Lord of Entertainment C46 Buying new identity

I tore through the night, reveling in my newfound speed and stealth. But I knew I couldn't push it too far - {Moonshadow} was still at Level 1, and rare skills like this were a pain to level up. I had to make every second count.

First stop: Anus. That sneaky demon might've landed me in this mess with his "recently deceased rich kid" identity trick, but he was still the best bet for a new, airtight persona. This time, though, I'd be calling the shots. No more surprises.

As I wove through the shadows of Hood Street, my mind drifted to the Harmony Records deal. At least that was one thing I didn't have to worry about. I'd pulled a fast one there, signing as the "Demon King" persona rather than Arthur Whitlock.

It was a ballsy move, sure, but those execs were so dazzled by the Whitlock name they didn't think twice. They probably thought it was some eccentric rich kid thing. Little did they know they'd handed me the perfect loophole.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Their eagerness to cash in on the Whitlock connection had made my life a whole lot easier. Sometimes, people's assumptions work in your favor.

As I approached Anus's hideout, I couldn't help but smirk. The game was getting more complicated, sure, but that just made it more interesting. And this time, I was playing with a full deck.

Time to create a new identity, one that would keep my inventions safe no matter what went down with the Whitlocks. And who knew? Maybe this new persona would come in handy down the line.

After all, in this world of magic, you could never have too many masks to wear.

I rapped on the door, using the rhythm I'd memorized from my last visit. A burly guy answered, eyeing my middle-aged man disguise with suspicion.

"Name?" he grunted.

I bit back a smirk. "Dick Testicles."

The guy nearly choked. "Cough—what? Can you repeat that?"

I kept my face deadpan. "You new here or something? That's my alias. Now let me in before I kick your—"

Another beefy dude cut in, recognition flickering in his eyes. "Oh, Dick! What brings you here?"

I cranked up the grumpy old man act. "I'm here for goddamn business! What else?"

"Right, of course. Come on in."

As they led me inside, I kept up the charade. "Where's Anus? Got a high-profile deal. He better hurry his ass up."

The two exchanged glances before nodding. They guided me to a hidden compartment in the floor, and I had to work to keep the surprise off my face. During the day, Anus operated upstairs. Guess nighttime business was a whole different ballgame.

As the trapdoor swung open, I was hit with a wave of noise and... interesting smells. The underground space was alive with activity – gambling, drinking, and some, uh, very friendly interactions in the corners.

I followed my guides through the chaos, trying not to stare. Hood Street's daytime shadiness had nothing on this after-hours party.

Finally, I spotted Anus, holding court with a mixed group of humans, elves, dwarves, and a few demons. He was in his element, grinning and gesturing wildly.

As I approached, I couldn't help but marvel at the complexity of this world I'd stumbled into. Demons, humans, and elves all rubbing shoulders in this underground den of vice.

The scene before me was something straight out of a fantasy novel - if that novel had a gritty, noir twist. Elves, dwarves, demons, and humans all mingling in this underground den of vice. It was a far cry from the rigid racial hierarchies of the world above.

Sometimes I wondered if the underworld had it figured out better than "polite" society. Up there, it was all about human superiority and demon-bashing. Down here? Seems like the only color that mattered was the green of cold, hard cash.

The burly guys whispered to Anus, who nodded and excused himself from his group.

Anus led me to a private room. As the door clicked shut behind us, his easy-going demeanor shifted to all business.

"So, what's this high-profile deal, Dick? This better be good."

I smirked. "Oh, it is. How does a thousand dollars sound?"

Anus's eyebrows shot up, but he caught himself quick. "A thousand, huh? That's... interesting."

"Thought you might say that."

He started rattling off options. "What'll it be? Weed? Coc—"

"None of that," I cut him off. "I need something a bit more... personal."

Anus frowned. "What then? For a grand, options are limited."

I leaned in. "An identity. A good one. Deceased is fine, but nothing recent. Needs to be airtight."

Anus shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Any deceased person's identity is pretty obvious, rookie."

"Then what?" I couldn't help but sound a bit exasperated.

"You're new to this identity-buying game, aren't you, Dick?" Anus grinned, clearly enjoying having the upper hand.

I bristled. "So what if I am?"

Anus chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "You're an interesting character, Dick Testicles. Gotta say, that name? Not exactly subtle. Been trying to dig up dirt on you, came up empty."

I felt myself tense up, but kept my face neutral.

"So, what does a guy who doesn't exist need?" Anus mused, his eyes sharp. "My guess? You're not in any Novaterra records. Illegal immigrant, right? That why you need a shiny new identity?"

His conclusion caught me off guard, but it was a better cover than I could've hoped for. "You got me," I admitted, deciding to roll with it.

Anus sighed, his expression softening a bit. "You know, I've got a soft spot for folks like you, Dick."

I raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"How about this," he continued, "I'll offer you a good identity. Not from any deceased person."

"Not from any deceased?" I echoed, genuinely curious now.

Anus nodded, warming to his idea. "I'll give you a legit-looking identity, one that'll suit you well. Middle-aged man, family records, the works. And here's the kicker - according to official records, this guy's still kicking."

I furrowed my brow, playing dumb to get more details. "What does that mean exactly?"

"The identity I'm thinking of? Guy actually died recently. But he was a nobody, you know? Even the government doesn't care enough to update his records. So officially? He's still alive and breathing."

A slow smile spread across my face. This was perfect - better than I could've hoped for. "That... that would work quite well," I said, trying not to sound too eager.

Anus's grin widened as he turned to the shelves lining the room. "As luck would have it, I've got just the thing right here." He skimmed through a sea of folders before plucking one out with a flourish. After a quick once-over, he handed it to me.

"This is the one?" I asked, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice.

Anus nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Take a look. Think you'll find it... interesting."

I opened the folder and felt my eyebrows climb. The profile was for a middle-aged man named Arnold Palmer. Bald guy, unremarkable face - perfect for blending in. But it was his story that really caught my attention.

According to the crystal-clear notes - unmistakably in Anus's handwriting - Arnold had quite the colorful past. Seems our boy had racked up some serious gambling debts, enough to make him ditch his family and go into hiding. But karma, as they say, is a bitch.

While laying low, Arnold got into it with some drunk at a bar. Words were exchanged, tempers flared, and before you know it, they're both throwing around basic magic and fists like it's happy hour at Fight Club.

I had to stifle a laugh at the next part. The drunk, in his booze-fueled state, managed to torch Arnold's face. But old Arnold gave as good as he got, cracking the guy's ribs. In the end, they both went down - Arnold with a face like melted candle wax, the drunk with a nice set of broken bones.

Anus, the Good Samaritan (and I use that term loosely), swooped in to save Arnold's bacon. Two weeks of magical healing later, Arnold was back on his feet, face scarred but alive. He thanked Anus and hit the road.

But here's where it gets really juicy. The drunk, now sober and nursing one hell of a grudge, tracked Arnold down and finished what he started. Anus, being the thorough businessman he is, got wind of it and documented the whole sordid affair.

I looked up from the file, meeting Anus's expectant gaze. "This is... quite a story," I said, struggling to keep my voice neutral.

Anus shrugged. "Life's messy. Death's messier. But for you? It's opportunity."

I nodded slowly, my mind already racing with possibilities. Arnold Palmer - gambling addict turned fugitive turned scarred survivor turned corpse. It was perfect. The scars explained any discrepancies in appearance, the time in hiding covered my lack of local knowledge, and the gambling debts? Well, that just added a nice touch of desperation to drive a man to, say, pursue a risky career in music.