(Collab with Atrophy) 

 Mornings like these were a novelty for him. Sander didn’t often get a good night sleep, but days when he woke up on the right side of the bed were even rarer. He wanted to savor it, he truly did. So there he was, lying face down on the queen sized bed, limbs sprawled and eyes half-closed. The nagging beeps of a clock from the nearby stand were all but forgotten, just like his agenda for the day. He just didn’t feel like coming to the office on time today. The dead of Santa Somabra could stand to wait for a few more  hours. After all, he only dealt with the ones who had the decency to stop moving. 

 The dead could wait. His bodily functions though, could not. With a loud groan, muffed somewhat by the pillow pressed against his face, he picked himself up, before shuffling toward the bathroom. A quick glance at the nearby mirror told him that he was having a severe case of bedhead and his stubble had got out of control. That wouldn’t do. So about ten minutes and a shower later, Sander emerged from the bathroom, refreshed and ready to deal with what this cursed city could throw at him. Which were usually bodies. Lots of them. 

 As if on cue, his pager peeped softly from its place on the nightstand, demanded his immediate attention. Sander quickly picked up a black shirt, long-sleeved of course, gave it a sniff to determine its remaining uses before grabbing the pager. [i]John Doe, down stairs[/i] it read in blocky black letters. He rolled his eyes. Someone was being productive while he was busy sleeping in like a spoiled kid. No doubt his assistant would give him an earful later. But for now, he had work to do. 

 Usually, unidentified bodies just meant thankless hours of extra work and wasted fuel on the incinerator. The police sometimes passed those onto him, once they had been fiddled around with and started to clutter up the morgue. On good days, he would get a small cash bonus and a pat on the back, but more often than not, they would just give him a leaky body so full of holes it was a struggle to find their eye sockets. He didn’t often pick random bodies off the street though, unless commissioned. As far as he knew, he wasn’t paid to pick this guy up. 

 “What is this, Raglok?”-He placed the white cover back on, before turning over to one of his employees. Raglok was an orc, so he looked exactly like what you would expect: green, burly, prominent tusks, mangy hair pulled back in a weird knot. He also had the temperance of a brick though, which was the only reason why Macro gave him a long term contract. The old man was a little bit racist. Just a little.

 “Erm… Found ‘im in a puddle out back.”-The orc shrugged, leaning against the doorframe as he spoke –“We were waiting for you to come down, but erh… he stinks.”- He wrinkled his nose, as if to empathize. 

 Sander sighed, before lifting the cover again for a second inspection. The man was in his mid-thirties, perhaps, it was rather hard to tell with all the gaping gashes maiming his features. Whoever killed him did a number on his torso as well, as the muscled chest was decorated with various stab wounds, some were still leaking. Sander absent-mindedly poked at the body with a gloved hand, while contemplating his options. Calling the cops on this would be a very poor decision, at least, for him. The last thing he wanted was for them to come poking around in the alley behind his business. It would scare of potential customers, and gods knew what those uniformed thugs would come up with to extort a few bucks out of him. He should just quietly disposing this guy and be done with it. The acid down in the basement should be enough; there was no point firing up the incinerator. 

 “Think it’s ‘im?”- Raglok asked suddenly, the orc’s booming voice shook him out of his thoughts.

 “Huh?”- He blinked owlishly, blood sticky between his latex fingers.

 “The Slayer, ya know?”- Raglok continued, a hint of fear and something akin to admiration in his grating voice-“He messed with all sorts, shanking their guys up and down. Yer gotta watch the news, boss. It’s a blood fes out these days.” 

 Oh, that he knew. Sander wasn’t that far out of the loop. He might not consider the occasional blood wars between Santa Somabra various crime lords his business, but he did keep a tab on them. There was always a scene or two needed cleaning up, and the underworld paid well, as long as he watched his footings. He kept his nose clean, and they would forget that he existed, until the next bloody mess. Which was usually never too far away, in his experience. 

 “Well? What’d ya say boss? Think it ‘im?”- Green, meaty fingers poked his shoulder lightly, once again demanded his answer.

 Sander merely shrugged, before pulling the cover back up. While they couldn’t be sure whether or not this was the work of the infamous Slayer, it was quite likely. Their John Doe didn’t have the look of a wayward tourist, rare as they were in this city, neither did he seem to be a down on his luck gambler. Sander knew scars from gunshot wounds when he saw them, and John Doe’s meaty frame suggested he was no stranger to violence. He could belong to one of the crime organizations around here, and it would definitely be problematic if their guys came sniffing around. He might as well turn this corpse over to the respective family and get it out of his hair as soon as possible. But of course, first, he would have to know who was on the receiving end on this package first. Obviously, the fastest way was to straight up ask the guy. But seeing as he was a little bit dead, Sander would have to call in backup. 

 “Drain the body, Raglok, clean him up a little. Then you can take the day off.”-He said, tossing the pair of stained gloves into the nearby trash can. 

 A couple of minutes later, when Sander had retreated into the relative safety of his bedroom, he whipped out his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart, but never added to his contact list.

 “Val? You’re free?”  

 The phone rang once, twice, three times before she answered it. There was no hello, just a muffled squeak of a yelp and the sound of a distant, yet clearly painful, thud. "Offa me you plastic bitch," she said in an angry and barely hushed tone. "Hey, prick, I told you, I'm not selli--oh, uh, oh." There was a momentary pause, followed by a short, nervous laugh. When she spoke again her voice was different, more casual, with a clear drowsiness to it. "Hey, Sander. Why are...why are you calling so late? Early? What day is...never mind. What's up?"

  The questionable noises from the other side of the line made Sander cocked an eyebrow, but he digressed. Whatever Valorie was up to, he sure didn’t want to know. It didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned though–“Weekday. Early, around noon. Anyway, have something you might want to take a look at. As soon as possible.”-He added the last bit, hoping it might catch her interest. Or not. She sounded, well, not very sober at the moment. 

 "Noon?" she asked, almost talking to herself. "It was 1 PM last time I...oh, Jesus." Sounds of her scrambling about as she put down the phone echoed over the receiver, as did the myriad of various hushed curses. A terrible scrapping noise popped through the speaker as she picked the phone back up. "Sorry, wrestling my clothes away from a dummy. No, wait, like a mannequin. Oh, Christ, that sounds weirder. Um," there was a long pause, followed by an unbelievably loud noise, "Okay! I'll be there in a hot minute."