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"I don't think I can do that much," Harold contributed. "I never run out of anything I drink. Oh, and I can make more of a liquid by touching it."
"Interesting, more strange than helpful though. Henry, have any idea how fast you can fly?"
"I'm dying," Marshal growled, "from a demonic virus. Get your sh*t together and let's go." He snapped a magazine into his pistol before re-holstering it and walking out the door.
"Hm." Chester gave a tight-lipped nod. He wasn't about to mess with Marshal, given the current circumstances.
A couple of the Beltanes were familiar with the general location of L'Abattoir ((E5)), and with a minimal amount of searching they located it. However, even upon finding it they were not quite sure they'd come to the correct place. While they had been expecting flair from a 5-star restaurant, what they found was essentially a small warehouse that looked just like any other building in the Winter District: unimpressive, run-down, and dead silent. The only indications they had were a carved wooden sign and a few posts outside the front door, through which a ribbon could be run to form an extended line.
"This place looks like sh*t."
"Maybe it looks a little nicer when it's open," suggested Chester. "What do you think, Henry? Should we wait for someone to show up?"
"Not much else we can do," shrugged Harold.
"Whadda y'want?" One of the tables near the entrance was occupied by four men. They all wore matching aprons, but their gruff and grizzled appearance made them seem more like factory workers than chefs or servers. A deck on the table indicated they had been playing cards, and a couple of them were smoking. The man who had spoken grimaced at the Beltanes.
"Clarence? Is he available at the moment?" As opposed to Henry, Chester tried to look as professional as possible.
"He's in the kitchen. Right this way, gentlemen." The man was clearly being sarcastic, eliciting chuckles from the others.
Despite the attitude, the employee got up from his chair and made his way across the room. The Beltanes followed, navigating their way through the carcasses, until reaching the far wall. A set of swinging doors opened up into a grungy kitchen area, where a man in an equally-grungy chef's jacket was working at a frenetic pace. It seemed that he was preparing all of the ingredients for the evening by himself, as there were heaps of chopped vegetables in bins around him. He was currently working through a bag of onions, slicing them into slivers with practiced speed.
"Chef, some guys here for work." The employee was already walking out the door, ready to get back to his card game.
"Work? I-" Clarence's bald head swiveled to face the Beltanes, his knife only slowing for a moment. The man was huge, easily 300 pounds, sweating profusely even in the cold building. At his first glance at the homeless men, his face flattened into an expression of bland distaste. "Ah." He finished the onion before walking around the counter to speak to the Beltanes, holding out his hand. "All four of you are looking for jobs?"
Immediately, Chester took Clarence's hand and shook it. A twinge of pain shot through his hand as the man's meaty fist squeezed his own. "Yes, chef. We've heard a lot of buzz about the restaurant, thought it might be growing."
The corners of Clarence's mouth curled up. His mouth was too wide, abnormal. "Did you see the ad? I don't need four people, two at most. How much butchering experience do any of you have?"
Marshal raised an eyebrow. "The whole thing?"
"I don't have the patience for more connections. What is the largest animal you think you could skin?" Clarence pointed back at Henry with his knife, a lazy yet threatening gesture.
"Worms?" While Clarence seemed to be enjoying this tangent, Chester and the other Beltanes were bemused. Marshal quietly reached for his gun while Harold started nervously tapping his foot.
"The worms are humans. They squirm in the mud their entire lives. Squirming for the things they want, squirming because other humans want them to, squirming away from death as long as they can. And for all that squirming, all they do is shove the dirt back and forth."
Clarence turned away from the Beltanes, reaching into a cupboard. "I grow weary of this conversation. I can kill you now, and watch your last little squirms. Or you can leave, and squirm away for the rest of your lives." He turned back around, placing a small platter on the counter in front of him. "Or you can squirm here in front of me, and I will continue to tolerate your presence."
Marshal whipped out his pistol, leveling it at Clarence. "If you say the word 'squirm' one more time, I'm going to shoot you in the ****ing face!"
"You do not understand." Clarence reached into another cupboard, producing two champagne flutes and placing them on the platter. "I am not here to answer your moronic questions. I am not even here to compete. I am here to consume." He placed one final item on the platter; an ancient, glittering dagger, a crude blade of chipped obsidian, incongruous between the polished chrome and flawless glass. "So feed me, insect. Pay tribute, and you may live to know the answer you seek."
Marshal decided to add his own opinion to the conversation as he stormed out. "F*** you, freak!" Harold was just as ready to leave, and Chester followed behind, albeit after one last glance at the dagger. The Beltanes made directly for the exit, ignoring the raucous men at the entrance. Once outside, Marshal reaffirmed his statement. "Man, f*** that demon s***!"
"That was messed up," Harold nodded. "What was with that dagger?"
"He wanted to be fed. Demons feed on negative emotions and pain, right? I'd draw you a picture, but I don't have a red pen on me." Chester turned to Henry. "I think that's enough information on that one, don't you? Problem is we don't really know where to go from here."
"There is one, possible, option that we have." Marshal was hesitant to bring the subject up. "We know where the demon Saturn resides. She mentioned it when she spoke to us. But to be honest, she freaks me out more than Fat B****** back there." He jerked a thumb at L'Abattoir
"We got taken up in the moment. The bugs, the virus, it all caught us off guard."
"If those are the worst things we see, we'll be lucky. Keep your guard up next time."
"... Who was it that unwittingly contracted a virus again?"
"Why you little piece of-"
"Shut up, it's ringing."