Comings and Goings of the Hat Cat Casino

Comings and Going of the Hat Cat Casino

Since the birth of the eternal afterlife, a fiery pentagram stretched for miles across the world's blood-stained sky, burning bright and unmoving like the North Star. Sinners throughout the ages congregated under her as a newborn cult of sex and debauchery, like moths called to their mating grounds by moonlight. This congregation of sinners worshiped at a church of anarchy for countless centuries until some semblance of society gained a foothold. Weak acolytes devoted themselves to unscrupulous demon overlords, who organized the unholy communion grounds between themselves and gave her a proper name in a common language. Forever, the provenance of Sin was baptized by her people as Pentagram City.

Here, the infamous Hat Cat Casino made her grim and fabulous reputation. She stood proudly in the heart of Pentagram's Casino District, a glittering testament to the power and wealth of the district's Patron Overlord. Every bettor, staker, high-roller and gambler of Hell would recognize her sweeping Art Deco arches and windows which towered from the floor to the ceiling– and, of course, they knew her gigantic faux top-hat, which comprised the casino's golden, shimmering roof fixture. And yet, despite her grand celebrity, her betting halls on that particular morning seemed almost empty, and the lunch buffet tables were untouched except by a few loyal regulars. Unperturbed by the stillness, the PA system doled out smooth orchestral jazz into the empty hallways as though nothing were amiss.

The music selection, always jazz of some kind or another, was coordinated up high in the casino's radio tower– an unsightly metal thorn which jutted out of the Hat Cat's otherwise perfect exterior. The resident radio jockey, Alastor, was organizing his vinyl records into the playlist order for that afternoon. When happy with his arrangement, he turned towards his paperwork and struck off the morning's announcement– an odd, one-off, sponsored advertisement– then picked up a nearby saucer to enjoy a cup of unidentifiable liquid for lunch. He relaxed back into his chair, awkwardly swung his legs over the chair's right-hand manchette, and sank into the seat. Only several seconds into his lunch break, however, a hollow, distant vibration rattled his teacup.

Dun

Dang

Dun

Thrum

Alastor's breath hitched in his throat as the sound of monstrous, angry footsteps echoed through the twisted metal of his tower. His music skipped and jumped as the needle jostled with the vibrations.

Dun

Thrum

Dang

Dum

Closer and louder the thundering stomps grew. Alastor breathed deeply to calm his excitement as the final BANG and wafting stench of alcohol announced the Great Patron's arrival.

"Where the FUCK are all my customers!?" The six-foot tall feathered sphynx shouted into Alastor's studio– or tried to, anyway: the Great Patron's voice was hoarse and gravelly from near constant cigar smoking. Alastor loved it. Upon the roaring arrival, the radio DJ had already jumped from his radio console and smoothed down his raggedy red suit for presentability.

"I'm honored you think I had anything to do with your business today," he smiled, "But I should remind you that this radio schtick is a mostly separate enterprise."

"Don't give me that shit unless you wanna to start payin' rent," the overlord rolled his golden cat's eyes. He didn't sound any more especially upset with Alastor than usual. "What the fuck d'you do this time?" he asked, as if asking were only a convention at this point.

Alastor bit his lip to keep from smiling too maniacally, "I know we have a special working relationship, dearest Overlord of Casinos-and-Any-Adjoining-Eateries-and-Hotels—"