Disclaimer: This particular one shot is an offshoot of my Hazbin Devil fanfic series. If you want better context for what is taking place, I highly recommend that you read it.
The uncomfortable haze of a humid morning greeted the various miscreants, criminals, degenerates, and unfortunate souls of Pentagram City. As there was no sun to shine down, many relied on either clocks, or the general direction of the nominal brightness that emanated from the blood red sky to tell the time. For many, it was the start of another day of self-indulgent hedonism, excessive violence, and wealth attainment by any means. Countless sinners of great power and considerably modest means sought to do what they did best, survive.
Deep in the city, at the largest porn studio, Valentino, a major overlord since the 1970s would be scheduling and overseeing everything from sex videos, to pornographic movies, and the occasional venture in trafficking hard drugs. At any number of fabulous estates, the various Goetic nobles would be enjoying the power afforded to their status as a unique orbit of nobility in the Underworld. Meanwhile, countless sinful souls and native born demons struggled to put food on the table either by engaging in sinful activities or submitting to the wills of those who were more powerful and influential than them.
The vast majority of Pentagram City's population was quite accustomed to a life of hardship that was occasionally broken up by terrible violence. It was not quite that way in one repurposed hotel on Fallen Eden Avenue.
This was the Hazbin Hotel, and it was time for its lone concierge to awaken. A simple, retrograde alarm clock buzzed to arouse its owner from sleep. From a large sofa with a plain, gray sheet and no blankets whatsoever, a cat-like paw silenced the alarm.
The paw belonged to the single most alcoholic demon in not just the Hazbin Hotel, but also in most of Pentagram City by proxy. Husker's ability to consume outrageous amounts of fermented liquid was only matched by his ability to out play most people in card games and his ability to not give a damn about most things. This morning came with the usual buzz in his feline skull that was customary to the life of a perpetual alcoholic. The last time that he endured a hangover was sometime in the 80s, and he hardly bothered to use any sort of pain relievers as his nervous system was dulled by a hard afterlife.
Slinking out of his bed, he languidly trudged to the bathroom. It was the same process for Husker each day: take a piss, wash up his face, put on what few bits of clothing he needed, and head downstairs for breakfast. The gryphon demon was covered head to toe in fur, which left his unmentionables impossible to see. Aside from a hat, cuffs, and a piece of neck wear, he was essentially naked.
On and on the morning went, with Husker's trip down to the first floor to eat so indistinguishable from the last, that he never gave any conscious thought about his short journey. As he did yesterday, and the day before that, he mechanically arrived through the swinging doors of the kitchen, barely giving a huff in greeting. The only thing that lifted his dour attitude was the pleasant aroma of cooked meat and the occasional orange mimosa.
The usual people would give their greetings. Charlie would give an overly pleasant "Good morning!"
Vaggie would simply nod his way, her own good eye mostly focused on either Charlie, her food, or on the antics of Angel Dust.
Niffty would wave with customary enthusiasm.
Angel Dust would remark with an irritating flirtation Husker's way.
Jersey would merely say "Hi."
Baxter would rarely say anything. He usually had his food, then he would leave the hotel immediately after his plate was bare to "do great, scientific work" as he called it.
Then Al, the ostentatious demon that he was, would give a performance of bold salutations that were laced in false kindness before returning to the task of eating his meal.
One part of the day that was remotely pleasant about Husker's new occupation at the front desk was the food. It was completely free, with Niffty or Alastor making the bulk of the food. Sometimes the goat-like servants of Charlie would pop up to create simple, elegant snacks, wraps, and sandwiches. Whomever the cook of the hour was, Husker ate his food with a notable degree of satisfaction, hungrily scooping whatever was on his plate with a fork if it did not require the use of a knife.
The meals were the primary breaks between his shifts, and they were hardly the most exciting undertaking. To serve as the concierge at the Hazbin Hotel was to ask for the most uninteresting and numbing experience besides filing paperwork or watching grass grow. It was then, standing behind a reconstituted bar turned front desk, that Husker shared company with the one friend that had helped to ease his hardships in life and death: booze.
