It's a bruised and scarred battleground;
home of the down and out, the peirced and the branded for life. The sick and the weary sit on their barstools betting on racing cockroaches. With a loud jukebox there is no room to think. Only enough space to drink and forget your own name. Only enough space to hide in the cracks of the walls from the people sitting next to you, and only enough time for nothing to do. But everyone looks better in the mirror of the bar. Opposite, in the mirror of your house.