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Husk stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling of his dingy room, regretting every single moment of his miserable life that had led him to this exact moment.
Abruptly, he shot up from the tangled mess of sheets and felt the familiar burning sensation in his stomach. With a heave, he turned his head to the side just in time for a sizeable hairball to land on top of his overflowing trash can.
He almost preferred the burn of fireball coming back up.
In life, Henry was allergic to cats. Dogs were never an issue, but there was something in cat dander that made his nose and eyes run like a broken faucet. His allergy and general distaste for the creatures caused the end of one relationship. Pity, she was a good lay. But she made her choice.
Until his dying day, Husk would swear that the damn cat knew it had won. It watched him pack up the small box with his few belongings, followed him to the door to watch him plead one last time to make the girl see reason.
And then, to add insult to injury, it shat in his shoe. Little bastard.
The misleading softness of his cursed form invited unwelcome attention, as if no question was off the table.
“Husk, where's your litter box?” Niffty poked her head out of a cupboard, making Husk nearly drop the bottle of bourbon in his paw.
“Th’ fuck, Niffty?!”
“I was cleaning your room and I didn't see one. Have you been feeling all right?” she climbed onto the counter using him as a ladder.
“I use the fucking toilet like anyone else!” he snapped uncomfortably.
“I think a litter box would be fun. Really liberating.”
“Get the fuck off my bar.”
He knew something was up when Charlie approached the bar at 10 AM. “Hey, Husk!”
“What d'you want?” He groused. It was too early for her intense cheeriness.
“I'm just checking in with my staff! Wanted to know if there was something I could get you?”
“More booze.” he continued wiping down the bar.
“Nothing else? Really?” she bounced on her feet.
He was immediately suspicious. “What are you getting at?”
“I want to make sure your needs are being met! That you're happy and comfortable. So, do you need anything for enrichment? Something like a scratching post?”
Husk, meeting the wide and honest eyes of the princess of Hell, resisted every murderous urge that crawled beneath his fur and took a very long breath to ground himself.
“Charlie, I'm only gonna say this once because you're a good kid and I don't want your Dad to kill me. I really don't like people drawing attention to this damn body. I just wanna be treated like any other guy. And if you ever ask me again, I will tell you where you can put that goddamn post.”
She held up her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture. “Okay! Okay, I'm sorry Husk. I just wanted to do something nice for you that wasn't related to alcohol. And I didn't know it was something that bothered you so much.”
Husk gave a quick smile. “If you wanna make it up to me, how bout a new deck of cards?”
“Only if you promise me that they won't be used for gambling!”
Dammit.
There was a shadow that stalked Husk through the halls. Not the shadow of a tall and merciless overlord, but a small and furry shadow.
Keekee absolutely loved him. The moment he was reclined or sitting down, she would hop onto his lap and headbutt him affectionately. She tried to groom him a few times, and clearly wanted Husk to reciprocate. Not fucking happening.
“I think she wants to play with you,” Vaggie laughed, watching Keekee knock Husk's new deck of cards off the table for the fifth time that night.
“Tell her to go find the fuckin’ goats, I'm not a pet.” Husk growled, restarting his game of solitaire. Keekee sat her ass on the center of the cards and stared at him with her wide eye. “What? Blink, motherfucker!”
Keekee responded by batting Husk solidly in the face. He dropped the cards with a loud hiss. Husk took off after the cat, ignoring Vaggie in pursuit of vengeance. Keekee gleefully prance around the lobby, enjoying their game of chase.
It ended with Husk collapsed against the bar out of breath, with Keekee weaving between his legs with a wall-rumbling victorious purr.
Angel had a folder saved on his hell phone titled Cat Yoga, featuring Husk asleep on the lobby sofa contorted into a variety of positions.
Charlie and Vaggie crowded around the tall spider demon, watching with poorly suppressed giggles as Husk stretched in his sleep with a soft “mrrp.” Angel was beside himself, stars in his eyes. Vaggie shared a knowing look with her girlfriend.
Unfortunately, Angel forgot to turn down the volume on his phone after his VoxTube marathon, and the sound of his camera's shutter woke up the napping former overlord.
Husk’s eyes shot open and locked onto Angel’s sheepish grin.
The ensuing chase and fight for his phone nearly destroyed the lobby.
Unsurprisingly, the greatest bane of his cursed afterlife was Alastor. Of course being on the Radio Demon's leash was punishment in itself. The weight of the chain against his neck served as an invisible reminder of his greed and hubris; his failure and life of indentured servitude to Hell's cruelest overlord. But a greater danger lurked.
Alastor, who typically eschewed all media created after his death, had one exception to his self-imposed rule. Husk had no idea how the song was brought to his attention, but if he ever found out he would kill them. Slowly and painfully. Starting with their fingernails.
It wasn't a constant threat, but the danger was ever present, like the watchful eyes of gators in the bayou.
Standing behind the bar, Husk's fur stood on end at the low crackle of a radio flickering to life. The Pavlovian fear ran through his veins like ice and dread trickled down his neck. Would it be jazz? The screams of the damned? Slowly dragging the cleaning rag around the glass, he waited.
Cautious eyeing the radio, his ears twitched at the sound of the soft scan through stations. The indecipherable static between stations that heralded the arrival of his master.
Suddenly, a jaunty riff of brass blasted through the radio on the counter. The glass in his hand fell to the ground as What's New Pussycat screamed from every audio device in the hotel lobby.
“God fucking dammit, not this shit again!”
Husk hurled the portable radio against the wall, shattering it with a satisfying crunch. The song continued to play. Husk briefly felt like the tragic protagonist in one of Poe's poems.
Slowly and methodically, Husk worked his way around the room destroying every single radio that Alastor had hidden in the lobby. There was somehow one in the wall. The damned song played on and on, repeating god knows how many times until the sound of trombones mixed with the ringing in his ears. His fur was streaked with blood, metal under his cracked claws.
Finally, blissful silence. He sagged down against the wall, chest heaving and head between his knees.
Husk felt Alastor’s arrival before he even said a word. The cool materialization of his shadow ran over his fur like water running over a stream. Husk slowly dragged his wide eyes up the long lines of Alastor’s body, silently begging for mercy. For death. Anything to bring an end to his soul's unending torture.
Alastor's permanent, wicked grin sharpened into something dangerous. His neck snapped to the side, radio dials flickering in the hollow void of his eyes.
And the fucking song started again.