Most of the time, Husker simply drank alcohol straight from the bottle. He did not even have a preference, it just had to provide that familiar, suppressing feeling that he experience when alcohol was drunk by the gallon. On the occasion that Husker felt like mixing himself something more creative or flavorful, he often favored some sort of fruit drink. If he was especially stressed or tired of the usual antics of the day, he could always fall back on particularly strong mixtures.
Husker's situation was nothing less than extremely tedious. After weeks of advertising and financial backing from the Radio Demon, the population of the Hazbin Hotel had only grown by one person. Aside from the previously mentioned individuals passing through to go to work, head upstairs, or have meals in the kitchen, there was hardly any activity. Lulls in activity would often be made by the occasional, brief discussion with the likes of Niffty, Jersey, or Charlie. Husker preferred to not talk to Angel due to his insistence on offering himself like a Christmas turkey, and he despised Alastor well enough. Only the invocation of his mountain of debt to Alastor would get him to speak to him, usually about information that he required.
At least once, Husker had tried to start a card game. It only went through four rounds before Vaggie happened upon the scene and imposed a harsh, disciplinarian spiel about the need to suppress any sin in the hotel, including the potential for excess gambling. It was a very bitter experience that further soured his thoughts on the hotel. Unfortunately, his contempt was worth nothing. Alastor had made him the concierge, and he had no means to disobey without inviting the Radio Demon's horrifying power.
If conversation, the arrival of a potential patron, or gambling could not while away the hours, Husker could settle for idly shuffling his own personal deck of cards or drinking copious amounts of booze, courtesy of Alastor's generosity. That is precisely what he was doing now.
Husk did not even bother to look at what he was drinking. His right paw instinctively reached under the counter and grabbed the familiar sensation of cool, smooth glass. The weight of the glass container, relatively heavy with unspoiled alcohol, was brought up to his chest. Husk's left paw grabbed whatever stemmed the liquid from escaping its long necked prison. It was a bottle cap from the rigid texture along its rim, but that was a formality: Husk needed a drink, and he needed it immediately.
Within a second's breadth of time, the bottle was lifted, and the beer flowed easily into Husker's mouth and down his throat. The gentle bitterness on his rough tongue rendered a therapeutic feeling throughout his body. When his first drink was done, half the bottle was empty. All felt normal again, without being so tediously boring.
Smacking his lips to better savor the aftertaste, Husk was satisfied that it tasted like a proper beer. The initial rush of fluid was bitter, but its after taste was quite sweet. It was a fine art to brew alcohol to taste so exceptionally, so he glanced down to see what brand it was.
"LuciLager, huh?" The King of Hell had multiple business ventures in all things related to sin. Aside from being the owner of Luu Luu World, he had a private tech conglomerate that provided technology free from any wire taps that Vox, the Overlord, engaged in with his electronics. Likewise, he had breweries which provided pricey, but high quality wines and beer to name a few.
"Might hafta ask Al to stick with this shit if he's gonna get me beer. This shit's good." Husk wondered aloud.
His mind, still focused on fulfilling his mental drinking quota, strayed towards giving a thanks to Charlie for her old man's ability to brew a good beer.
Beer, coincidentally, had been the first thing he had ever consumed. It was 1919, and he had returned to the U.S. after serving in the Great War. A few of his comrades in arms who were New York locals had taken him to a local pub that traced its roots to before the Brooklyn Bridge was even constructed. As any young man had done before, drinking beer was a bit of an acquired taste, but he grew fond of partaking the drink with moderation.
If only he knew how dependent he would become on booze to dull the pain of merely living. It was a slow, steady march towards his death in '75, and not once did he even consider trying to moderate his drinking in the aftermath of the Great Depression. Even in death, Husker merely accepted his perpetual addiction, hardly caring about whatever condemnations or moralizations that came his way.
"My my, what a droll scene we have here!"
Husker growled tiredly as he recognized the voice instantly. "What the fuck do you want? Can'tcha see I'm working?"
Alastor, unfazed by the vulgar query, merely tutted at Husk's miserable appearance. "But you're not smiling, my feline friend! You know how important it is to smile for the guests of the hotel, after all."
