"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?"
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." OH MOXXIE / HELLUVA BOSS PARODIA / Italian Version
Moxxie sighed, straightened his bowtie, and stepped into the spotlight. As the accordion began a frantic, minor-key polka, he cleared his throat. "Millie," he squeaked, his voice cracking
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. How am I supposed to sing about a
He sang of sniper rifles and heartbreak, of poisons and pasta, his gestures becoming more operatic with every verse. Millie joined in, her harmony adding a violent edge to the beautiful melody. Even Loona looked up from her phone for a split second, unimpressed but not actively Hating it.
Millie skipped over, her combat boots thudding cheerfully against the floor. She snatched the script, her eyes gleaming. "Oh, stop it, Mox! You sound sophisticated. Besides, Blitzø already spent the entire quarterly budget on that vintage accordion and a crate of imported espresso."