(How) Death Came for All

Thread #239-240 of /hhg/ - Hazbin Hotel General

From last thread: Tales of the Hazbin's final moments

>Story (or stories) of each of the character's last moments of life before the black out and being their afterlife in hell

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>Cherri Bomb racing her motorcycle down an empty highway in the middle of the night. Only her, the music, and the sounds of police sirens blaring behind. She is weaving back and forth as she accelerates faster and faster, her hair whipping in the wind. She looks back, in a moment of cockiness. When she turns to look back, she fails to see the ledge she is about to drive off of. There is a mixxed feeling of thrill, adrenaline and fear as she soars off the edge and descends towards the ground. She feels her legs and body breaking only to pass out a second later.

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>Alastor is laying in bed. He stares at the television in front of him. A quiet hatred seeps from his face. The thing that took his career away. He had been one of the greatest radio announcers around back in the thirties. Interviewing famous actors and musicians, and playing the latest swing music. The television ended all that though, and like the actors who refused to transition from silent film to talkies, he died with the radio. He died years ago, and he had merely existed since then. He could feel only hatred for the television, and all the people who betrayed him for it. He took a deep sigh... he felt so tired... maybe just a quick nap...

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>Angel Dust, one eye bloodshot and the other bleeding, staring up at the ceiling through a haze of smoke from his cigar and the barrel of his machine gun. Bodies lie all around him. The mishmash of drugs riding through his veins on the back of a torrent of whiskey and gin has already erased his memory of whatever he killed them for.

>He's certain of one thing though: they got what was coming to them.

>Every last one of those rat-fuck sons of bitches got exactly what was coming to them. Everyone got theirs, and now he's about to get his. He knows now that he overdid it. In all the grief and rage that drove him to start shoving daggers into every pocket and mindlessly, endlessly loading all those drum magazines, he indulged just a little too much to get into the proper mood for murder. He's not going to be around long enough spit on the cops who would be dragging him away in chains, or laugh at the DA who thinks he might actually be able to put him away, or curse at all the widows and untethered sycophants he's just made.

>He bites down on his smoke in frustration at how much he'll leave undone, so hard he severs it and the ember falls to the ground, adding flecks of ash to the blood staining his best suit as it tumbles. Then he begins to laugh, spitting out the stub. What a pointless show this whole thing has been. Nothing but wheels spinning. He lets his weapon clatter to the ground. He slumps down to his knees, then lets gravity push him onto his side, and finally draws his knees to his chest, still laughing at the absurdity of it all.

>He was ice cold by the time they found him.

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>Vaggie was hurt. Sure, nothing out of the ordinary, she had been hurt, countless times before. However, the sheer rage she felt helped her power through it. Now, though?
>She was slipping.

>The night didn't seem out of the ordinary. Or, whatever passes as such in this hellhole. Wait on the street until some asshole comes along, willing to buy her for an hour or so. She hated it. Every john was just a different flavor of awful - and most paid jack shit.
>She had gotten used to demanding pay in advance - too many runners.
>And the blades she hid in her stockings and gloves were usually enough to make them cough up the cash - a couple of times, they pulled a gun on her, only to loose their index finger.
>Sometimes, they'd wound up dead, their throats slashed.
>Recently, however, she let her rage get the better of her - leaving behind carved-up corpses. Evidently, the local cartel didn't like it.

>So, she sat here, now.
>Used and abused, mutilated - they left her with one eye to see death in.
>She sighed, her anger fading - she was cold. With what little strength she had left, she got into a fetal position, hugging her knees to her bleeding chest.
>She was alone.
>Truly, she was alone.

>After everything she'd done, she had little doubt that she won't see her family on the other side, whatever may wait there - they were good people.
>She wasn't.

>Eye cast to the sky, she swore, angry at herself - for being weak, for not being able to defend herself, let alone her loved ones.
>For throwing her future away for money.
>And, most infuriatingly...

>...Because she could no longer remember her mother's face.

>Her rage completely gone, she tightened her grip, pulling herself into a defensive ball...
>...And slipped away.

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>I have a take on Husk inspired by https://pastebin.com/wjU64i8G

>Husk. That was what they called him now. He wasn't sure if it had been his idea or one of theirs, but it was what all the other bums called him now. It was fitting. He was a mere shell of the man he'd once been.

>"Extensive treatment. As soon as possible."
>That was what the white-coat at the free clinic said. As if his penniless ass could afford anything more sophisticated than aspirin to treat the rot that was eating away at his liver, or stomach, or kidneys, or whatever scrap of meat he had in there that was apparently on the fritz, leaving him to fall apart like a stack of wet newspaper. It didn't matter, he couldn't get enough scratch together for a hot shower at an hourly motel, let alone an extended stay in the hospital.
>He rolled his eyes at the sawbones' stupidity. Insisting on a regimine of this and regular doses of that, condescendingly refusing to even entertain the idea that he just wanted to know the least painful way out.

