wind me up

writing/roleplay blog for original character gamble. independent. based in the hellaverse but fandom/universe-flexible. writer is 18+ and some content may be nsfw. no need to message before interacting

[huskc0mplains]

It happened fast. As the sharp pain jolted up his arm, fizzling out at the elbow, Husk went through several different emotions in lightning quick succession; shock, confusion, fear, and irritation. Irritation at himself for being dimwitted enough to stick his hand within biting range of a caged animal. He knew better than that. Once again, he'd let his ego and pride blind him and make him stupid.

His eyes narrowed in an angry wince as Gamble purposely squeezed his new injury, growling low. But his irritation fizzled out before it was allowed to erupt into rage, the deal made. Besides, he couldn't be too upset... Gamble had grit, and he'd need that in this line of work.

"I'll take that as a compliment." he grumbled as he took his hand back, shaking it off, blood splattering on the floor and wall as he did. "Welcome to the family, shithead." Husk walked past the cage, already on his way towards the door. He raised his hand, snapping his fingers, and the bottom of the cage swung open with a heavy clanking sound.

"Casino closes in four hours, your work starts then. I don't give a fuck what you do until then. I recommend you don't cause trouble or try and run, though. Cause the next time I have to chase your ass down?" He paused at the door, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "You're gonna wish you could die."

Husk wasn't really the type to get off on torture, couldn't stomach it, honestly. But he had sinners working for him who definitely could and did.

[onthebl1nk]

Feeling Husk’s growl more than hearing it, Gamble throws out his wings in preparation to beat them against the bars. But the retaliatory violence he’s ready for never comes, and he is as surprised by that as he is by the sudden falling away of the floor.

He doesn’t give the overlord a chance to change his mind.

In a flurry of moss-green feathers he seizes upon his regained freedom, nearly knocking a bottle of expensive-looking liquor onto the even more expensive-looking rug as he puts as much distance as he possibly can between himself and that fucking cage. “No fuckin’ way you had this thing made special just so you could keep me in there for the two minutes it takes to make a deal! Shit ain’t cheap!” accuses the avian demon.

There are two doors in this room, and Husk is moving through one. He backs into the second, testing it without turning his back to the other winged sinner.

Locked. Figures.

His pale beak stays open, more adrenaline than anger now as the weight of his new contract makes the room feel much too small. He knows he should just wait, that Husk is giving him a temporary out that only requires a tiny bit of patience, but even a few seconds feels much too long.

With a fierce clacking of his fleshly-bloodied mouth, Gamble raises his voice to ensure Husk doesn’t miss a word of what he says next: “If you’re hoping to get your dick sucked later, I’m tellin’ you right now that I’ll bite it clean off, you hear me?”

[onthebl1nk]

February 16th, 1904

Ma,

I know, I know. You’ve been writing and I ain’t been answering, but there’s a damn good reason. That last prototype had the power, and I know you hate hearing this but I got it off the ground.

Getting it back down’s the trick now, and I’ve got it. For real this time.

The data’s all there, and I’ve sent you some pictures of the bird so you can she how pretty she is before she gets put on the front page of every newspaper in the world. I ain’t done putting her together just yet, but maybe seeing her bones’ll make her less of a monster to your eyes.

Show Pa, too, so he can see she’s worth all the trouble she’s put me through. And Danny, if you see him before me.

I ain’t given up yet. I hope you haven’t either.

- George

[onthebl1nk]

“I ain’t sayin’ that it’ll be easy — ” Though he’s doing his best to keep his brass horn of a voice low, there’s drama in the way Gamble stretches out his wing to bring his duet partner closer. “ — but if we’re going to pick a fight, we’ve been handed the opportunity on a silver platter.”

There’s no real need for the secrecy other than harnessing the energy of an adventure waiting just around the corner for them. His workshop is a safe place to talk for now, with no one but his unfeeling machines around to overhear them.

“Think about it, yeah?” The engineer sweeps out the opposite wing now, as if to capture the sky that no longer lingers just outside of his reach. “Ain’t nobody more distracted right now than that council of chucklefucks they call overlords, and I just finished building our best shot.”

[onthebl1nk]

With the welding gun warm in his hand and the weight of its battery heavy on his back, Gamble is hard at work. He has been for hours now, rearranging the bones of what VoxTek took from him and his neighbors into something stronger. The tang of melted steel outcompetes Pentagram City’s pervasive stink of sulfur and sticks to the roof of his mouth, but he whistles to himself anyway.

