The Devil's Graveyard by Anonymous

promised Elvis he would hand in the envelope, and right now he wasn’t keen on pissing the King off too much. Elvis was his only ally.
    ‘Hi again,’ he said, offering Stephie a disingenuous smile.
    The receptionist had seen him strolling back and forth, occasionally staring over at her, and was understandably creeped out by it. The very large number of guests arriving had meant that she’d had a busy morning; physically and mentally drained, she was not in the right frame of mind to take any shit from Sanchez.
    ‘I really, really hope you’re not about to ask me out,’ she said, looking at him with barely concealed contempt.
    Bitch , he thought, but he forced his best smile and slapped the envelope down on the reception desk.
    ‘Found this in the room you kindly got for me. Thought I oughta hand it in, y’know? – case the guy it was meant for shows up lookin’ for it.’
    Stephie looked down at the envelope in front of her. ‘Oh sure,’ she said sarcastically, ‘Though I see you’ve opened it.’
    ‘Nah. It was like that when I found it.’
    ‘Of course.’ She snatched it up and stood, tutting quietly under her breath just loud enough for him to hear. ‘I’ll go stick this in a safe-deposit box out back, just so it doesn’t open itself again.’
    ‘Uh, thanks,’ said Sanchez, maintaining his horrible fake smile. ‘Oh, and er, like, if the guy does come lookin’ for it…’
    ‘Claude Balls.’
    ‘’Scuse me?’
    ‘Claude Balls. The man whose room you took.’
    ‘Yeah, him. If he comes lookin’ for it, mebbe you could give me a call in my room? Just so I’ll know he got it okay? It’ll help me sleep better.’
    ‘I’ll bet.’ Throwing him one last disapproving look, Stephie disappeared with the envelope through a door at the back of the lobby. One of the other female receptionists passed her on the way. She was a short, rotund woman in her fifties with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. She took up a place at the desk next to Stephie’s and smiled at Sanchez. Time to make a hasty retreat, he figured. Elvis was shortly due onstage for his audition for the Back From the Dead contest. Sanchez wanted to be sure he was there so that he could win some credit with the King by applauding loudly afterwards and complimenting him on his performance.
    As he headed to a set of glass doors that led out of the lobby and down towards the theatre, he heard a booming voice from the lobby behind him. It sounded like it belonged to a very large and domineering man.
    ‘Hello, miss,’ it said, politely enough. ‘Do you have a room reserved for me? Name of Claude Balls.’
    Sanchez felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Please , he thought. Don’t let this man look as nasty as he sounds.
    Dreading what he might see, he turned around. His worst fears had been realized. For there, standing at the reception desk, was an absolute giant of a man. He stood around six five, and wore a long grey trench coat. His thick, unwashed red hair was dragged back into a ponytail that reached down below his shoulder blades. He had a goatee to match, hanging down almost to his chest in a thin plait. Beneath the coat, he was wearing what looked to Sanchez like military gear. A former soldier, perhaps? A deadly assassin? Judging by the contents of the envelope Sanchez had opened, most definitely.
    The worried bar owner would not have been reassured to learn that the man claiming to be Claude Balls was actually a well-known hitman round those parts. In fact, he was better known as Invincible Angus because of his incredible endurance. He’d been stabbed, shot, maimed, maced, bludgeoned, you name it, but he always got back up. And he always got his man.
    Sanchez didn’t need to stare at him for long to know that it was time to get going before one of the receptionists told their latest guest about the envelope that had been tampered with. Just then, sensing that he was being watched, Invincible Angus looked over