Hell

There was no sign. It was too, a brick building. Solid, dark red, and smoky; it rivaled the inside. The door was wood with a stained glass window. The window was broken beyond repair.  No scene was depicted: just obtuse shards of red glass randomly placed. A low growl can be heard and felt just under the sound of dismal chattering and the occasional yell or periodical hearty laugh. Glasses clank and everything is alive, if barely. It’s ominous but it draws you with a morbid curiosity.

In a maniacal way, it’s homey. The bar, a deep mahogany, is the pen that a chubby little man with an almost nearly handlebar mustache resides in. He smiles at you warmly. His shoes have chunky, black heels that make a clicking sound on the ash grey tiled floor. He pours from a never ceasing bottle some whiskey and slides it to you. It’s dark and smokey; like everything else. Cigar burns on the carpet. Smoky eyes of the waitresses. The smell of whiskey and a burnt rotting smell saunter along. Smoke hides all the flaws as the haughty guffaws reign supreme.

It’s hard to see the other patrons through the haze of thick black cigar smoke. There are leather clad men sitting at the bar while stripe adorned sailors get tasteful table dances from leather clad, female patrons. In the back, men sit in tattered rags and mangled bodies. In the farthest corner there is blackness. Only silhouettes of the members can be observed. They sit casually, a cackled laugh occurring more than once. There’s something iconic about the group that has yet to be seen.

Here, patrons drink to get drunk. And then they drink some more. As if to wash away sins, or forget tomorrow-day.

Or maybe to reminisce.