For the first time in a long time, he is doing something important.

The tune lilts through the smog, simple and carrying the rhythm of a builder’s heart, reminding him when to weave the torch back and forth between the metal joints. Dusk, or what constitutes as dusk in a realm without a proper sun, has begun to fall, but the avian sinner shows no signs of stopping.

“Almost done with this one!” he calls down. “How’s your side look?”

[forgottenstarlightwishes]

The Cherub looked on with an unwavering sort of awe. Gamble loomed over him with his wings held partially out and his neck craning and his sharp beak nearly the size of his head, but Warbie's attention was far from the possibility of harm and death, in fact his eyes sparkled at the color his wings. "A conure, sir. A sort of large parakeet." He said pointing one of his feathered fingertips towards Gamble's forehead then his wings. Forehead blushed like a fiery sunset, and wings as dark as the underside of a humid tree canopy." He described and chuckled softly, as he drummed his fingers together. "A bit. Hm, so far i've had some luck evading unpleasant encounters. Though, some close calls." He nodded agreeing that he did look like an easy body to pick off, then winced as Gamble went airborne. "My stars! They're so green!" He gasped, he was more stunning in the air! Warbie's golden blue-brown wings popped out and was immediately beside him. "Do they...like raw hide or milk bones?" He asked innocently as he rummaged through his worn out leather bag. "I did buy a pack of liqueur filled Bone-Bones, yesterday, one of the store clerks told me that they were a favorite among her hellhound customers."

[onthebl1nk]

“Worth a try.”

All right, so the little guy isn’t completely unprepared. Gamble touches down on the crumbling lip of a defunct smokestack, reassessing their position — and his new companion — with sharpening interest. “But if they decide they’d rather have roast warbler or whatever-the-fuck, you’re on your own.”

He does not, however, spend more than a few seconds out in the open. After fitting his flight goggles into place, he drops back into the cover offered by the dense cityscape. VoxTek may be preoccupied with the fallout from their recent power grab, but he’s seen their drones out on patrol and knows better than to broadcast his silhouette to the whole district.

He’s also not entirely convinced that he isn’t being lured into a trap, and the more circuitous route he takes to the Scrap Yard, the harder it’ll be for the stranger’s backup to track them.

With familiar ease he flits between tangled power lines and under steel beams, not once looking back to see if the other is following. It’s a risk, turning his back on someone he doesn’t know, and the adrenaline has him feeling bold when he at last asks, “You always this complimentary to random guys on the street, or do you just think I’m extra cute?”

[forgottenstarlightwishes]

What was the likelihood that he had taken the wrong turn? Very likely, it wasn't like the hellbornes or sinners were very keen on being nice, although there were plenty who were, it was just most enjoyed knowing that they had created some level of hardship on another. The industrial part of the Pentagram was cold as it was active. The mixed aroma of industry, chemicals, burning solder, overspent filters and of course grease, yet there was an elegance to it, possibly due to the Overlord who presided over this corner of the Pentagram. The cherub fluttered down to the street and glanced down at his hand drawn map. South South West, would be where he should in theory find part for his customer, a garbage heap though...compared to Heaven most of Hell looked like a garbage heap. "That's not very kind thought." He scolded himself, "Scrap Heap, Metal Yard. Metal Quarry? Scrap Metal Recycling?" He started to list off alternative names for the negative thought he had moments ago "Do you mind?" His attention snapped upward. A taller avian with an armful of metal parts side steps him and unceremoniously drops his load onto the curb, in such a haphazard way that Warbie had to evade two pieces that flung and catapulted from the mass. Oh! His eyes glittered from behind his glasses. What color! "I'm so s-sorry! My fault, my attention was divided and a little. I'm trying to find a place that some folks call the King Galluzo Scrap Pit. I'm looking for a part for someone." He answered honestly and flipped his map over and pointed to the location that his client had drawn. However, Warbie's attention was shifting as he eyed the expertly preened feathers and the color and the sharp curve of his beak too. "I don't mean to be in-intrusive." He started softly, "But...are you a conure? You remind me of a type I haven't seen in decades."

[onthebl1nk]

“A fuckin’ what?”

