Mac’s Tavern was a has-been. Or, it was from any outside standpoint. It was a cellar at most. A dark, dusty sanctuary of curated oddities, cracks in the walls, and darts rusted straight through the bulls-eye.
At some point in its career, it had been a haven of alcoholic bliss. Now, lost in time under the rapid development outside its safely guarded barrier, Mac’s had become the perfect place to disappear into.
The air was thick inside. So thick in fact, that the ceiling fan nearly had to cut its way through just to spin. Years of unventilated cigarette smoke had yellowed the various patches of faded wallpapering until their original patterns had become unfamiliar shapes that melted together.
The jukebox was rigged to play songs at random, and it favored most anything by Patsy Cline. If you spent enough time there, you would start to hear her mournful voice in your sleep, haunting you with dreams of the old bar with dirty glasses, and ghostly figures slumped over a glass of skunky beer.