The last thing Iggy says before the hooves of the horse come down on him is:

“Ah, fuck.”

The real kicker is that it doesn’t even have the grace to finish him immediately. The beast tramples him disastrously, then summarily huffs as if this has been some kind of great inconvenience and trots away. The leather lead used to pull the damned animal jerks Iggy’s arm uncomfortably as it pulls out of his grasp, and bone grinds together wrong enough to make him inhale too sharply. Mistake. The mud that he’s currently smashed into is now in his mouth and nose… and his eyes, and his ears. It tastes exactly how it smells. Iggy gags and then coughs and then goes very still; his entire chest has just lit up in a flavor of pain he’s never felt before.

Considering the current situation, Iggy realizes a few things very quickly.

In light of these realizations, he thinks he’s earned the right to spend his last moments feeling sorry for himself.

Just, isn’t it a little fucked up? If he can concede that it is a little funny to give such bullshit bad fucking luck to a creature known for having preternaturally good luck, can he also get the concession that actually hey fuck you, what the fuck is your problem? No actually, could he get that? Whoever is listening, whoever decided to play this fun little game with him—he sucks in a crunchy, wet sounding gasp, and in his delirium, he prays—eat shit, please, eat so much shit.

Which is what Iggy is currently doing.

He uses his tongue to push as much of the grit out of his mouth as possible, but the muscle feels numb and useless, and he’s fairly sure he bit it something awful as he was going down.

It’s just so fucking unfair.

The conveniently inconvenient roots and rocks and dips in the road that appeared the second he let his eyes wander; the drinks set in front of him half a centimeter further or closer to him than his estimation; every chair with a leg just slightly too loose that absolutely nobody noticed before he sat down; every single bump and bruise, every walk home in the rain, every goddamn joke made at his expense, every look of disgust, or worse, pity… this fucking horse, this stupid, useless, evil, evil, evil fucking horse. It’s not even his horse!

Oh, Iggy is so mad he could scream. If he could scream, he would scream, and then maybe he would catch on fire and use all of that anger to burn to righteous ash and fuck—

There’s a little green quasit smacking its feet into the mud right by Iggy’s face, and the little fucker looks like it’s having fun. It’s all so cosmically bullshit that Iggy can’t help but try to laugh; this is another terrible idea, and he sucks in two very fast wheezing breaths as punishment for the attempt. At least they can say he kept his sense of humor to the end.

Of course there is no they unless the quasit is counted, and Iggy can’t imagine the creature is going to be itching to eulogize him. Given that the quasit in question is currently pulling on his eyelids and sticking its mud-covered little fingers onto his face, Iggy isn’t even sure that it's not going to eat him. He really hopes the little shit waits until he’s dead at least.

“—g’way,” is what he finally manages to choke out along with what tastes like a good amount of shit-tinged copper, which is not at all what he was going for.

He blinks hard and tries to focus on the creature pinching his nose closed. If he could just figure out where his arm went, or what the specific combination of steps was to make it move, this quasit wouldn’t even know what hit it. Plus, even more importantly, there’s an absolutely stunning mix of colors coming off of this thing and Iggy’s fingers twitch and flex in the mud with how bad they itch to reach out and touch.

You know, honestly, the mud isn’t that bad.

It’s at least soft, except for all the little rocks that dig into his skin. Or, ok, it’s not soft, but it is wet. He’s never been the biggest fan of wet, but there are worse things the mud could be. With his luck it could be nails… It could be… quasits. Hundreds of them. All pulling and poking and cackling. The quasit is cackling. Iggy wants so badly to join it, but the thing about the mud is that it’s just really hard to breathe.

More pain. More warm copper in his mouth. His eyes roll back, but not closed thanks to the gross little fingers holding them both open, and Iggy amends his previous prayer to also include this specific quasit whom he now hates.

Dear god or gods, please sincerely go fuck yourself. Also this quasit. Quasits… however many creatures… just, all of everyone currently… five miles, just five miles in all directions, go fuck yourself. And the horse.

Amen.

An awful noise makes the quasit jump back and hiss, another makes it drop low and start to growl. Iggy realizes from a very far away feeling place of pain and wet that the noise is coming from himself. They call that something. Iggy isn’t quite sure what the word is, or how it relates to him being in the mud, but he’s pretty sure “death” is in there somewhere which is crazy. It’s just he had never thought that having bad luck meant having Bad Luck.

The dying kind.

If he had known he had the dying kind of Bad Luck, he would have taken it more seriously. Maybe.

Iggy’s last thoughts and regrets are interrupted by the quasit jabbing him hard in the cheek, seemingly just to make sure his final moments are as bad and annoying as possible. It’s fine. There would have been too many to get through anyway.

The lights go out just as the quasit pries his mouth open and starts trying to fit its entire disgusting little hand inside.

For that, at least, Iggy is thankful.