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Joyride to hell

The Night of the Butterfly and the Spider

The neon lights of the Pride Ring pulsed with a rhythmic, violent energy that usually signaled a night of debauchery, but for Shūtarō Mendō, it felt like the flickering of a funeral pyre for his dignity. He sat on the velvet sofa of the Hazbin Hotel’s lounge, his back as straight as a katana, staring into the middle distance. Beside him, Ataru Moroboshi was slumped in a heap of pure, unadulterated sulking.

"It’s not fair," Ataru groaned, his voice cracking with the weight of a thousand missed opportunities. "How come Sakura-san gets to go out with a cyclops girl who carries enough explosives to level a city block, and I’m stuck here with you and a monk who’s currently trying to exorcise the vending machine?"

In the corner of the lobby, Cherry was indeed waving a paper charm at a machine that sold 'Sinner’s Soda,' shouting about the "dark sugar-water of the abyss."

"Be silent, Moroboshi," Mendō snapped, though his own voice lacked its usual aristocratic bite. "Sakura-san is a woman of high spiritual standing. It is only natural she would seek out the more... vibrant cultural aspects of this realm. And Lum-san is merely acting as her chaperone to ensure she isn't harassed by the local rabble."

"She’s not a chaperone, she’s a jailer!" Ataru threw his arms up. "She literally tied me to this sofa with a rope made of static electricity! I can’t even go to the bathroom without feeling like I’ve stuck my fork in a toaster!"

"A wise precaution," a melodic, teasing voice drifted from the shadows.

Angel Dust stepped into the light of the chandelier, his six limbs moving with a fluid, predatory grace. He was dressed in a particularly daring outfit—a feathered boa draped over his shoulders and a pair of thigh-high boots that made him tower over the two boys. He held a martini glass in one hand, swirling the contents with a smirk that promised nothing but trouble.

"I thought you two would be busy... celebrating your big announcement from the other night," Angel purred, leaning against the back of the sofa. He positioned himself directly between them, his extra arms reaching out to rest on the headrest behind their necks.

Mendō stiffened, his face instantly flushing a bright, painful crimson. "That... that was a strategic fabrication! A desperate measure to ensure your incessant prying ceased! There is no truth to that statement, and I would appreciate it if you would strike it from your memory immediately!"

Angel leaned down, his face inches from Mendō’s ear. "Oh, honey, you can't just drop a bomb like that and expect me not to want to see the fallout. The way you said it... the passion... the desperate, sweaty honesty of it all. It was practically Shakespearean."

Ataru, seeing Mendō’s distress, suddenly stopped sulking. A slow, mischievous glint entered his eyes. He realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn't the target of the teasing. Mendō was. And Ataru Moroboshi never missed an opportunity to kick a man while he was down, especially if that man was Shūtarō Mendō.

"You’re right, Angel-chan," Ataru said, his voice dropping into a mockingly serious tone. He leaned toward Mendō, mirroring Angel’s predatory posture. "Maybe we were lying to ourselves. Maybe the reason we fight so much is because we’re just... scared of our own feelings."

Mendō’s eyes widened so far they threatened to pop out of his skull. "Moroboshi! What are you doing?! Cease this madness at once!"

"Don't be shy, Shūtarō," Ataru continued, reaching out a hand to pat Mendō’s cheek. Mendō flinched as if he’d been burned. "We’re in Hell. There are no Mendō Zaibatsu rules here. No private armies to protect you from the truth of your heart."

Angel Dust let out a delighted squeal, his four arms clapping in unison. "I knew it! I knew the pervert had a sensitive side! Look at 'im, he’s practically glowin' with the spirit of cooperation!"

Angel shifted his weight, sitting on the edge of the table in front of them. He focused all his attention on Mendō, who was now trembling with a mixture of rage and sheer, existential terror.

"So, Richie," Angel said, his voice a low, sultry hum. "Tell me. When did you first realize that the loudmouth over here was the only one who could truly understand you? Was it during a sword fight? Was it during one of those long, dark nights where you were screamin' about being in a box?"