Gamble is so puzzled by the unfamiliar term the stranger uses that the rest of his oddities take a momentary backseat. He opens his wings slightly and lowers his head, seizing upon the rare opportunity to physically intimidate a smaller avian as he tries to decipher what game is being played here. “I’m a demon, Specs! You know, ‘pitchforks and brimstone’ type shit!”

Yet looming over the poor bastard proves to not be as fun as the sinner thought it would be, not when the other is already so tiny and clearly out of his depth. The engineer eases back, peering down the edges of his beak at who he assumes to be either an extremely sheltered hellborn or a newly-departed soul. “You really are lost,” he observes, narrowing his gaze to focus on the upside-down map the tenderfoot hasn’t even tried to hide from him.

The Scrap Pit is well-known to Gamble and he doesn’t really need the marker to guide the way, but curiosity has him tilting his head and wondering what could be of value there that he hasn’t already sniffed out. That, and who would be dumb enough to send Hell’s most fresh-faced mooncalf to retrieve it.

“You’re lucky you ran into me and not some dick who’d just as soon beat the shit out of you and take that part for themselves.”

The green-feathered sinner is not in the business of doing something for nothing, but there is a mystery here worth investigating. He steps back, spreading his wings and flapping once, twice before lifting off the sidewalk. The current of air formed by the beat of his feathers throws up grit and metal shavings, but there is no denying how the act of flying makes the aviator’s eyes seem kinder.

“I’ll show you the way, but if you don’t already have a plan to get around Galluzo’s hellhounds, then I suggest you take this time to make one.”

[huskcomplains]

He'd paused when he was asked to wait, an ear perking and twitching at the mention of one of Husk's favorite words; free.

"Now, that's more like it!" He was back beside the cage in an instant. "A tune I can get behind." He reached out and grabbed a bar of the spinning cage, stopping it abruptly. "And just so we're clear..."

A long tail, ending with feathers more befitting of some ancient bird than a cat, lazily swiped from the top of the overlord's head, down to his feet, leaving behind empty air as it went, until he'd disappeared entirely.

"Full transparency!" Added the grinning maw that was suddenly right next to Gamble's head, on the other side of the bars. "I may not own your soul, but you're still under contract. Until every last cent of your debt, plus interest, has been made back, you belong to me."

The rest of Husk began to reappear, eyes first, extended hand last. "Do we have a deal?"

[onthebl1nk]

Belong.

The word is a flashpoint, igniting like pressurized gasoline and propelling Gamble into his next mistake. He snaps his head to the side and latches his beak into the crook of Husk’s thumb and forefinger, the rest of his body turning to face the overlord after he tastes blood. Only then does he relax his jaw, but he grips the wounded hand in his own so that his new boss gets just as much relief from the impending transaction as he does — none.

“Deal.”

The flare of neon magic reflects in pupil-less eyes that are remorseless despite the engineer’s obvious disadvantage, and the feathers along his neck remain prickled even after the smoke clears. His mouth stays open, the muscles in his throat trembling as his body fights to bring his temperature down, but the fear has been burned out of him.

Husk can do whatever the fuck he wants to him, as long as one thing is clear: “I don’t belong to shit, Tux.”

[onthebl1nk]

“Eat this, asshole!”

With a thunderous crack, Gamble pulls the ripcord on his latest creation. The cannon attached to his shoulder belches fire so hot that it burns blue — which it’s supposed to do — and the recoil throws him backward — which it’s not supposed to do. He doesn’t get the chance to see the ensuing devastation as he crashes through the glass of the unluckiest shop in Pentagram City, but if the boom that follows is any indication, he’s finally, finally managed to get one over on an overlord.

Shards of broken window crunch under his thickly-soled boots as he springs back up onto his feet, adrenaline shielding him from pain ...

“You think about that the next time you wanna fuck me!”

… and the shame of such a poorly-worded battle cry. He isn’t there to make history.

He’s just there to indulge in some rebellion.

[huskcomplains]

He was still talking! Still bluffing. A deep chuckle rumbled in Husk's chest as he slowly retracted his hand, digits wrapping around a bar of the cage, instead.

"Suit yourself! Ain't no skin off my fuckin' back. Long as I know you're in here, and not out there causing problems in my casino, I couldn't care less where you choose to rot."

