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They’re just very odd, mismatched friends. Nothing more, nothing less.
Many fellow rogues used to mistake them for the worn puzzle piece of an incredibly dysfunctional family, but that was an absurd analogy if you thought about it. After all, that would make the Powerpuff Girls Mojo’s sister-daughters.
Mojo never needed nor wanted a family of his own. Some persons might have suspected that he did, but that was simply delusion, and Mojo was not subject to human delusion, as he, in his own words, “is not human, but a common chimpanzee whose deoxyribonucleic acid was transformed by a substance known as Chemical X.”
It goes without saying that HIM never wanted a family either. Being a demon who feeds off of malevolence itself leaves you without the need for most relationships. The only reason he and Mojo even pose as friends is proper villainous allies who won’t be traitorous are hard to come by.
Every supervillain knew about the Bogeyman’s Disco Club and Bar, one of the few places that would serve their kind that the Powerpuff Girls still didn’t know about. Ever since Princess’s father had disowned her, the funding for the club began slipping away, but that didn’t matter all that much. Surely, with how easy Townsville’s banks were to rob, it could stay afloat a while longer.
HIM and Mojo would always sit next to each other at the bar, but they’d always leave one seat between them. All the patrons knew that under no circumstances should anyone try to fill that space. Once during the holidays Lil’ Arturo had dared to break the unspoken rule, and some offhand comment had set the pair off, and soon the little mutant found his head embedded in the hardwood. Not that it mattered any more, considering how patrons were disappearing every day, but it was a law nonetheless.
The bartender used to smile knowingly at Mojo and Him when they would sit down, and they would smile back, despite secretly suspecting that neither of the them really knew a thing.
Occasionally after the nth night of failure, the unanimous night became too much for Mojo to bear. He would trudge past the countless balled-up schemes, crumpled in anger and somehow almost impossibly faraway from the wastebasket, and Mojo would kick his priceless telescope and curse the heavens, not because he was delusional, but just to let off steam.
He would then walk slowly to his bedroom, and climb into bed, not even caring to change out of his normal uniform. He would toss and turn, and his mind would buzz like a shaken beehive, for something invariably prevented him from sleeping. In the dark, his phone stood oppressively on his nightstand. He had moved it there for a reason he had forgotten, or perhaps didn’t want to remember.
Mojo knew exactly who he had to call in these circumstances. He would dial, hands quivering from tiredness and age and not suppressed emotion.
HIM knew it was Mojo without a drawn-out introduction. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” HIM crooned. “Hopelessly pent-up rage, I hope? I just adore that.”
Mojo frowned, and unconsciously twirled the telephone cord. “As you have constantly and unrelentingly pointed out over our repeated correspondences, I simply have a desire to talk, converse, and discuss various happenings. If I am not imposing and being otherwise bothersome—”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” said HIM, and if his normally velvety voice sounded like it was cracking a bit around the edges, it was just static. “We’re friends, darling.”