"Moxxie! My favorite little meatball!" Blitzø shouted, striking a pose. "The cameras are rolling, Loona is halfway through a bottle of Chianti, and the target is in position. It’s time for the big 'Parodia' number! Give me passion! Give me drama! Give me... whatever '🤌' means!"

Moxxie paced the balcony of the I.M.P. headquarters, the red sky of Pride Ring casting long, jagged shadows over his trembling hands. In his grip was a crumpled script, translated entirely into Italian, titled L’Opera del Delitto .

By the time they reached the finale—a soaring high note that coincided with a literal explosion in the background—Moxxie was weeping. He felt the soul of the parody. He was no longer just an imp; he was a tragic hero in a world of red ink and black comedy.

"Senti, amore mio," Moxxie began to sing, his voice transitioning into a surprisingly soulful tenor. "Il lavoro è sporco, ma il cuore è puro..."

Moxxie sighed, straightened his bowtie, and stepped into the spotlight. As the accordion began a frantic, minor-key polka, he cleared his throat.

Blitzø wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Beautiful. Stunning. Now, someone go clean up the mess. We still have to film the part where Moxxie gets hit with a giant wheel of parmesan."

"Millie," he squeaked, his voice cracking. "I can’t do it. The cadence is all wrong! How am I supposed to sing about a gruesome assassination when every word sounds like I’m ordering a three-course meal in Tuscany?"

From the office inside, a loud crash preceded Blitzø’s grand entrance. He was wearing a mustache that looked suspiciously like a dead cat taped to his lip and was draped in a silk cape.