Gambe wasn't the only one bluffing tonight. Husk gave the hefty cage a hefty shove, and it began to spin. A decorative metal ball hanging from its own chain attached to the chain holding the cage bounced along the top of the cage, vaguely resembling the sound of a roulette table. "Music to my ears! Hahah!" Husk cackled as he turned to leave.

[onthebl1nk]

The floor starts to turn and Gamble reacts instinctively, taking to the air with a scream of frustration so loud that even he feels the reverb in his skull. “Wait!”

A plea pitches his voice up before he can school it back into his usual brassy defiance, desperation coloring his tone when he realizes he is about to be left alone in this fresh Hell. He grips a bar in his toes again and grasps another above his head, trying to tilt the cage as it spins.

Too heavy. “Fuck, man!”

Panic sluices through him like vertigo and suddenly Husk’s price seems almost worth it. “I’ll do it for free!”

Almost.

“I’ll rig your slots, load your dice! You’ll get it all back plus interest!”

[onthebl1nk]

//surprise! it was imbolc last week, a holiday in my pagan practice that’s meant to celebrate the first signs of spring. unfortunately i got my ass kicked by a sinus infection and couldn’t get this out on the actual day, but i’m feeling much better now.//

“Do you mind?”

Despite the heap of scrap metal weighing him down at the moment, Gamble sidesteps the demon blocking his way. He dumps the useless material onto the curb with a huff of exertion, relieving himself of yet another burden he’s been carrying for much too long. With a self-congratulatory trill and fluffing of his freshly-preened feathers, the avian sinner gestures to the pile of stripped gears and soot-stained piping.

“I’m trying to get my shit together, and you’re loitering right in front of my fuckin’ door.” He dusts off his shoulders but succeeds only in leaving a smear of ash.

“You lost?”

[onthebl1nk]

“You know that little voice in your head that tells you when you shouldn’t do something?”

Some of the beer doesn’t make it into the glass as Gamble pours, instead spattering across the crumpled blueprint on his workbench. The plan looks like it’s for some kind of propulsion system, and he would probably be upset about the state of it if he wasn’t so drunk already. The can empties and he simply tosses it aside, kicking it clear so that it clatters against another that rests at the foot of another partially-finished project.

He holds the glass against the light and thinks about how months of work can be pissed away in a single night, and then adds the whiskey with a laugh. The horrible concoction of cheap liquor and even cheaper beer fizzes and drips down his neck as he chugs it down in a single go.

“Me neither!”

[huskcomplains]

Husk's eyes studied his prisoner closely as he spoke. He was a man who could appreciate, even respect, a good poker face. His fear was evident, but the way he was keeping it together was almost commendable.

And look at that! The guy knew his audience, too. There were many things that Husk couldn't resist; booze, a pretty face, the sound of a pair of dice bouncing across a table ...

And a bet stacked heavily in his own favor.

The truth was, he didn't own the bird's soul just yet. Contracts, much like most other things in Hell, took two to tango. Husk didn't love that Gamble seemed to be reading him just as clearly as he was being read, but he was right. He did have something that Husk wanted. He didn't have a machine guy, and this little thorn in his side knew his stuff. Not to mention, Husk mused, as he watched the bird dangle from the roof of his cage, free entertainment! It was a win/win.

"Alright. How about a deal? You, me, blackjack. You win? You walk out of here a free bird, debts cleared. The house wins? I get your soul, and you work for me. Refuse the offer? Spend the rest of your miserable life right where you are."

Husk reached his hand in through the bars, in an offered handshake that would seal their temporary contract if Gamble accepted his terms. The toothy grin, and the way those golden eyes burned into him through the bars told him it would be unwise to do anything stupid in his current situation.

[onthebl1nk]

“Always the fucking souls with you guys.” Were the situation different, Gamble would sound bored. As it stands, he doesn’t even know how this damn cage opens, and the longer he is trapped the more his feathers feel too hot. “Being an overlord must get old after a while.”

With a U-shaped arc he drops to the bottom, and notes that it rattles but doesn’t yield to his weight when he touches down. Likely one solid piece, which means the latch or other mechanism keeping it closed must be on the underside.

Smart. Nothing he can reach from within.

Stretching his beak while his wings hook over his shoulders, he considers the merits of biting the other demon’s thumb right off his extended hand. He’s done it before — in Husk’s casino, even, where the blood’s still probably dried on the underside of one of his roulette tables.

