Placard’s Post-Voted Almonds
The
interior of the building was completely dark except for isolated zones of
limited illumination from single, oddly-placed lights or a string of yellow
fairy lights around a framed poster of some magician or hypnotist from the days
before television. Examining one of
these posters, Clifford noted that the walls were painted black, to promote the
penumbrous atmosphere, he theorized.
He paid his
entrance fee at a window behind which a woman sat, barely visible from the glow
of a couple of disassociated Christmas tree lights, probably set into a failing
control console below her side of the window.
She mumbled something to Clifford as she passed him an illegible, grimy
stub of pasteboard. Her voice sounded as
if it was passing through a primitive electronic filter. He didn’t bother to ask her for
clarification. He only slipped the stub
into his pocket and made his way to the right, passing through a heavy drapery that
covered a tall, wide passageway leading downward. Cold air met him as he entered. He could see much better now, as light
filtered up to him around a distant corner.
“What were
you expecting to find here?” the bartender, dressed in a red vest, elbow
propped on the bar, head in his hand, asked.
“Something
more than just liquor,” Clifford mused.
“Entertainment, I guess.” He
looked around. It was dead quiet except
for a faint scramble of pop music 1,000 years inbred coming from an unknown
other room.
“You could
try one of the video games,” the bartender suggested.
.
