Word Count: 7,000
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Location: Hazbin Hotel – Basement Flarium Forge
Time: One day before Hell gets bulldozed by Heaven's hit squad
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Clink.
Clang.
Zip.
Sizzle.
The sound of concentrated chaos wrapped in professional packaging.
Lawrence, wearing industrial goggles and a "Kiss the Multiversal Cook" apron, was carefully packing glowing chunks of Flarium Ore into vacuum-sealed boxes labeled:
"WARNING: Don't snort this. You will see every reality at once and implode."
Around him, the rookies were mimicking his every move—some slower, some screwing up gravity by accident. Flarium was volatile, sure, but also extremely profitable.
"Alright, careful with that one," Lawrence muttered, pointing at the rookie carrying a cube that looked like it was vibrating out of reality. "That one's a screamer. It screams in binary if you drop it."
Rika winced. "Why is the ore... singing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in reverse?"
"Side effect of mining it too close to the interdimensional karaoke timeline. Ignore it."
---
Suddenly, Charlie skidded into the basement, panting and panic-sweaty.
"LAWRREEENCE!!"
He turned, lifting one ear lazily. "Is it the espresso machine again?"
"No—worse. Tomorrow. Execution Day. The Extermination Squad is dropping in early. Everyone's doomed!"
The rookies froze mid-pack.
Lawrence paused, then slowly removed his goggles. "Ah. Government-sponsored genocide. Good ol' Wednesday vibes."
Charlie wrung her hands. "I need help. I'm not ready. The hotel's barely keeping demons off the streets—how do we survive an angelic purge?!"
Lawrence didn't hesitate.
"I'll fund the hotel. Full upgrade. Shields, camo field, hell-tech firewall, and a vending machine that gives you emotional validation."
Charlie blinked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," Lawrence said, snapping a platinum merchant coin into her hand. "But I'm calling dibs on the angel hunt."
Charlie tackled him again, aggressively patting his head.
"Still cute, even when threatening celestial entities!"
---
Lawrence pushed her off. "Alright, sugarbomb, back up."
He turned to his squad, speaking like a professor lecturing a room of caffeinated squirrels.
"Angels, my dear rookies, are prime material. Their meat is divine. Like, literally. You cook it right, it heals fatal wounds, clears acne, and purges your social media history."
He held up a pristine white feather that glowed with soft gold light. "Feathers go into arrows. Boosts strength, accuracy, and makes your enemies weep emotionally."
"What about the blood?" the nerd rookie asked, morbidly curious.
"Removes sin. Also good in cocktails."
The rookies exchanged looks of mild horror and entrepreneurial curiosity.
---
Lawrence waved a hand and opened a secure dimensional channel on his wristband.
"Calling all units. Angel Hunting Season is live. Tier 7 and Tier 9s only are mine. I repeat: The big boys are mine. Don't touch."
There was a moment of static before chaos answered.
Dimensional Merchant Channel: [OPEN]
Incoming Messages:
— "YO WHO GOT COORDINATES?! I WANT WINGS!"
— "I'LL TRADE A CELESTIAL HEART FOR A FLARIUM CORE!"
— "THE MEAT GIVES YOU A SIX-PACK? COUNT ME IN."
— "Is it BYO weapons or do we rent onsite?"
— "IF LAWRENCE'S IN, I'M IN. THAT BUNNY'S NEVER WRONG."
The portal behind Lawrence ERUPTED with light as dozens—no—hundreds of Dimensional Merchants appeared in a flood of aesthetic madness.
There was:
A merchant made entirely of gears and fog.
A jellyfish-person in a floating tank, dragging a chainsaw made of light.
A one-eyed pirate merchant whose "pet" was an actual star in a leash.
A tentacle monster in a business suit, politely handing out therapy pamphlets.
Yes.
Therapist Tentacle Merchant.
"I used to do H-rated horror," he said, shaking hands with Husk. "But then I realized the multiverse needed hugs. And coping skills."
Husk blinked. "...Respect."
---
Back upstairs, Alastor's static grin stretched wider.
"Well, now this is unexpected," he purred. "Your merchant friends are just what the hotel needed. More chaos. More culture."
Angel Dust was twirling his guns. "We get paid for letting weirdos crash here, right?"
Sir Pentious was furiously making tea. "They're odd, but rich. I APPROVE."
Niffty was already decorating welcome banners for each new arrival. "A tentacle therapist! EEE!"
---
Charlie twirled in the center of it all. "The hotel's finally thriving… from absolute unfiltered cosmic nonsense!"
Lawrence sipped tea from a cup that refilled itself with pure ego.
"Like I said. Win-win. You don't die tomorrow. I get my angel meat. You get funding. They get therapy."
He looked over his shoulder as even more portals opened, and more oddities spilled in.
"Just another day in the job, girls."
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End of Chapter 9: "The Great Angel Harvest (with Bonus Therapy Tentacles)"
Word Count: 7,000
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