Ultimately the engineer decides against it; losing a finger would only make his captor less willing to talk, and words are the only currency he has in spades right now. He only has one soul, after all, and there’s a reason he can’t pay off his debts even if he has been beating the house elsewhere.

“Free room and board in nice digs like these for the rest of my afterlife, huh?” He gestures around the opulent living room, allowing Husk’s own interior decorating to speak for itself. “I don’t know how long you’ve been collecting other idiots’ souls for, but I think you’ve forgotten how shitty it is out there for the rest of us. Maybe I’ll like it here.”

[huskcomplains]

"Not weird at all, Tweetybird! Not. At. All."

The silhouetted figure in the doorway answered the question that hadn't necessarily been directed at himself. Golden eyes fixed on the caged bird, glowing bright and ominous even in the dimly lit room.

"The way I see it…" He kicked the door closed behind him as he stepped into the room, the place flooding with light with a snap of his fingers. "Death's easy! The easy way out." Husk took his time making his way across the room as he spoke. It was a nice room! It was his room. His living room, to be precise. Tall golden-hued walls adorned with classy paintings and photographs and red velvet curtains. A fireplace crackled quietly along one wall, the fire seemingly spurred to life along with the lights. Plush chairs and couches littered the place, it was obvious the overloard was used to having guests over. The room's centerpiece was a large black marble table. His poker table. Some would call this space tacky. Husk called it comfortable.

And, of course, who could forget his newest addition? The large, fancy birdcage hanging from the ceiling. It glinted gold, but was made from a far stronger material than that. Husk had reached it now, grinning at the man held inside it. Normally, those who owed a debt to Husk or his casino ended up working there. Indefinitely. Whether it was on the floor or back stage, Husk always had a healthy number of workers to keep his casino running smoothly.

But Gamble? The man inside the cage? He'd racked up quite the debt and Husk's blood pressure. In other words, he'd done perhaps the worst thing you could do in Hell; he'd pissed off an overlord. Husk had other, special plans for him.

"So if I were to take a guess, I'd say you're afraid because, just like with this cage, no death means no escape." A long claw, resembling the talon of some terrible beast rather than a cat claw, click-clacked across the bars of Gamble's prison. His already gravely voice dipped so low it sounded more like a growl.

"There are things in Hell far worse than death. You'll be paying your debts, Tweetybird. One way or another, I'll get what I'm owed."

[onthebl1nk]

The sudden burst of life elicits a startled squawk and frenetic rustle of feathers as Gamble darts for cover that isn’t there. His toes close around one bar at the edge of his prison farthest from the overlord, and the material is smooth enough that he slides a little before his grip stabilizes. New and probably made specifically to hold someone like him, which means that all this is about more than just money.

That is, if the way Husk is eyeing him like a house cat calculating the proper trajectory for the final pounce hadn’t clued him in already.

“Isn’t this a little excessive, Tux?”

Picking his way up the curved top of the cage, the avian sinner hooks his own claws into place and dangles upside down. Playing at nonchalance isn’t likely to fool the man who calls bluffs for a living, but now that he — sort of — knows where he is, the act comes easier to Gamble. He’s spent enough time at Husk’s blackjack table to hear plenty about the other demon, and from what he can tell the man isn’t totally unreasonable. “I know I ain’t the only asshole counting cards out there. You throw all of them in a cage, too?”

He tilts slightly forward then relaxes his hold, letting gravity swing his body like a pendulum while he tries to discern the type of metal under his feet. The points of his nails don’t leave indentations and so the gold appears to be decorative, but it lacks the strange warmth of angelic steel … “Or am I just that special?”

It’s precisely that kind of lip that landed him in this situation in the first place and he knows it, but the impulse has already been indulged and he can’t take it back now. Instead, he tries to sell it with an ingratiating smile that makes his eyes glint like polished hematite, as if this is old friends sharing a joke. “Or maybe you know there’s something I can do for you that they can’t? Something that kept you from just busting in my kneecaps and calling it a day.”

Tilting his head, his third eyelids blink slowly despite the tremor in his primaries. “How about we talk about it over cards?”

[onthebl1nk]

“You ever think about how weird it is to be scared down here?”

For a demon currently in a cage, Gamble is unusually chipper. He paces the two short strides he has in his enclosure, tapping experimentally at the border as he goes and finding the exact same results as the past hundred times he’s done it — no way out.