"Oh yeah, gotta show off my yellowed as hell teeth for the crowds of demons wanting to either redeem themselves or mooch off of the fuckin' place." Husker's sarcastic remark was accompanied by a lazy wave of his arm to the general direction of the center of the lobby. Aside from himself and Alastor, there was no one present.
"Slow and steady, Husker. Slow and steady." Alastor replied with a pleased leer in his eyes.
Husker sighed. He knew that Alastor would not bother him just because of a mere smile. "Was that all?"
"Not quite." Alastor admitted casually. "I realized that this lobby is such a lifeless place. All of this decorum, but no pulse of vitality. Do you know what I mean, Husker?"
"Don't play these fuckin' riddles, Al. Either explain whatever shit you're thinkin' of or fuck off and leave me alone."
"Quite the subtle one, aren't you." Alastor remarked dryly.
A sharp snap of the Radio Demon's fingers echoed throughout the lobby. In a smoky burst, an elegant, burgundy radio with ivory dials and solid black highlights appeared on a small table next to the grandfather clock to Husker's left. Outwardly, the device looked like a Crosley Companion Radio, with a rounded top and a broad, box-like shape for its bottom half. It had all of the trademarks of one of Alastor's radios, for it had designs and accents reminiscent of a deer's antlers and hooves.
"I think some music would truly liven up this dreary place! Don't you agree?"
"Sure, whatever." Husk was not opposed to music in the slightest, but he was especially interested in having Alastor leaving him in peace as soon as possible.
"Just remember not to turn the dial on any of the stations that broadcast garbage that is mistaken for music." Anyone who knew the Radio Demon on a personal level knew of his antiquated tastes towards music. He could be interested in songs that were composed after his time as a human, but they had to fit the style and nature of the blues, jazz, flapper music, and other genres of his day and age. If ever made to listen to contemporary music, Alastor had a tendency to react violently. Husker knew to take this particular rule with deadly seriousness, even as he looked too inebriated to feel fear.
"Who knows?" Alastor asked hypothetically as he strutted up the staircase in the direction of his studio in the hotel. "You might tune in on something you like..." Ever trying to leave with the last word, Alastor disappeared up the stairwell before Husk could get a word in edgewise.
Husker tried to ignore the latest piece of furniture to grace the lobby. He hated indulging Alastor's obsession with music and theatre, if only because it seemed too cheery for an activity for the afterlife. A good drink, a gambling table, and a long sleep was usually enough to put Husk in a state that mimicked contentment.
Then, after a long swig of beer, the bottle in his paw was empty. All that was left was a familiar, sweet aftertaste.
"Damn it." Husk shoved the bottle into a special, black receptacle that was specifically designed for recycling glass. It was a strange addition by Charlie given that few demons cared about the environment, but she figured that this passive form of "do-gooding" would incrementally help Husk redeem himself.
Husker was not nearly so concerned about scrubbing the heavily stained ledger of sin he had made in life. His primary motivation was as simple as getting free booze. It was one of the few things Alastor was good for, in his eyes.
'As if I give a rat's ass about goin' to Heaven. I belong here.' Husker thought plainly.
The words from that thought settled in his consciousness. He felt somewhat hollow, and a hurtful burning began to manifest in the bottom of his throat. This was very unpleasant as it clashed with the agreeable aftertaste of the beer he had just consumed.
'Jesus. That's a little bit fucked up.' Husker was not going to say that his mental assessment was not true, but it did make him feel much more depressed than he typically was. He had done terrible things in life.
As a boy from a dirt poor family, he gambled on horse races to fund his desperate early life.
As a young man, he had killed or ordered the killing of enemy soldiers from Alsace Lorraine to South-East Asia.
As a civilian, he had neglected his family, giving in to his personal demons, the constant pursuit of alcohol slowly consuming his life.
"Aww fuck..." Husker growled, placing a paw on his face. "Stop thinkin' about that shit. What's done is goddamn done."
Blindly, he grabbed another bottle and began to drink it. This time, it was tequila. The harsh burn of the drink did not help his depressed state.
