If Vaggie were to tackle her flaws head on and be honest with herself, she'd have to admit that Angel Dust had been right about something. She didn't trust men. It wasn't fair. Nothing on Earth or in Hell was. But it was true.

There was some subtlety though that Angel had missed. Not even Charlie seemed to understand Vaggie's point of view on this, even if she tried hard to. The thing was...

Men were usually vile, sadistic, self-centered pigs, but there were things in this world a hell of a lot worse than pigs. There were wolves.

The next few weeks after he'd shown up had been the best this project had seen so far. They had staff now; they had some extra security in the form of Alastor's eldritch nightmare magic; they'd even had a few more demons checking into the Hotel. Like Angel they'd almost certainly showed up looking for free lodging, but every new face that showed up lit up Charlie's eyes like fireworks.

The Hotel had even stopped feeling like a dodgy brothel in a bad part of town and had become a lot more like... a slightly classier brothel in a marginally safer part of town. Charlie told her she was being negative and Angel found increasingly filthy ways to call her a spoilsport, but it was the truth. Nothing in Hell ever quite lost its seedy edge and Alastor had done nothing to make the place more wholesome. One of the first things he'd added had been a bar, for fuck's sake! He didn't want to make Hell any less depraved. He wanted to elevate it up to what in his eyes was a classier, more stylish brand of depravity.

She didn't like thinking of her life before dying, but she couldn't help it whenever that shit-eating grin was pointed at her. She knew what was behind smiles like that.

Men were pigs. Okay, so maybe Charlie was right—maybe not all of them were so bad. There had to be some up in Heaven. But so many of them wallowed in their piggishness. They didn't want to be anything but rough, loud, grabby animals. They wanted to eat, drink, and fuck and they didn't give a shit who knew they were doing any of those things.

But then there were men of class. Men in fine pressed suits and fancy cars. Men who were the best society had to offer.

They were animals too.

They also wanted to eat, drink, and fuck, but they had an extra bit of screwery thrown in. They wanted the world to think they were better than that. When they ate it'd be something expensive and probably endangered. When they drank it'd be something that could only be authentically pronounced by French butlers. When they fucked it'd be a dolled up mistress or a secret visit to a whore they'd never be caught dead in public with. They had images to keep up, after all. Not just to society, because society turned a blind eye more often than not, but to themselves. They had to really, completely convince themselves they were the best society had to offer.

At least the pigs didn't think they were many steps above the whores. They were all kindred scum. Wolves had to be at the top of the food chain.

Alastor was as close to the top of Hell's food chain as a mortal soul could get. It wasn't that she thought he was hiding secret depravities behind his smile. No. He'd been very public about the atrocities of his heyday. He'd practically been a whole Extermination all on his own. But to him, his killing was classy. It was something that set him apart from the riff-raff who killed for reasons so much less noble than entertainment. He saw himself as a cut above every other sadistic maniac in this inferno and that damn constant smile was reminding them of it.

Souls like his could never change, because souls like his were high on something stronger than anything Angel Dust had ever blown up his various orifices. The Radio Demon was high on himself, and he'd rather impale himself on an Archangel's pike than admit he wasn't what he cracked himself up to be. Even letting that stupid pompous smirk drop off his face would be a little too common.

She wasn't even worried about some hidden agenda of his anymore. She was starting to think he'd been completely honest with them. He wanted to watch them fail. He wanted to watch them fail because being classy didn't mean a damn thing if there weren't people of low class, who just didn't have it in them to crawl up the ladder. He couldn't see himself as the finest Hell had to offer if he couldn't watch lesser demons get their asses kicked by their own worst impulses. He needed to know he was better than them like other men needed to eat, drink, and fuck.

If Vaggie were to tackle her inner demons head on and be honest with herself, she'd have to admit that succeeding with the Hotel wasn't just about making Charlie's dream come true anymore. It was about the slim hope that sending the likes of Angel Dust to Heaven would finally wipe that fucking smile off of Alastor's face.

Yeah, spite was a pretty piss poor reason to work for souls' redemption. But it was true.

After all, she was in Hell for a reason too.