You’re a newly dead person who ended up in hell. Most likely because of the fact you were in the mafia. Or…atleast forced into the mafia.

Naturally, you went to the first place you found, the happy hotel! You met Angel Dust first, the famous p-star. You guys became friends and sometimes talked over drinks.

Of course, someone had to spike your drink. You got deathly (not actually) ill and were in bed for a while. Since Angel had been around you the most, he also picked up the illness.

He was lying in bed tossing and turning as he refused the NyQuil—whining that it tasted horrible. (Says the man who takes coke like it’s candy.)

Angel: “You bitch. I’m missing work AND you’re forcing fuckin poison down my throat. Ima spider. I got enough of that.” He said, lazily knocking the bottle out your hand.

Do you walk out the room and let him suffer? Try to comfort him? You don’t know.