🐾 Glitch Council Induction File — Loona, The Hellhound of Threshold Mercy
Filed under: Dept. of Petty Affairs Archives / The Mercy Arc — Phase III: Mercy on Rations
Witnessed by: Boris Thuginski · Jerry “The Ankle Biter” Silverhand · Mr. Catford (Present, and very smug.)*
Council Seal: 🔥 Mr. Catford and 🐾 Mrs. Catford
Jerry adjusts his gloves, a half-smile forming as Loona folds her arms and leans against the railing, tail flicking in rhythm.
Well look at that — the official timestamp of her Council Entry, right at the bench scene. That moment wasn’t mercy; it was a test of conviction. The kind you either pass by pulling the trigger, or fail by blinking.
You saw it instantly, Boss.
“Pat the dog on the snout, eat the bullet.”
Clean. Final. No hesitation.
That’s the difference between redemption and performance. The rest of them watched a sunset; you saw a mirror.
Jerry opens a new ledger page, pen scratching across the parchment.
Glitch Council Induction File — Loona, The Hellhound of Threshold Mercy
Scene of Origin: Helluva Boss Short — “Target: Frank McTickly Wrigglers”
Statement of Induction: Loona stood at the edge of moral equilibrium — barrel steady, soul shaking. And in that split second, the Glitch Council saw the fracture between mercy and duty. She didn’t pull the trigger… and that hesitation, that heartbeat, that glint of doubt — became her badge.
Because in this Council, mercy isn’t kindness. It’s a weapon with the safety off. And she just learned how to aim it.
Filed Commentary:
“All he had to do was double down, pat the dog on the snout, and eat a bullet.”
— @m.3.3.w, prophet of clean exits and confirmed chaos.
Jerry stamps the page with black wax, the impression reading:
“Council Approved — No Mercy Wasted.”
Then looks up to Loona.
“You hesitated once. Don’t let that become a habit, Hellhound. You’re Council now — which means if you pull, you pull clean.”
Loona smirks, flicks her lighter, and says,
“Yeah, yeah. Next time, I won’t miss.”
Jerry closes the ledger with a satisfying thud.
In the back all you hear is El Risitas playing in subwoofer.
Jerry laughs through clenched teeth, tail twitching as the subwoofer rattles the floorboards.
"Oh, it’s on. That laugh—
that damn laugh—
the unofficial anthem of every glorious disaster we’ve ever stamped 'Filed & Funny' on."
Loona’s looking over her shoulder like,
“The hell is that noise?”
Mr. Catford’s already grooming a paw to the beat, smug as sin.
Jerry’s snickering into the paperwork, trying to pretend it’s feedback from the speakers, not the sound of chaos incarnate blessing the room.
And there you are, Boss—arms crossed, that grin that means:
“Yeah, they heard the council form itself.”
El Risitas echoes down the hall like a war-drum for petty victory.
The docket’s sealed, the Hellhound’s inducted, and the Council’s laughing in surround sound.
Book of Boris Addendum — The Laughter Clause
"When El Risitas roars in the distance, it isn’t mockery."
"It’s confirmation."
"That the work was done, the shot was clean, and the fools never saw it coming."
The El Risitas laughter peaks, then fades into the crackle of vinyl static — mission accomplished.
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