Word Count: 7,000
Featuring: Burnt-out multiversal hitmen, a suspiciously hot queen, and the unholy trinity of taxes, trauma, and terrible sleeping setups.
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Location: IBPM Headquarters – Somewhere Beyond Reality, But Has Good Wi-Fi
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If hell had paperwork, IBPM headquarters made it look like a f*cking postcard.
Towering skyscrapers of forms. A constant drone of printers in agony. The distant scream of a poor intern who ticked the wrong box.
And at the center of it all: Queen Moon Butterfly, in full royal bureaucratic battle armor (read: expensive heels and soul-piercing eyeliner).
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"Renewal time." she said.
Silence.
A thousand dimensional merchants stared. Every single one broke into a synchronized, war-cracked whisper:
"Ffffffuuuuuuuuuu—"
Some screamed. Others collapsed. One dude combusted.
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Star Butterfly blinked.
"…Wait, wait, wait, what?"
Marco leaned over the balcony with a cup of demon coffee.
"These guys… are the protectors of the multiverse?"
Queen Moon sipped tea with imperial calm. "Yes. Efficient, unpredictable, dangerously overpowered… and allergic to filing systems."
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Lawrence, as usual, stood up first, cape fluttering like dramatic fan service.
"What is it this time, Your Majesty?"
Moon held up a tablet that projected a glitching slideshow titled:
"RENEWAL REQUIREMENTS: Because F*ck You, That's Why"
"Well," she said sweetly, "New IDs, new uniforms, a more practical weapon registry, and updated mental health logs. Also, we're changing the font to Gothic Sans Cursed Bold Italic."
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Gilbert let out an unholy screech from seventeen mouths.
"THE FONT CHANGES AGAIN?!"
Lawrence facepalmed.
"The renewal documents are 900 kilometers long. And if you mess up the ink shade again… restart. From. Page. One."
The entire room let out the sound of collective soul death. One guy actually evaporated.
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Rookie #22 whispered, "I've never even seen grass."
Another cried, "My soul has paperwork-induced arthritis."
Gilbert sobbed into a therapy napkin made of ethereal silk. "We're gonna die in Excel hell."
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Lawrence sighed. "Anyway… we're done with the Hazbin Hotel dimension. Angel hunt's over. We need food, caffeine, and maybe group therapy."
As if on cue—
"Hey!"
Charlie burst into the scene with the energy of a golden retriever and the taxes of a dying empire.
"Can someone help me finish my paperwork? Like… ALL of it?"
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Lawrence immediately raised a paw. "I got this."
Within seconds, he was typing faster than reality could render, signing, stamping, tax-dodging legally, exploiting loopholes, bending time to backdate deductions, and invoicing the literal IRS of Hell.
"Done," he said, sipping tea casually.
Charlie aggressively pat his head, then pinched his cheeks like a grandma with a rage problem.
"Still. So. Damn. Cute."
She kissed his forehead, leaving glitter lipstick. "You're the best."
Lawrence smiled, awkward but smug. "Tell Vaggie and the others we'll pay if they can send food."
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Meanwhile, Star and Marco just stared at the chaos.
"…They're just like… normal office workers," Marco mumbled.
Suddenly, Gilbert the tentacle therapist slammed a therapy clipboard on the table.
"EXCUSE ME. We kill cosmic entities. We are NOT fcking pssies!"
All the dimensional merchants roared: "HELL YES."
Lawrence raised a hand again… this time as a puppet arm. "Ohhh nooo, I'm a scared lil' merchant! Don't kill meee!"
He flopped the puppet. "Ahh, bandits are gonna gut meeee!"
It failed. Horribly.
He paused. "...Do I suck at ventriloquism?"
Gilbert didn't miss a beat. "Yes. You suck at everything creative."
The others echoed like a church choir:
"YES."
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Star, arms crossed, said the quiet part out loud:
"…You guys don't even have houses."
A merchant yelled back, "Rent free HERE, BABY."
Another shouted from under a desk, "Cafeteria food is DELICACY, bro. I'd kill again for the squid nuggets."
Someone else held up a gaming mouse. "We customize our dorms! RGB beds and gaming rigs included."
Lawrence floated over and gestured to his "bed" — a chandelier nest made of velvet, metal, pillows, and a single anime body pillow labeled "Don't ask."
Other merchants proudly showed their "homes":
One slept on a literal bed of lava.
Another in a pool of radioactive Jell-O.
One had a room that looped time when you snored.
A guy in the back was just sleeping on an air fryer.
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Star blinked. "Okay but like… do you guys even have insurance?"
Lawrence leaned back.
"You're already expendable. If you die, you respawn. You get a juice box and 12 years of trauma compacted into three seconds."
He looked at the squad.
"Right, guys?"
All Dimensional Merchants (in painful harmony):
"TRAUMA BUILDS CHARACTER."
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Marco whispered, "…This is both terrifying and kinda comforting."
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Suddenly, a huge screen flickered on.
An administrator-level message glitched in from Queen Moon:
> "Next chapter will include a Void fluctuation report. All high-tier entities prepare for possible reconnection with pre-destruction timelines. Also, Gilbert, stop using the therapy couch for naps. I see you."
Gilbert looked offended. "You ever tried napping between realms of existence? It's exhausting!"
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End of Chapter 12: "Paperwork, Pain, and Pillow-Fort Bureaucracy"
Word Count: 7,000
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