Now, technically speaking, this was better than death and fading into oblivion. Or Hell, because while I was not a monster, I was a lazy asshole and a bit of a pig and slob. I was mature enough to realize that there was no way I had earned my way into one of the good places after I flopped off the mortal coil. Which is why, when there was that smiling figure willing to let me fill out a CHYOA and make a deal with the shady and sus as fuck supernatural being waiting for me as it all faded.
Which yeah, I was not a wraith that could barely interact with the physical world, which would have sucked. No, instead I was a disembodied head. Who could still talk. And try to rock and roll around, even if that wasn't going do well. Mostly on account of just being a head. At the very least I had my limited telekinesis. Sure, it was limited (only about five objects weighing up to ten pounds each at the moment) and I couldn't pick myself up, but I could try and get on a skateboard, or try and make something I could crank to get around.
Or I could I could unleash my wrath at more stray dogs and cats until I could summon unseen servants to carry me around. Because yeah, as it is, I had not really asked for too many details that in hindsight, was sort of screwing me over. But there was nothing much I could do... even as a fucker picked me up and I came face to face with the most annoying piece of scum that I'd have the displeasure of working with for the next several years.
Seriously, it was almost as bad as finding out where I ended up in the first place!
Skidmark
Now, ever since he came across Mister Lucky in that ally, everything was coming up for him. Sure, the little fucker sometimes needed to be reminded who exactly was in charge, but hey, all said and done the cracker-head was nice with a skull tatted up in place of a mask (cuse he was one of the worst off monster capes he ever saw, no dick to jack off? That was hell), was just the thing the Archers Bridge Merchants needed to actually be worth more than some rancid cum running down a hookers leg.
And all for two simple payments, one of which they didn't have to worry about on account of likely being forced to gargle a demons balls down in Hell. Because according to a preacher man, who had done a fine line of blow off a jittery little kiddie's ass (born needing a fix man, gotta get more hoes on the good stuff when cookin future customers) before going to town on the little singer boy, that selling your soul gets you a place down below. Granted, that was if the big man upstairs was real and not just something the fancy assholes used to keep the people down.
But yeah, as he took a long drag from the good stuff, all Mister Lucky wanted was memories and souls. And he was more than happy, as some of his boys and girls drove the nails into the skinheads wrists and ankles as they chanted and the empire boy screamed. Sure, they was mostly basing it on the fact that he was a white boi with short hair, but that was close enough as the head glared, watching as the fun shit flowed, as the smoke powders filled the air.
It was the stuff of dreams and nightmares man, but it was just the thing they needed to fight the empire. No power like voodoo after all!