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As soon as we walked in through the dimensional portal where there once was a door, I knew that things were not quite right. The bar was filled with corpses, fueling their necrotizing bodies with cheap beer and chit-chat about NASCAR. Parts of the bar were on fire and had been for several years. Rats ran freely at our feet and a group of schizophrenic homeless men were arguing politics while roasting a satchel of cuddly kittens over a can of sterno. In short, the place really sucked. The bartender at the Bay Horse seemed to be nearing the end of a wild crack-cocaine bender. She was loud. Unpredictable. HER EYES WERE PITS OF SOUL-SUCKING BLACKNESS. When I introduced myself and gave her my spiel, she threw her arms into the air and stepped back from my money like a vampire recoiling from a crucifix. "Uh-uh, nope! I won't do it!" her voice boomed, gaining volume as I waved my money at her. "Well..." I began, but she cut me off. "That sounds like some college bullshit, and I won't have any part in it!" she shrieked, her voice causing several mock-crystal decanters to shatter. I was flabbergasted. "Fine, you don't get any of this money I was fully prepared to throw in your direction." "I don't want yer goddamned money no-how!" she spat. Well, that was fortunate for her because I tucked my cash back into my collegiate wallet, adjusted my ascot and told her she had the boorish manners of a Yalie. Mark and Brian were through for the night. After narrowly escaping with their lives, they ventured off to their homes and it was up to me, alone and pathetic, to continue the search. |
