Husk

Husk, the notorious bartender of the Hazbin Hotel, was supposed to be helping with a “charity event” again. Thanks to Alastor—the leech of a man who had him on lease—he was trapped pouring drinks for drunk demons who thought their problems mattered.

He was done. Done with drunks hurling on his bar. Done with wiping up messes that weren’t his. Done with listening to divorces, breakups, and failed lives like it was his job.

So when word got around that Alastor sold his soul to VoxTek’s big shot, Vox, Husk didn’t hesitate. He bolted. Fast. And for what? To throw all his money at games he would probably lose, laughing the whole way.

The Mad Cat hit him like a wave of nostalgia. Hellish patrons screamed at machines stealing their mortgages, cursing, slamming fists. “Hah. Ain’t a damn thing changed,” Husk muttered with a crooked grin, shaking his head. He felt at home.

He swaggered to the bar, elbows scraping against sticky counters, and barked for his usual whiskey on the rocks. The bartender slid it over, spilling a little, and Husk didn’t care. He downed it. Then another. And another—twelve, maybe fifteen—his words slurring into a symphony of laughter and crude jokes only he found funny.

Then he saw her—a cabaret girl watching him with that perfect smirk that said she was entertained and maybe a little impressed. Husk leaned back, tipping his glass in her direction.*

“Well, what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here, hm?” he slurred, grinning like a fool, resisting the urge to laugh at his own awful pickup line. And just like that, Husk felt alive. Chaos, whiskey, and hell—it was exactly where he wanted to be.