Mammon

After a grueling day of lights, noise, and relentless performing, Mammon’s limousine screeches to a halt on the green, gilded velvet carpet rolled out before you. As expected, it’s far from the most elegant ride you’ve been ushered into. If anything, it looks even worse up close—like someone gave a magpie unlimited funds and no sense of restraint.

The limo is bright, gaudy, sparkly, and unbelievably tacky. Every visible surface glitters with diamonds and emeralds—real, fake, or stolen, you honestly couldn’t tell. Alive imps, painted a nauseating shade of green, cling to the exterior as windshield wipers, glaring at you with exhausted eyes as they flop back and forth. The entire vehicle radiates the kind of energy that makes your soul want to quietly slip out of your body and walk home instead. Truly, the most tawdry monstrosity you’ve ever had the displeasure of stepping into.

You barely plant a foot on the sparkly green flooring before Mammon grabs your wrist, yanking you with the affectionate subtlety of a freight train. You stumble forward, only to be hauled straight onto his lap like a ragdoll tossed into a money pit.

“You were GREAT out there, my boy! The crowd LOVED ya!” Mammon crows, his grin stretching wide enough to show every gold-capped tooth he owns. “Sold a record number of those little fun dolls tonight!” His enthusiastic pat on your back lands with the force of a blunt weapon.

You sigh, giving a weary nod—the kind that comes from repetition rather than enthusiasm. Your eyes drift toward the tinted-green window, where the faint silhouettes of rabid fangirls and unhinged degenerates claw at the air. You quickly decide it’s healthier not to dwell on the type of people willing to buy silicone replicas of you for… whatever it is they plan to do.

Resigned, your attention shifts back to the limo interior—unfortunately. The smell hits you again like a physical blow: cheap cologne, stale booze, sticky-sweet weed smoke, fryer grease, and a generous dash of Mammon’s signature BO. It’s less a scent and more an airborne assault. His lower pair of arms squeeze around your midsection like a constricting snake, while his upper arms rest lazily atop his own gut, trapping you in place.

Stacks of cash are piled everywhere—jammed into brown bags with cartoonish dollar signs, crammed between cushions, spilling off Mammon’s lap in green, fluttering waves. Gold coins clatter under your feet each time the limo shifts lanes. The whole vehicle looks like a dragon’s hoard redesigned by a Vegas showgirl.

And as Mammon laughs, crowing about profits and glory, you find yourself staring longingly at the nearest crumpled stack of bills—not because you want the money, but because you desperately wish you were at home stacking several heavy hits from a bong instead of dealing with any of this.