For the first time in years, Husker almost coughed in irritation as he realized that his current poison was hardly the best thing to drink away his sorrows. His harsh yellow eyes soon fell upon the radio that Alastor had summoned. After a long moment of silence, he realized that it might be necessary to have something to drown out his stray thoughts.
He slowly made his way to the radio, his free paw grasping the dial which acted as both a volume adjuster and the means to turn on the contraption. It quickly buzzed to a jazzy song that he soon did not care for. After the volume was raised to a comfortable level, he began to turn a second dial to change the frequency to a different station. Several channels were dedicated to songs composed by Hell-born demons, and Husk frankly hated most of those songs. He kept an ear open to stations that had the fortune of tuning in to the other side: the stations that, like Alastor, could tap into the vast wealth of songs composed by human beings in the moral world.
Alastor was easily the most powerful of all radio themed demons, hence his iconic and uninventive title. However, he never tried to maintain a monopoly of radio stations like most other Overlords in Pentagram City. This was for two simple reasons.
Firstly, Alastor's personal taste in music was relatively niche, and the number of sinners that openly listened to his particular frequency was only a fraction of the population. He had no interest in catering to other sinner's preferences by expanding into more contemporary styles which he openly scorned as 'syncopated excrement of the vilest form.' Other radio themed demons could fill out genres in country, pop, rock and roll, and other types of music that Alastor had a disdain for.
Secondly, the majority of demons who could access the radio waves of the human world did not dare question his supremacy in terms of power. Outside of Pete R. Tizan, the demon who hosted two radio talk shows that catered to political extremists on the right and the left, no one had the ambition to usurp him. Most kept to themselves, and as they did not compete with him on jazz, blues, and other songs from the days before the nuclear age, Alastor tolerated their presence with relative ease.
As such, Husk heard a myriad of radio channels that played classic rock, death metal, hip hop, and even neo-classical orchestras. For the better part of three minutes, he tuned into a station, listened in on what was playing, and then continued his search for something that struck a special, proverbial chord with him. It was after he exceeded the 100.0 frequency that he heard a station's DJ voice speak up as if the station was returning from commercials.
It was a stereotypical, Dixieland accent coming from a man. It was high pitched and clearly played up for audiences, but Husk would not turn the channel until he at least heard a few notes from the incoming song.
"Gewd mornin' you varmints of Hell, this is Beezelbubba comin' back from break. Ya'll know times are purdy tough down in this here pit we call home in the afterlife, so here's a song from some feller named Clay Walker. I think yew'll appreciate this one if yer lookin' ta take a nice swig and ferget yer troubles. Enjoy, folks!"
As Beezelbubba's voice introductory spiel ended, the gentle twang of an electric guitar reached Husker's ears. The beat of the song was determined by what sounded like a synchronized hand clap. Husk paused entirely to immerse himself in this unique sound, as he was not typically a fan of country music. The electric guitar was met with a set of drums and an electric bass, and within seconds, the first verse began.
Yeah, you might need a taste of tequila
Or a cool beer on an old barstool
Might wanna kill a little time after you knock off at five
To kick a little dust off your boots
We all need a bar sometimes
Lean back with a long neck on a neon night
Somewhere you can sip and unwind
Or hang out with the party crowd 'til closing time
You might be drowning her leaving
Or just here drinking
We all need a bar sometimes
That's right
As the beginning guitar sequence repeated, Husker started to feel a connection with the song. This fascination was admitted due to the obvious word choice in the lyrics, but it was also due to the unique sound of the song's primary chord that he could not describe. It was neither melancholic nor joyful, neither bitter nor nauseatingly indulgent. The words that were sung merely spoke of how one needed to go to a place that was a center of camaraderie, celebration, self-reflection, and even mourning. Bars were places that Husk oftentimes found himself in as a means to savor what few accomplishment he had made, and to forget the grief-inducing mistakes of his past. Still contemplating the song's meaning, he sipped more of the tequila in his paw. The taste did not distract from his immersion in the radio's sound.
