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Pinhead entered the bar alone. It was a small place with lots of dark wood and that smoky haze that’s associated with bars everywhere. He went to the back of the bar and sat down at a battered old table. He ordered a pitcher of beer and a shot of vodka for himself. Just a few minutes later the bald-headed, blue-skinned Grace entered. She came and sat down next to Pinhead and poured herself a beer. Pinhead sat with his legs crossed under his skirts (for lack of a better word). No one ever commented that he was the only male Cenobite to wear a dress…then again, no one ever really wanted to find out what his reaction would be if they did.
“You look out of sorts.” Grace said to him, while sipping her beer. Her voice had that low rasp of a long time smoker.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a shitload of paperwork to do. Who ever thought that the god of Hell would want everything in triplicate?” He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.
“I didn’t even get to torture anyone today.”
“Yeah, that’s a bummer.” Grace commiserated. Then she turned and called out
“Hey, Butterball, over here!” Pinhead looked over too and said “Hey” sullenly. Butterball sat down and leaned toward Grace
“What’s up with him?” he asked quietly.
“Paperwork.” She replied.
“Ah.” The waitress came back over and Butterball ordered a basket of fried chicken. Chatterer came in and sat next to him. The chicken arrived and Chatterer said something like
“Clack-clack-clackity-click.” Butterball sighed and didn’t even try to hide the eye roll.
“Yes, I’ll share the chicken with you.” At that Grace pointed at him and said
“See, that’s why you wear a size 40 tunic.” Butterball pointedly ignored her. That’s when Pinhead’s secretary came in holding a sheaf of paper. She tapped Pinhead on the shoulder timidly.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but these need your signature right away.”
“Aww, Christ!” he groaned as she handed him a pen.
“Hey, don’t swear. This fic is supposed to be G rated.” She scolded. Pinhead rolled his eyes and started signing forms.
“Wait,” he said, holding up one of the forms. “Why do we need to spend $500 on stationary? Who are we going to send it to?”
“Meh. Interdepartmental memos?” His secretary said with a shrug. Pinhead just shook his head and signed the form.
A few hours later, when the most premier members of the Order of the Gash were all pleasantly buzzed, the door to the bar opened. A short little guy who was wearing what looked like a sock over his head and a trenchcoat walked in. He looked around.
“Hey, what the hell am I doing here? This is the villain’s bar! I’m a super hero!” Pinhead looked over and shrugged.
“Well, you must be a little psychotic, or you wouldn’t have ended up here.” He said. Rorschach walked over to the table.
“Hmmm, well I guess I am just a little psychotic.” He said as he sat down and pulled off his mask. The Cenobites all stared at the freckled, ginger man. It was Rorschach’s turn to shrug.
“What? As long as the Comedian’s not here. God, I hate that SOB.” He looked around the bar.
“Hey, isn’t that John Winchester?” he pointed.
“Who?” asked Butterball. Rorschach waved a hand.
“Never mind.” Then he got up and ambled over to Winchester’s table.
“What was that about a comedian?” asked Grace with a frown as she looked over at Pinhead, who had passed out. Grace smiled. It was really quite funny (use your imagination here, guys). As she pulled a little digital camera out of her bra and started taking pictures, she addressed Chatterer and Butterball.
“Come on guys, let’s take him home.” As the three Cenobites carried the unconscious Pinhead out of the bar they passed a pair of identical albino twins. As they went by they could just hear part of their conversation.
“…safe from Persephone here, at least…” Outside Grace flagged down a cab. The cabbie asked “Where to?” Grace smiled.
“Back to Hell, please.”