"It was never!" Mendō shouted, his voice reaching a pitch that could shatter glass. "I am a Mendō! My lineage is a tapestry of warriors and statesmen! I do not... I do not 'understand' this baseborn lecher! He is a plague! A cosmic blight upon my existence!"

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Ataru chimed in, leaning his head on Angel’s shoulder. "He’s just playing hard to get, Angel. He loves the drama. He wants you to work for it."

Angel laughed, a sharp, staccato sound. "Oh, I love a man who plays hard to get. It makes the eventual surrender so much sweeter."

He reached out a gloved hand and gently ran a finger along Mendō’s jawline. Mendō let out a small, strangled whimper, his eyes darting around the room for an exit that didn't exist.

"You’ve got such a pretty face, Shūtarō," Angel whispered. "A bit too much starch in the collar, but we could fix that. A little less Mendō Zaibatsu, a little more... Mendō Za-bad-boy."

"I... I..." Mendō stammered, his brain short-circuiting.

He was a Mendō. He was the heir to fifty billion yen. He owned fifty-one percent of Japan. He had a private army of black-suited men who would lay down their lives for his honor. And yet, here he was, trapped between a six-armed spider demon and the world’s most persistent idiot, being teased like a schoolgirl at a festival.

"He’s blushing, Angel," Ataru noted, pointing a finger. "Look at that. That’s the Mendō family red. It usually means he’s about to pull a sword, but since he doesn't have one, I think it means he’s enjoying the attention."

"Moroboshi, I will kill you," Mendō hissed, though his threat lacked conviction. "I will find a way to return to Tomobiki, and I will have you erased from the history books."

"But Shūtarō," Ataru said, his voice dripping with fake tenderness. "Who would you fight with then? Who would trigger your claustrophobia just so they could watch you break a temple bell from the inside? You’d be so lonely."

Angel Dust leaned in even closer, his breath smelling of expensive gin and cherry blossoms. "He’s right, ya know. You need him. You’re the light to his dark. The silk to his burlap. The... well, you’re the one with the money, and he’s the one with the lack of shame. It’s a perfect match."

Mendō felt his reality starting to fracture. He looked at Ataru, who was grinning like a shark, and then at Angel, who was looking at him with a mix of hunger and genuine amusement. For a split second, Mendō wondered if he had died and gone to a different, much more confusing version of Hell.

"Is this... is this what my life has become?" Mendō whispered to the ceiling. "A Mendō... reduced to this?"

"Reduced?" Angel asked, tilting his head. "Honey, you’re being elevated! You’re finally breakin' out of that cage you call a life. You’re in the Hazbin Hotel! We specialize in helpin' people find their true selves. And your true self looks like he needs a drink and a very long hug from someone who isn't afraid of your bank account."

Ataru grabbed Mendō’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Mendō tried to pull away, but Ataru held on with the surprising strength of a boy who had spent his life escaping alien technology.

"Let’s just accept it, Shūtarō," Ataru said, his eyes twinkling with malice. "We’re the 'Power Couple' of the Pride Ring. We’ll be famous. We can get a joint account at the local ramen shop."

"I will not have a joint account with you!" Mendō screamed, finally finding the strength to stand up.

He lunged for the door, but Angel Dust was faster. With a blur of limbs, the spider demon was standing in front of the exit, his arms spread wide.

"Now, now, Richie. The night is young! We haven't even gotten to the part where I give you fashion advice. That suit is nice, but it screams 'I have daddy issues and a fear of small spaces'."

Mendō turned back to the room, his chest heaving. He looked at Ataru, who was now lounging on the sofa, looking perfectly at home.

"Moroboshi," Mendō said, his voice trembling. "Why are you doing this? You hate me. You have spent every waking moment of our acquaintance trying to ruin my life."

Ataru shrugged, his expression momentarily softening. "Yeah, but watching you deal with Angel is much more entertaining than watching you brag about your family crest. Besides, if we’re both 'together,' then Lum can't be as mad at me for hitting on other girls, right? It’s a win-win."

"You are a monster," Mendō breathed.

"I’m a survivor," Ataru corrected.

Angel Dust walked back over, wrapping two of his arms around Mendō’s waist and the other two around his shoulders. He pulled the boy into a firm, surprisingly warm embrace.

