Satan leaned back in his red leather chair, gold rings tapping against the table. The tip of his cigarette falls off onto the floor. A pair of horns peeked from his hair, subtle but unmistakable.

"Simon I assume?" He asks. 

Across from him stood a man in a bloodstained apron and a feather-specked fedora. SimonTheSwanHunter nodded once. He carried a steel milk canister in each hand, but the stench of wet feathers trailed him.

“They said you were mad,” Satan said, exhaling smoke through a grin. “Said you were squeezing swans like fruit for some kind of... milk?”

Simon set the canisters down with a clunk. “Not squeeze, pressurize. Controlled compression, Satan. Turns the bird’s body into a... glandular factory. The trick's in the neck. Very elastic. We call it Swan’s Mercy.”

Satan laughs “You're telling me you found a way to milk an animal that don't got tits. That right?”

Simon Nodded "Tastes like vanilla custard, rich folks go nuts for it, they say it improves their complexion"

Satan's eyes narrowed, seemingly interested "And the swans?"

Simon's voice dropped "Stubborn bastards, straight outta New York."

Satan dipped a gold spoon, tasted the swan milk, and let the flavor settle. His eyes flared.

“Hell’s bankroll,” he muttered. “Get me a truckload.”

BadWolf got wind of a tip from an informant who arrived with strange offerings, samples of ElkMilk and SwanMilk.

He eyed the milks suspiciously, a brow raised as he tried to imagine the process behind them.

“…I better watch myself. At this rate, they’ll be trying to milk a wolf next.”