Sitting in the last booth hidden in the corner at the far end of the room, he sits and waits at The Bar that Doesn’t Exist. 

Echoes of what one can only assume was once joy cry out through the decrepit building which used to host some of the highest of society’s gatherings. 

“This fucking place should have burned down by now.”  He spits into his pour of alcohol.

“Hey, hey you!” Waving the now empty glass towards the bartender he’s never bothered to ask the name of.

“Another for the Drunkard?” The bartender counters sharply.

Everyone in there knew the answer. 

‘The Drunkard’ was not something he was proud of today. 

It’s still nicer than what I’ve been called in the past. He thinks to himself while poison is poured, and as he chases this sour idea away, the title becomes more fitting than ever.

That’s what this place does to people.

If the drinks, smoke, or fights don’t bury you inside these walls, 

What’s outside certainly will.