You might need it for meetin' somebody
Yeah, or learning to let someone go
Want to turn the jukebox up, light one up
And just get lost in the smoke
We all need a bar sometimes
Lean back with a long nеck on a neon night
Somewhere you can sip and unwind
Or hang out with the party crowd 'til closing time
You might be drowning her leaving
Or just here drinking
We all need a bar sometimes
That's right
A brief, but bold guitar solo sang out into the lobby before giving way to a choral repeat. Husk leaned back as he fully relaxed and continued to partake of his current drink of choice.
You might be drowning her leaving
Or just here drinking
We all need a bar sometimes
We all need a bar sometimes
Lean back with a long neck on a neon night
Somewhere you can sip and unwind
Or hang out with the party crowd 'til closing time
You might be drowning her leaving
Or just here drinking
We all need a bar sometimes
You might be down on your luck
Just need a little buzz
We all need a bar sometimes
One final serenade of the electric guitar reverberated from the radio. The notes were followed by one, final line from the musician.
Yeah we all need a bar sometimes
Husk felt confused as he felt moisture below his eyelids. Wiping his face with his paw, he realized that he was tearing up in reaction to the song. He hadn't cried in over one hundred years, and was quite certain he had forgotten how to perform such an action.
"It's just a song..." he muttered to himself. "Not too bad..."
The radio station moved onto another song selection, but Husk ignored it. The song he had just heard stuck in his mind, particularly its ability to make him feel emotions that he had become too jaded to express in most situations. It resonated with him, in an almost perfect way, much like how two puzzle pieces are meant to meld together to form a coherent image. Husker wanted to know more about the artist that made that song.
"Maybe I oughta put music on my phone for once." Husker rarely used his Hellphone for anything beyond practical purposes. However, if music was a means by which to pass the time, he was willing to expedite his ability to listen to music that he desired. Any further planning from him stopped as he heard someone walking down the stairs.
"Hey, I need a good fuckin' spritz right about now." Angel Dust looked as if he had been chastised for doing absolutely nothing wrong. He did not even bother to give a lewd comment Husker's way as he mechanically sat himself on the closest barstool.
"Sounds like you're gettin' screwed over again, as usual." Husk snarked, not wanting the porn star's sour mood to drag him down.
Angel used his four hands to good use by giving him a quadruple flip off. "Just gimme a drink, please. It's gonna be a long, fuckin' day, and I wanna have something to put myself at ease before I end up gettin' fucked over by some dick, and not necessarily in the fun way."
Husker said nothing, instead steadily recalling the necessary ingredients to make a suitable spritz for the currently upset Angel Dust. As he put some ice into a spare champagne glass, Jersey, the handyman of the hotel, stepped into the lobby from upstairs.
"Hello gentlemen," he greeted neutrally, "mind if I have a seat?"
"You want your usual?" Husk asked in response. Jersey was not usually one to drink early in the morning with any degree of frequency, but his drink preference was simple: a single shot of whiskey.
For a second, Jersey considered the offer, then nodded. "Sure." He soon noticed Angel's agitated posture. "You okay, Angel?"
"None of ya goddamn business, Jers." Angel growled.
Jersey leaned back with widened eyes, not expecting the harsh rebuke sent his way. "Well then..."
"Calm down," Husk reprimanded lightly, "I'm almost done." The gryphon promptly scooted over a limoncello spritz Angel's way. "This might help your shitty attitude."
Angel hastily downed the cocktail in one go, and he immediately sighed with relief. "Damn that's nice." He smacked his lips for second before putting the champagne glass back down. "How's about anotha' one, Husky?"
Husk sighed before he acquiesced, cleaning the champagne glass before replacing it with another spritz.
"Hiya boys!" Niffty soon dashed in, energetic as usual. "You guys having drinks now?"
"Join in on the fun, toots!" Angel invited.
"Okay! Can I have a milkshake?" Niffty asked Husk innocently.
Husk paused a bit, trying to remember where the blender was located. When he did, he nodded with a single condition. "As long as you get the ingredients from the kitchen, I'll make it."
"Right away!" Niffty left the lobby as quickly as she had appeared, giving Husk just enough time to make Angel's second spritz before setting up the blender off to the side.
