Show Him Downstairs

The Barkeep steps out from behind the bar, legs toned from the long nights on her feet; they’ll be running through The Patron’s mind for days. She catches his gaze and nods. “Downstairs,” she beckons, low and direct.

He hesitates, but only for a moment. He smiles slyly. “A hidden stash of treats?” he asks hungrily, already on her trail. “Only the twisted stuff,” she replies with a chuckle. “The kind you won’t find on a menu. If you’re hungry, I’m sure a pretzel can be arranged.”

The stairs are steep. The door, heavy; the light, dim; the smell, ferrous. The Barkeep leads him down, down, down, and he follows, follows, follows. “Are we there yet?” he jokes, trying to hide his nerves. She doesn’t answer, just keeps descending.

Finally, they reach the bottom. The Patron’s eyes widen. “What is this place?” It’s barely more than a closet, spotless in all but its aura. The Barkeep answers: “My secret. My sanctuary. My art.”

“I call it The Bunker,” she finishes as she closes the door behind her. “And you may call it home.”

He doesn’t hear that last part. But he understands it all the same.