Jobe was becoming a little agitated and impatient waiting for Puck. He was standing in a dark and gloomy spot and had lost track of how long he had actually been there when finally he could hear hurried footsteps approaching from behind.
He turned and saw that this was not Puck after all, but an elderly man, who was labouring with the weight of a large pail half his own size, that he carried in both arms outstretched. It was stuffed with small bits of paper. As he moved closer Jobe could see that they were lottery tickets encircled with red ink.
Jobe had been itching badly, having broken out in scabs from all the crack he'd been doing before. Although he no longer had a body to blister, the memory of it had stayed within his finer body that he was using right now.
People have all kinds of bodies - sheaths, like Russian dolls - with layers that can be discarded one by one. The shells are shed after death and some of the bodies still retain old details in their memory.
-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series
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