What a big well to dry up so soon. Accrued non-sense made such a week to look forward to and it’s ending was nigh. Bumps and bruises aimlessly landed in his direction and enough that he was highly satisfied. Gave an appearance into his sad tethered human an 8/10 and would do it all over again. More than he was able to do but had to admit, while nursing a ice pack over his face, plans for an reappearance would be bigger, better, and swell a nice little account for Lyle with all the money that had been carted out that morning. Saturday was quieter than the increased madness suggested but the magic lingered. It made his bones shake. Blood rushed to regions that had been greeted by surprise. More was a hunger that waited in the pit of both stomach and the hollow space between what was a heart.

“Two more please,” he requested from the goblin who stuck around serving drinks.

It never got the first two correct, which was fine while Mephisto was exhausted from the trickery played, the parties had, the canoodling with men and women born or made of money, and the costumes of people who died the moment he stepped out from that world. Each face shifted into was one he documented from a past life, not from his eons of existing but from Lyle's 42 years. He hadn’t exhausted the man's memories, some that were capped off for the better and the ones he freely made up to cope. Mephisto had a lot to learn and will make sure of it if this were to continue. He wanted it to because of the potential. Not for the satisfaction of claiming a soul through double-dealing and crafty exploitation, no. Other means and he felt like there was a star amongst the city.

A regal specimen that had to be elevated from the coldness of his hidden doldrums to the spotlight away from the deceit that armored his true delights. When he sat up and looked at the double shot glasses filled with tequila. There would be more glasses to add to the empty ones lined up.

“Gracias. You’ve been a great addition to this week. Rough around the edges, and we're not talking about the scaly skin of yours.”

Tipping the glass up, “Salud.” Thanking the humanoid looking thing filling in as the bartender he wanted nothing more than to talk to.

When everything living seemed to hurt, he wished for days when healing had been rapid. Feeling no pain or remorse if you call the devil having any natural concept of the idea. His remorse came with the additional prize of walking around in the body of a human, just a mortal not all well adjusted to their unfortunate partnership. Closer the place of unity would make an offer, and then retreat. He locked on the horned creature that was moonwalking while drying up glasses, cleaning up because no one was invited to see him down. Injured and left to reflect. Was this the point of being human? His humanity was not his, only Mr. Amaro's. It never showed itself to speak boldly and as the attention it deserved.

A glimpse of it replicated when face to face with the fueled Mary Jane. Quoting lies of change and being more benevolent than known for. The wish giver was nothing more than a life ruiner and he paid for it when nearly bested at a game unable to win. He shut his eyes, picturing feeling empty for the first time. Emptied out of knowing a solid way out. Hollowed of the chance to sweet talk and nurse a former victim of his past antics, to get out of a situation which propped such a woman to a place driven on chaos instead of pieces of humanity that should have approached him a different way. He held the side of his face, which continued to throb.

Pointing out that a hospital visit should be in order, yet he remained in the hotel, at the bar, consuming the spirits until it made it all go away. Including the piercing aches of being attacked for which he wasn’t strong enough to bat off so well. Mephisto overheard the slobbering grumble from his trustworthy bartender and tapped the top for another drink. With growing refills down the line his pain was causing what anyone would call a conscience to appear. The goodness if there had been any, was remnant of the loaner body. Out of amusement, he snapped a finger and a small figure like his very own Jiminy Cricket performed a little jig upon his right shoulder.

“Ah, dance little bug, bilar mi amigo!”

His shoulders jumped with the pain and quickly where his whole face hurt when moving expression, the manic illusion had another to his left of a figment to his imagination. Both hopping along and uttering incoherently as if trying to sway what little conscience he had a taste of. The charade lasted as quickly as it started and he snapped his finger to end the characters who were going to burn out and fizzle off into the deep land of illusions. Pushing from the velvet stool, he hobbled on a weakened leg. Limping to get away from the bar and back into where the gambling had done best to keep him well aware of the time.

Bodies of people were focused on being there but a few happened to stick around, hypnotic in their addictive nature. Relatable he thought. Long before sticking his hand in the sports coat of a very tailored suit, he stood next to a machine that held him up long enough to limit from falling and rolling his ankle once again. Surprised that making it so far, a fight given to stick it out as the daylight of Saturday left on its mark. The darkness always came from the crevices and found a way to be the new spotlight. Gum was fetched and another pat for a match was well. His day of smoking and engaging in all bad things were going to end in a better bang than last time. A red light would dim and he felt it. A calling to go back from where he came when beginning to find a stride. A stride that had to wait as a new month would soon emerge.