A Devil on Each Shoulder

Carcer grins even wider (if such a thing is even possible) when he sees the hotel. MOtel, really, though some might say the other prefix is...more appropriate to this sort of establishment. Carcer doesn't care--anyway, he's more or less drenched in blood from the waist up, and though he's carrying a white mostly reddish handbag under his arm it suggests more of an intrest in sharp, pointy objects than in musical theatre.

He turns to JT. "Looks just like home, haha."

Even though it's barely past noon, the "O" in the sign's "MOTEL" flickers. It's not really trashy otherwise.

"Right down to the lightning...."

Carcer's sitting in the cafe looking more than a bit confused. He ought to be dead, he's sure of it. He remembers dying. He remembers feeling the floor drop out from under his boots and the rope pull tight around his neck....
Damn. His neck...now that he's thinking about it, it does kind of hurt. Probably bruised pretty bad, too.
Damn.
If he's dead, then is this some kind of afterlife? Everybody else in here seems prettly lively to him. If he's not dead...right now, he's almost hoping he is. Because that might actually make sense.
Gods, he could use a beer. Or three.

((So, who's up for explanations? .D))