“I mean, we’re already in Hell, you know? The worst thing that could possibly happen to any of us has already happened.” The engineer opens his arms and twirls for emphasis, his flight feathers skimming against the confines of the small space. Being held against his will like this makes his beak itch and his heart wedge itself too far up in his throat, but no one has actually hurt him yet.

“And unless you get your hands on some angelic steel, it’s not like we can die twice.”

[onthebl1nk]

“You might wanna stand back.”

Bold words for the young man inches from the grumbling engine.

The plane — is it really a plane if they don’t know if it can fly yet? — is unwieldy and George has to stand on the tips of his toes to reach the arm of the propeller, but he has had to stretch for the things he wants since he was ten. He yanks the rotor down and out, success so close he can almost taste it.

The timing is off.

Realization strikes a heartbeat too late and the kickback is tremendous, reverberating across the open field like a gunshot. Struck down and too stunned to cry out, George drops to the cool grass and lies still for one heartbeat.

Two. Blood fills his mouth, hot and coopery.

Three. The gear teeth whine above him, cresting into a pop and final shudder.

“Fuck!”

[onthebl1nk]

Psst. Question for the mun. Do you have a visual reference for Gamble? If not, how about a super detailed description?

//unfortunately i’m not aesthetically gifted (as i gesture vaguely to this blog as a whole) but i absolutely intend on commissioning an artist to help me with a visual design in the future! in the meantime, i’ve got this whipped up for reference.//

eye color: black (current) | amber (formerly)

skin color: light brown (current) | brown (formerly)

hair color: n/a (current) | brown (formerly)

height: 5’4

weight: 110 lbs

body type: ectomorph

fitness level: average

tattoos: none

scars/birthmarks: burn scars on both hands and forearms, concentrated on the left side; too numerous to list individually, they are small, round, and in a spatter pattern from spraying sparks. chipped upper right beak from fragmented metal

other distinguishing features: avian humanoid with mostly green feathers, wings, zygodactyl feet, and a pale beak. plumage resembles that of the now-extinct carolina parakeet, with a bright yellow head that darkens to orange around his face

disabilities: born with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and intermittent explosive disorder. developed partial deafness in both ears during life due to the acoustic trauma of working around loud machinery without adequate protection

fashion style: edwardian working class, favoring the color red and prioritizing freedom of movement. round collar cotton shirts with high-waisted pants and bare feet, though he wears sturdy boots and heavy overalls while working

accessories: tweed flat cap and a silver pocket watch with a fob engraved with a mockingbird. carries aviation goggles around his neck that he wears while flying or working. leather gloves to protect his hands that he often forgets to take off

cleanliness/grooming: haphazard. does not neglect himself but also does not spend a second longer than he has to on preening his feathers or maintaining his beak. unafraid to damage or dirty his clothes. smells of smoke and machine oil

posture/gait: direct and confident. stands upright and slightly on his toes as if preparing to take off in any direction. moves briskly and with purpose, giving the impression of knowing exactly where he is going even if he has never been there before

tics: animated hands and wings while talking, often invading the space of others nearby. sits on the very edge of the chair. constantly manipulating objects (clicking his pen, jingling coins in his pocket, popping his watch open and closed, etc)

coordination: exceptional. skilled at complex motion on a large scale (flying and climbing) and a smaller one (maneuvering tools and picking locks). physically courageous and willing to attempt any movement without fear of injury

weaknesses: physically small and fragile as well as reliant on ranged weapons to defend himself, posing little threat to anyone once caught and disarmed. easy to sneak up on given his partial deafness. lacks stamina and burns energy quickly

[onthebl1nk]

“Joke’s on you, bitch!”

Lifting the bottle of cheap vodka into the air like a prizefighter, Gamble shouts the words at a door that has already slammed shut. He staggers to his feet, pitching forward as he misjudges how far he is from the ground and nearly knocks himself out. Flaring his wings out to their less-than-impressive farthest reach, he finds his balance long enough to open his stolen alcohol with his beak.

He tastes metal, and he isn’t sure whether it’s from the cap or his blood.

It doesn’t matter. He knocks the drink back with abandon either way. Poisons don’t hit him as hard as the demon inside the bar did, because of course they don’t — this is Hell, and he is being punished. Swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he moves on. “I didn’t wanna dance to any of that shit music, anyway.”