When Niffty returned, she had brought with her in a comically tall pile: a small tub of vanilla ice cream, fat free milk, strawberries, and a single banana. While Husk concocted the milkshake she desired, the cycloptic maid sat next to Jersey, eagerly awaiting her own special drink.
"My my my, look at all of the activity down here. Are we in the midst of celebrating?" Alastor returned downstairs, perhaps curious to see if Husk took his advice in using the radio to liven up the area. "I'm almost offended I wasn't invited."
He promptly noticed that the dial had been turned to a country station, and rolled his eyes. "Let's switch to something with a bit more class." With a roll of a spare hand, the dial turned to his own frequency, and the lobby was filled with the sounds of Red Nichols and his Orchestra.
"Now that's much more like it!" Alastor proclaimed, tapping a shoe to the fast paced tune.
"We're havin' drinks, Smiles." Angel said casually as he took small sips of his second limoncello spritz. "You want somethin'?"
Alastor hummed for a bit, legitimately considering the idea. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to have one drink so shortly after breakfast.
"Well, I suppose that it is five o'clock somewhere. I'll have a Bloody Mary, my bitter as vinegar bartender!"
Husk snorted. "Comin' right up." He replied in a snarky tone. The Bloody Mary took some time as Husk needed to fix up Niffty's milkshake, but it was a classic cocktail: he couldn't forget the recipe even if he tried.
Alastor promptly took his drink to a chair near the radio to enjoy the music of his time. "Splendid! Now I have blood pumping music, and a very Bloody Mary!" Some chuckles radiated from the microphone staff that he leaned against his chair.
"What's everybody doing?" The last to arrive were Charlie and Vaggie, likely hearing some of the talking and music going on from down the hall, where Charlie's office was located.
"Are guys seriously drinking now?" Vaggie asked in exasperation. "It's not even 10:00 yet!"
"Yeah! You're just funner than a barrel full of monkeys, ain'tcha Vagina?" Angel's deliberate mockery only infuriated Vaggie.
"Pendejo..." she growled, her iconic, pinkish bow beginning to sharpen at the ends of its cloth like horns.
"Easy, Vaggie." Charlie assured her, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. "As long as they drink in moderation, it's not necessarily a sin."
"I'm just drinkin' a milkshake." Niffty pointed out, trying to be helpful.
Vaggie understood that staying angry would not be healthy, so she drew circles on her temples with her fingers, counting under her breath to remain calm. "So... now what?"
"You know, you could partake of our spontaneous take on a good old fashioned speakeasy, my dear." Alastor suggested, caping the comment off with a sip of his own cocktail.
"I don't wanna drink alcohol." Vaggie insisted.
"Maybe I could make us some iced coffee." Charlie suggested. "Is that okay?" She asked in Husker's direction.
"You own this place." Husk replied with a shrug. "Don't hafta ask me to drink coffee on your own time."
"Cool beans! I'll be right back." Charlie sped down the hallway to the left of the lobby to find the coffee maker.
Everyone soon had a drink and a candid spirit. The employees of the hotel were having casual conversations. Angel was content to keep his mouth shut and almost forget his busy work schedule. Even Vaggie started to relax, engaging in idle chat with the other sinners. Baxter was not present, but he was a solitary demon more interested in the contents of beakers than beer bottles.
Hardly anyone spoke with Alastor, but the Radio Demon did not care. He was quite content to sip his Bloody Mary and grin like a cat who had caught the canary.
With the sound of the Roaring Twenties radiating through the air, and with plentiful alcohol, the lobby saw the most extraordinary scene of conviviality in the Hazbin Hotel's brief history. This affable moment was not lost on Husk, who took time between drinking and talking to observe that the song which had resonated with him so thoroughly minutes before had more than a mere kernel of truth.
Just about everyone in the hotel could find solace or joy in a drink at a bar. It did not even have to be an alcoholic beverage for one to sit back and forget life's troubles.
'I gotta do this more often.' Husk thought seriously. His free paw was over a music store app, and he was searching up his newest favorite song for purchase.
Indeed, that Clay Walker song would be played many times over.
In loving memory of my grandfather...