Chipped paint, graffiti on the pavement and walls.

Dented metal roller door stuck two thirds open.

Sour urine and other less offensive, but more unsettling odours fill the air.

It’s quiet. Apart form the buzzing of poorly maintained lighting, infrastructure, and the shambling of local denizens eyes downcast. Security cameras capture a tall dark skinned figure in leather pants and what looks like a flack jacket with the sleeves torn off.

The figure moves through the corridor, hugging shadows with the practiced ease of one who values their privacy and freedom. With the confidence of one who has had to defend it successfully.

Hands spring magically from piles of rags or refuse as he passes by. Crumpled bills and the odd credit chip fall from hand to hand.

Ahead under flickering lights and years of grime the dank maw of a once rowdy den of cut throats, thieves, and curs waits.


Ready to devour the unworthy.

To greet the fearsome and the predator.

The immortal.

The Sign above the black reads ‘Brink’s Bar.’

The figure moves with a long easy gait, steps over a pile of rubbish in the doorway and is swallowed by the darkness.

Further in, the few surveillance devices still working capture the figure move though the tables and up turned chairs. Past a jukebox long silent and hesitate. The figure turns back to the musical automaton and considers it.

Finger brushing over the rust pitted metal plate familiar, affectionate. Hand moves to vest pocket, then pants pocket, a muttered curse. The figure moves to the machines side and kicks it ‘just so’. A finger stabs the metal plate.

‘Pinky Pie Friendship is Magic’ floods the bar and the figure moves again. Along the same path as before.

Reaching the bar he hops over and disappears behind it. Surfacing once again with a bottle of Thukker Fire Whiskey and several dirty glasses. Smiling he says, “Never were one for housekeeping were you Brink.”

Bottle and glasses slam down on the dusty surface, several things too large to be dust scuttle off to find darker, quieter places.

The bottle is opened, glasses filled in a careless haphazard fashion. Each placed in front of a seat at the bar.

The figure turns on his stool, back resting against the bar. He raises he bottle to the room, looking around as if the shadows now birthed the spirits of those long absent. A small lonely smile lives briefly on the figures face.

“Here’s to you riff raff. Gone but not forgotten.”

Lifting the bottle to his lips the fiery whiskey drains steadily into mouth and down throat.

The bottle, now emptied, is flung with feeling at a damaged picture of a cocky capsuleer on the wall. The words ‘Fuck you Santo’ loving scrawled above it. It smashes with a musical and satisfying sound.

The figure turns and in a very undignified manner, sprawls over the bar and reaches underneath. A grunt of pleasure is heard and the figure rights again second bottle in hand.

Brink’s Bar now quiet and often empty is still well stocked. Though the door is busted and stands ever open, nothing is thieved.

Only those with the right, or the balls to do so, drink or take drink from here.

The music stops briefly then starts again with a crackle.

The figure laughs. Raises the bottle to the gathered shades again.

“Settle in boys, it’s gonna be a long night.”



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