Walking through dank doors akin to the darkest Peruvian jungle, you are greeted by the snarling feral cats and emaciated alleyway dogs, gnawing on any available detritus strewn about. Beyond the stench of their collective filth you are ignored by the proprietor until you walk into the view of his single, functional eye. Once you distract him from his hateful, curse-laden rants, you may get the most foul brew made of dried, powdery garbage that he sweeps from the floor beneath his feet. If he’s feeling especially foul, he’ll snort a deep, mucosal discharge into your already filthy cup.
If you aren’t already disgusted beyond measure by his antics, he’ll continue his hateful ranting about his times in various gangs and the military. He never paused to accept any input in the conversation, but shouted as if performing a sadistic soliloquy.
There were never a return of clientele. The proprietor ensured that his own living hell was your own. A few goth kids went as a rite of passage into their circle of friends, but were swiftly shooed away like the rest.
If you don’t find your way to the door with enough expediency, he will grab you from the scruff of your neck and throw you through the greasy front window. If the window is already shattered from a previous patron, which is invariably, he will throw you to the ground and kick your already swollen backside to the gutter. He will clear his nose with a characteristic hollow snort and cover you with his virulent sputum until you run off never to suffer his hell again. This hell’s name? Bizzara.