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.
The Old Man stood behind the bar cleaning glasses, ever watchful over his premises. That night he might have been a little more vigilant, his cold eyes resting more than a few seconds on the individuals actually present. Of the drinkers already in the bar, none of them look remotely suspicious, but it pays to be careful.
How this works
Draft this Post
