Achieving Heaven Through Hell Part 3: Only the Results

Chapter 19: Constellation

Author's note: Woof! Glad to say, I've feeling much better now! Things have been resolved and I am officially out of my funk! I've been writing this chapter the whole time, since I'm pathological lie that, and this is how it came out... for better or for worse...

Bear in mind, this is not the full chapter, but only half, the other half I'll be posting some time tomorrow! But since you've all been so patient and wonderful, I figured you're all entitled to a little something extra!

Enjoy!

Chapter 19: Constellation

Husk took a pull of whiskey and handed the bottle over to Moonchild, who knocked back an impressive string of tugs before passing it onto the spider-demon. The band played on through the night, their undead, shadowy wielders tirelessly belted out the classics. Well, 'classics', most of them would have been on their way to being antiquated when Husk was a kid. Whatever, they cut the silence and the whiskey was making the peppy '20s ballroom bops danceable.

"Awright Grins," Husk growled. "We's good 'n liquored up now. What's yer game?"

Alastor chuckled and snapped his fingers, a flash of static and an ornate, double-edged dagger appeared in his hand. "Why, we're playing the knife game!"

"Fuckin' five finger fillet?" Husk snorted. "And here I thought ya had a creative bone in that pinstriped pecker-pole ya call a body!"

"Hark, Husker, my sour-faced souse! Because a standard game of bishop is a dull affair, I've added a new element: SOOOOOOONG~"

Alastor set his hand down on the table with a 'slam', a shadowy familiar appearing next to him, a banjo in its claws.

"There is an old tradition / a game we all can play / it starts by getting liquored up / and sharpening your blade!" He summoned the whiskey and took a heavy pull, guzzling the spirit like water. "You take a shot of whiskey / and grab your knife and pray / and spread apart your fingers and this is what you say!"

The blade came down between his thumb and forefinger with a dry 'clack'. The blade danced between his fingers, the sound of the blade gouging the tabletop blending into the jaunty, upbeat tune of the banjo. "Oh I have all my fingers / the knife goes chop chop chop / and if I miss the space between / my fingers will come off / and if I hit my fingers / the blood will soon come out / But all the same I play the game / cause that's what it's all about!"

Alastor upended the knife and tossed it forward, the blade sticking in the tabletop. "You try!"

Angel reached out for the blade when Husk grabbed his wrist, jabbing a finger at Alastor. "What're you up to, Chuckles?"

"Why, Husker," said Alastor, his grin widening. "Whatever do you mean?"

"S'pose ya just so happened to have a ceremonial blade on hand?" Husk said, pointing to the ornately designed crossguard and skull-shaped pommel of the dagger before pointing to the tabletop. "And just carved a buncha yer voodoo bullshit wing-dings into the table just now by accident?"

Alastor closed his fingers, covering the arcane symbols. "Wouldja look at that! What a coincidence!"

"Ahuh," grunted Husk, raising the whiskey bottle to his lips. "And if any of us just so happened to cut ourselves with that blade, all while consenting to this game of yers, we'd be–"