"Relax, Shūtarō," Angel whispered. "Nobody’s gonna hurt ya. We’re just havin' a little fun. You spend so much time being 'The Mendō' that you forgot how to just be a kid. Even a kid in Hell."

Mendō froze. He hadn't been hugged like this... well, ever. His mother was distant, his father was obsessed with the Zaibatsu, and his sister was... his sister. The warmth of the demon’s embrace was confusing, terrifying, and—if he were being honest with himself, which he absolutely was not—a little bit nice.

"I... I am a Mendō," he whispered, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"You’re a person," Angel corrected, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "And right now, you’re a person who’s stuck in a hotel with a bunch of freaks. Might as well enjoy the ride."

Ataru stood up and walked over, leaning against the bar. "He’s right, Mendō. Look at me. I’m a loser, a lecher, and I’m currently being hunted by an alien with a grudge. But I’m having the time of my life! This place is great! The food is weird, the people are crazy, and I don't have to do my homework!"

Mendō looked at the two of them—the spider and the cockroach. He realized that his dignity had long since left the building, probably around the time Sakura slam-dunked a ghost into some mashed potatoes.

"Fine," Mendō said, his shoulders finally dropping. "I will... tolerate this. But if word of this reachers Tomobiki, I will have everyone in this room liquidated."

"That’s the spirit!" Angel cheered, grabbing a bottle of champagne from behind the bar. "Let’s have a toast! To the most unlikely, most dysfunctional, and most entertaining couple in the afterlife!"

"To us!" Ataru shouted, grabbing a glass.

"To... the preservation of my sanity," Mendō muttered, reluctantly taking a glass of his own.

As they sat back down, Angel Dust began to regale them with stories of his life in the studios, his four arms gesturing wildly as he spoke. Ataru listened with rapt attention, occasionally chiming in with his own 'conquests' back home, while Mendō slowly, cautiously, began to relax.

For a moment, the weight of the Mendō name didn't feel so heavy. The darkness of Hell didn't feel so cramped. And the boy sitting next to him didn't feel like such a mortal enemy.

Of course, that feeling lasted exactly until Ataru tried to steal a sip of Mendō’s champagne.

"Moroboshi! That is a vintage year! Your unrefined palate wouldn't know the difference between this and dishwater!"

"It all tastes like bubbles to me, Richie! Share the wealth!"

"I will share nothing with you but my contempt!"

Angel Dust leaned back, watching them bicker with a satisfied smile.

"Yeah," Angel whispered to himself. "They’re definitely together."

Outside, the red moon of Hell hung low in the sky, and the sounds of explosions from the club where Sakura and Lum were partying echoed through the streets. But inside the Hazbin Hotel, three unlikely companions were finding a different kind of chaos—one that involved less lightning, and a lot more laughter.

Mendō looked at his reflection in the champagne glass. He looked flustered, disheveled, and thoroughly un-Mendō-like. But as he looked at Ataru, who was currently trying to balance a cookie on his nose to impress Angel, Mendō found himself thinking that perhaps, just for tonight, being a Mendō wasn't the most important thing in the world.

Being alive—even in Hell—was.

"Moroboshi," Mendō said, catching Ataru’s attention.

"Yeah?"

"You’re still a cretin."

Ataru grinned, the light of the chandelier reflecting in his dark eyes. "And you’re still a snob. Now, pass the cookies. I think Angel-chan wants to see if I can eat ten in one go."

"I’ll bet five souls you choke on the third one," Angel laughed.

"Deal!" Ataru shouted.

And as the night wore on, the laughter of the spider and the cockroach filled the lobby, a strange, beautiful sound in a place built on the hope of redemption. Mendō Shūtarō, for the first time in his life, didn't feel like he was in a box. He felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Even if 'where he was supposed to be' involved a six-armed spider demon and a boy who thought 'biblical' meant Noah’s Ark.

"To Hell," Mendō whispered, raising his glass.

"To babes!" Ataru added.

"To the show," Angel finished.

And the curtains of the Hazbin Hotel closed on another night of beautiful, ridiculous chaos.