May 26, 2015

You follow directions, no questions asked, and sure enough, in green neon, ‘Dolly’s’ sputters at you from above a dark wood door crisscrossed with black studs. In you go. The lounge is lit dim green by inverted conical sconces parading around the walls, providing a mood of languid submarine despair. A long bar on the left, booths on the right. Sculpted patrons at the bar loom unmoving over their drinks. A piano, a saxophone, and drums occupy an elevated alcove and combine to weave a slow moving sadness of sound. You slide across the black vinyl seat in the first booth. The bartender establishes eye contact and raises his unibrow, an unmistakable silent version of ‘What’ll it be?’ You take the crystal orb from your pocket and hold it out toward the bartender. He nods and jerks his head once to the left. You look right and see the green glitter of the beaded curtain masking an opening in the wall at the far end of the bar. You take a deep breath, slide across the vinyl, and stand up. The sculpted bar patrons move not a muscle as you travel the length of the lounge. The piano player smiles slightly around the cigarette hanging from his lower lip and sending a snaking thread of smoke to disperse in the murky green. You part the beaded curtain and step inside.

robot helm

There she is. You die.

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