Superman of the American Comics

"Boring..."

Staying at the flemingo hotel under the Mafia's name, Howard, who had indulged in fun for a whole week, collapsed on the sofa, his eyes seemed to have no focus and looked bored.

I'm tired of baccarat, Texas poker and other games.

The alpine ski resort is under construction. You can play golf when you are free.

Natural hot springs soak almost every night. Lying in a hot spring pool that can accommodate hundreds of people and overlooking Las Vegas below, it is an imperial enjoyment.

And there are beautiful women rubbing their backs and watering them.

It sounds like a comfortable day in heaven, but Howard, who likes the new and hates the old very fast, has no interest in experiencing it several times.

Even if the Mafia leader Alessandro has intentionally or unintentionally hinted that the welcome ladies, sexy charge officials and waitresses in the hotel can come to serve.

Howard, who can enter the sage's time, did not push the boat with the water and wantonly whore for nothing, but rejected such illegal acts in righteous words.

Well, that's why.

It's because he's "go in."

The security guard said rudely.

Howard put his hand in his pocket and walked smartly into the door.

He sniffed and frowned slightly.

"It feels like there is a smell of sulfur."

Howard thought to himself.

But his attention was soon attracted by the decoration in the hell hotel.

The dark red color fills every corner of the line of sight.

The soft carpet emits slight heat.

There are faint lights flowing, like magma.

The walls are carved with all kinds of scary and eccentric patterns, and waiters dressed like demons and Demons shuttle back and forth.

"A hotel with hell as its theme is really strange."

Howard became interested and went to the front desk to exchange chips.

"Sir, we don't accept checks and cash."

Curved horns grow on the top of the head, said the waiter with an eagle hook nose.

He refused Howard's signed check and the money he took out of his wallet.

"What do you take here?"

Howard asked curiously with his mouth turned up.

"Soul. Hell hotels exchange souls for chips. There is a place to weigh your soul."

The waiter gave a straight answer.

"It's quite like that."

Howard looked in the direction the waiter pointed out. There was a huge Libra not far away.

Many guests who entered the hotel stood on it, waiting for the final result.

"Soul for chips? If my soul can't get enough chips, or I lose all my chips, do I want to continue the game?"

Howard held his chest in his hands like a deliberately difficult guest.

"You can sign a contract and mortgage your soul in the hell Hotel forever."

The waiter was expressionless and took out a pile of thick paper documents.

"We have short-term pledge contracts of 10 years, 30 years, 50 years and 100 years, and long-term pledge contracts of 200 to 1000 years."

Howard just glanced. The dense English words were enough to give people a headache.

He turned his lips, casually drew out a pledge contract with unknown term, and then signed his name.

In the waiter's dark eyes, there was a flash of hot fire.

He weighed out several piles of chips with different denominations, neatly packed them in a tray and handed them to Howard with both hands.

"Welcome to hell hotel. Have a good time."