>"You're a fighter. You've proven that already. You can fight this."
>Yeah, he could fight it, the same way a picnic ant fights an exterminator. To Hell with that.
>He brought the bottle up to his lips and let the lukewarm Thunderbird slide down his throat. It was working better than it usually did tonight. As the last drops went down the pain suddenly disappeared.
>He heard a chuckle filtered through radio static behind him.
>He lurched to his feet, whipping around drunkenly to face the source of the noise.
>There was the man in red again.
>The one with the implacable grin.
>The strange figure his dying mind had conjured after he was shot back in the war. Who had appeared to him as he'd been waiting for his wound to end him, who'd offered to make it all go away for seemingly no cost. Who he could have sworn he'd seen strolling away after the medic woke him back up from his blackout and began pulling bullets out of him.


>He heard an electric hum as the man smiled wider.

>"Hello old friend. A pleasure to see you again after all this time!"

>He held his hand out and spread his claws.

>"Glad to see you had a good run, but its time to go."

>"Go?"

>"YES. Go! Go with a capital G my friend!"

>The man in red pointed past him. He turned, and saw himself.
>Lying there on the bench.
>He wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. He was just lying there, still as a statue, his hands clutched around his Purple Heart like some sort of totem. There had been a Bronze Star to go along with it once, but he'd discarded it long ago. What he'd done to "earn" it wasn't heroic at all. It haunted him even now.

>"I'm..."

>"Stone dead old boy! As I said before, it's time to Go."

>The man in red drew Husk's eye back to him and held out his hand again.
>Husk reached out to take it. He'd agreed to this after all.

>"Not to worry my friend. Things down there aren't nearly as awful as they'd have you believe!"

>"...down there?"

>His grin threatened to split his head in twain.

>"Yessir, down there."

>He pointed down at the ground with his free hand
>Husk felt himself sinking down. He could feel heat, and smell sulfur.

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>The snow fell softly around ol husker as they called him. He was stumbling around as he struggled to find his footing on the slippery sidewalk. All out of money, out of pride, and almost out of whiskey he chuckled as he pulled the bottle to his lips. Aaah, good ol whiskey. It was the only thing that got him. He had been with babes, he had tried to love, but in the end. The casino always called him back and put a bottle in his hands. "Fuck em" he grumbled, wiping his mouth. A little smile on his lips. "Fuck all ya'll ya hear!!" He said quietly into the dead night.

>There was no one out tonight. A nasty blizzard was coming in, but ol husker had never let that get to him. He was tougher than some fucking blizzard. He could take it, he had always taken it. That's why he always went back to those casinos. He knew he just had to endure long enough till he won. One day that million dollar jingle would ring in his ear as he won it all. Cash and all the drink he could get. All his, and then he could say that he never needed anything or anyone, he wasn't afraid, definitely not.

>Husk slipped on a curb and fell on his ass as he stumbled forward. The blizzard was coming in, and it was getting hard to see. "Fuckin... shit" He said as he tried to stand back up, digging his hands in the snow to get his bottle of whiskey. "Fuck, nearly lost ya" he said as he heaved it up, falling right back over. he held his bottle up nice and high, so not to drop it again. He just started laughing.

>"Hehhehheh... ya see!!! Don't you see!! I got everything I need right here ya sons of bitches!!" He said, pushing himself up against the wall. "I never fucking needed you!! I never fucking needed anything but ME! AND THIS BOTTLE YA HEAR!!!" He said as he slumped back down into the snow. It was quiet, and the snow blew into him, he took one last drink. Then he leaned back, and with a happy smile on his face, he decided to take a little nap. Just some rest, just a little rest.

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Almost forgot Sir Pent

>Sir Pentious had enjoyed the Titanic cruise... that was until it turned into a horrific nightmare. He looked up at the black sky from the stern of the ship. Ignoring the screams of people around him. He wondered what would happen to all the wealth and power he had accumulated. He had thought about getting in a lifeboat. Perhaps to keep his wealthy life and lordly status. However despite all of his lifelong accumulated wealth. He couldn't betray his gentlemanly nature. He was a gentleman, a lord, such desperate behavior was below him, no matter how badly he wanted to live. So, despite being the most ruthless man alive. He decided in the end, that a gentleman must meet his death with honor, elegance and above all else style.

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Hate to be rude, but Sir Pent died almost 30 years before the titanic sunk

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this should be how baxter die, not sir pen

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I think the original version of Baxter, back when he was just some lanky grey-skinned guy and not an anglerfish demon, actually was a Titanic victim, but they later decided they didn't want to tie any of their characters too heavily to real life events.

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So anyone got any takes on Niffty's last moments? I sure as hell don't, all I can think of is that the dots on her dress look more like bleeding gunshot wounds and not just decorative polka dots.

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I always figured Nifty was a native of Hell. A kind of Imp.

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I saw someone made an idea about how Niffty kill her husband because he cheated on her and Niffty kill herself after that.

so... yeah

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My idea was that she was Japanese-American who worked as maid following WWII, and got herself entangled with her unfaithful master's affairs - or rather, became one of his affairs.
After living in an internment camp, she hoped she'll be able to get a piece of that pie in the sky, and live the American dream - something which drove her to psychosis, and led her to attack the family whose home she worked in, despite loving them dearly.
She lost an eye fighting the Master's wife, and was eventually shot by her grieving employer.