oh.

  “And no offense, my little aglet, but, you don’t look very royal to me.”

  That -7HP for lying was looking more and more appealing as the awkward silence dragged on.

  “Tight-lipped,” the man drawled. “How mysterious…?”

  Lucifer clammed up. In perfect timing, Dale reemerged from the ground, with an absolute monstrosity clenched between his hands. It was a medium-sized heap of bubble-wrap, woven in a basket pattern. Lucifer popped one of the bubbles, prompting the New Item notification.

  [New ??? Item!

  ★★★★★

  Blessed Tote

  Reduced, reused, recycled.]

  Lucifer had already fixed his lips to reject it, but. He rested his bindle on the table and took the new bag from Dale, inspecting it closely. Something slippery settled on his fingers. What's this? His eyebrows shot up as he pulled his now-coated index finger away—he rubbed it between his thumb and index fingerbefore letting out a breath. Angel dust!

  “Blessed, you say?” Lucifer looked at Dale, waiting for the man in the pupils to respond. But he never did. “Excuse me!” Lucifer turned to the ceiling, then the corners, anywhere he supposed a camera would be. “Are you still there? I have a question about this item!”

  But there was no response. Until Dale spoke up.

  “My Master thanks you for your patronage, esteemed customer.” Lucifer spun around just in time to see the robot disappearing beneath the counter, with his bindle in hand.

  He rushed back over, yelling, “No! Dale!”

  A few moments later, the robot reappeared with a fogged up plastic bag pinched in its claws. It hovered right over Lucifer and promptly dropped the item onto Lucifer’s waiting hands. Cautiously, the man opened it up.

  [New Common Item!

  ★☆☆☆☆

  Deceased Fanged Angelfish

  Hungry. Angry. Gone.]

  “I was instructed to return this. My Master does not have use for organic materials.”

  And with that, Dale reached down below the counter, produced a sign that read ‘CLOSED,’ and sat it on the table. The robot disappeared down into the hole, leaving Lucifer dumbstruck and demoralized, with bubble-wrap and fish carcass in his lap.

  …

  Prior to that fateful day in The Bugaboo Bay, Lucifer would never have tried to squeeze his head into an athlete’s backwards cap or a druggie’s tie-dyed beanie. But sitting out on that shore, cozied up next to glitter-coated strangers while Dawn’s bloody fingertips brought in the next day, Lucifer had a lapse of judgment.

  Sue him.

  Because he tried to resist. He really, truly did.

  But as he speedran all five stages of grief, with a growling tummy and a dry throat nonetheless, the glittery burger he’d found in the grass looked like a medium-rare steak served on a silver platter.

  A wave of slow heat rushed over him; a heavy weight settled deep in his stomach and spread down his legs, anchoring him down into the grass. It felt as if his brain had switched off—not a, ‘Huh?’, ‘What?’, or ‘Why?’ could break through the haze overriding his thoughts.

  And it was like that Lucifer passed out.

  …

  Lucifer awoke to the sight of baby blue pantlegs blocking the morning sun from shining on him.

  Head pounding, he slowly craned his neck up, and next, caught sight of a ‘What Happens At The Bayou STAYS At The Bayou’ t-shirt, balled up in a very tight, flour-coated fist. Mind still slurred, he continued his scan up the offending body, registering a filthy apron, covered in smatters of jelly and juice, covering up a baby blue blazer. And finally, he settled on the thoroughly unimpressed expression of the unfamiliar young woman towering over him.

  The hum of the motorboat filled a long, loaded silence.

  “‘Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty,” she sighed. “Looks like you had a helluva first night.”

  Lucifer groaned, wiping the drool from his face as he stumbled to his feet. His legs felt like peg legs beneath him as he tried to straighten himself out. It was taking him longer than he would have liked to piece the scene together; it was as if his thoughts were running back into the ether as soon as he formed them.

  “Woah, there, Bambi. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  Lucifer was half-convinced that he was hallucinating again, and half-convinced that the woman was speaking some sort of pidgin language, because he, for the life of him, couldn’t imagine what a Bambi could be.

  To be safe, Lucifer stumbled back, putting more distance between them. He clutched his head, silently commanding it to work properly.

  “This is all a dream, Lucifer,” he muttered to himself. “A long, awful, dehydration-and-drug-induced dream.” He put his hands over his eyes and took in long, deep breaths. “You will wake up in the Eternal Affairs nurse’s office, with apple sauce and grape juice on your tray. Just calm down.”

  But the woman, too far away to hear, continued feeding Lucifer nightmare fuel.

  “Or actually, now that I’m thinkin’ about it, you’re more like a fucked up Cinderella than Bambi or Sleeping Beauty. ‘Cause for some magical reason, your fairytale castle over there turned into a bando.” She pointed over at the party house, now boarded up and covered in cobwebs. Lucifer blinked so harshly he thought he’d lose an eyelash. The glittery litter was gone, as were all of the sleeping partygoers. The lawn was spotless, the tent had vanished. Not even Dale remained.

  “Your glass slippers turned into angelfish food.” Lucifer looked down and, sure enough, those big-fanged bottom feeders weren’t far off, working their way through the shoes they’d managed to lift off his feet without opposable thumbs.

  “And instead of taking you on a hot date, your Prince Charming—that’s me, of course—has no choice but to take you home to your evil stepmother.” She grabbed his arm and his bubble-wrap bag, and effortlessly hauled them to the motorboat. Then, after a moment of thought, she turned around with a shy smile and added, “That’s 1st. Haha, get it?”

  And no, Lucifer did not get it.

  He didn’t get it as they pulled away from the shore. Or as she lugged his stiff body through the woods.

  He didn’t get it when they approached the mansion, to find 1st and 60th standing side by side at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, glowering down at him.

  He didn’t get it when he was sat down in that uncomfortable chair in the courtroom once again.

  And he most certainly didn’t get it when 1st stepped into the room with a scroll longer than the length of her body, and began rattling off a list of crimes he’d been accused of committing.