The Spiral's a bar that pretty much everyone's heard of, and no one knows anything about. There's too many stories for it to be real; one guy says there's a European Human Trafficking ring running out of there one week, next week it's a group of people running flesh for NAMBLA, next it's illegal firearms, and the week after that, maybe the Hook-Handed Killer showed up and showed 'em all a thing or two. The truth's a lot more mundane and a lot less interesting.
It's a bar, with wooden panelled walls and a scarred old guy, who looks like every other scarred bartender with a shotgun under the counter. The people who come here tend to be the people who want to get drunk. The booze swings between okay and paint-thinner, but at least it helps you sleep at night after a couple of shots.
Hunters know it as a meeting point between cells, a place where you can slip down to the basement if the bartender knows you, and trade a bit of info or get a little no-questions-asked surgery.
Mortals know it as a Goddamned dive where you can get a quiet drink without anyone really paying attention to it. Either way, it's a good enough place to meet new people.
The Spiral is pretty empty at this time of night, and as the clock hits 10pm only a couple of regulars are skulking in corners nursing pints of beer. A dart board has been propped up on the far wall, maybe as a concession to people wanting a bit of entertainment.
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