a poor sinner's hand

A chronicle of Husk and Alastor's meetings over the course of the last century - one topside, the rest in Hell. Each time their paths cross, Husk's leads him one step closer to shaking the Radio Demon's hand.
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"You know how shitty it'd be for me to wind up some other Overlord's bitch?" Husk demanded.

Alastor shrugged, those absurd shoulder pads exaggerating the motion. "I can't imagine it'd be any worse than revealing to the whole of Hell that you're flat broke on souls."

"I ain't - One more hand, and I coulda won it all back." Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. A thousand hands couldn't have dragged him out of the grave he'd dug. That didn't stop the itch in his fingers to be dealt another.

"I'm sure you could have," said Alastor, his bright tone buzzing with condescension. "But you didn't. And now you have a choice to make."