The Living End
The Living End, speakeasy
The Living End; drinks and dames of the weird
Sure, it looks innocent enough…well innocent for a place crawling with illegal activity. You followed the instructions to the letter on how to get here. Down the dark alley you crept, dressed up in your best glad rags. All the time looking over your shoulder to make sure the coppers aren’t on your heels. All you want is a nice whiskey, and to see one of the most infamous shows all the swanky people have been talking about recently. Open the door and you think you heard a slight buzzing sound. But that’s no matter, now you have to walk down a pitch black stairway. There is a tiny light at the bottom, barely illuminating a steel door that has a little slat in it. Knock three times, once slow…..twice fast, and you’ll be greeted by a young girl’s voice….
What’s the password?
It’s a simple question, but get it wrong and you’ll be bummed rushed outta here so fast you’re head will spin….and that’s if they don’t take you for a bull and decide you need to go for a ride instead. You’re nervous now, the password was so odd the thought that it might be fake is starting to creep forward. You’re taking too long, and you can see just from the girl’s eyes she’s getting impatient. You swallow hard and repeat the phrase you were taught, “I’m home…”. She sighs and you can hear the locks being open. The girl swings the door open moving her Tommy Gun behind the door with a swift motion of her foot. “Welcome home…we only got one rule, don’t smile during the performances…” She flashes you a wink, and introduces herself as Millie Parker . She points down the hall as you pass through the entryway with two large doors looming over you on either side, but both have “VIP ONLY” written on them…and that ain’t you buddy. Down the short hallway you go and you’re greeted by the main room.
Take a seat
You are early…the band hasn’t even set up yet, and they are supposed to have Samantha Winsdale playing tonight…but at least you’ll get your pick of tables. One near the bar doesn’t sound to shabby. So you get comfortable just in time for the grizzled and disgruntled looking barkeep to shout at you about your order, this must be Robert Mack…the old owner that so many horror stories have been told about. You sheepishly reply you want a whiskey, your heart racing at the thought that this might still be a trap. The barkeep nods and informs you that you will be drinking Old Crow tonight. Apparently Ozzie’s just brought in a new batch. So you sit back and sip on your illegal beverage waiting for the show. You just gotta remember, no smiling.