He giggled a bit at the sound of the name when he heard it. The Peach Pit, he wasn't sure what it was about the place but it just really had him rolling at every single mention, which is precisely why he had never been there in the first place, but that was all about to change on one fateful afternoon in February. Getting behind the wheel of his car, he took off for his destination, it was somewhere in Detroit, but he had really no idea exactly where it was at. He figured it would have a giant peach somewhere outside, maybe a bright glowing sign, or maybe an actual gigantic peach they'd harvested from years and years of cultivating the land.

Sadly it was none of those things, but rather just a name. He pulled onto the side of the road, nearly hitting seven other cars in the process, and then stood right outside of the place. It looked nice, but not exactly what he was expecting-- the name may as well just been 'Another Bar Here', but he was not dissuaded. Walking over to the two hulking men guarding the door he gave off his patented Ted smile and waited for them to happily allow him inside, after all, he was quite the big deal around these parts.

Both men gave him a quick stare down and then assessed he would definitely not be any of a threat, the four dollars he shoved into both of their pockets, while insulting due to the low amount, probably helped him somewhat. It probably also helped that he was a Don in the mafia, and everyone knew this was a mafia joint. Even the most disliked were allowed admittance. 

"Thank you gentlemen, I'll be heading in now."

He walked inside before the changed their minds and they both let off a grunt, or maybe they were just coughing because of the smell. You see, earlier in the day Ted was rounding up rats for a quick business venture. People paid a lot of money for those little fuckers, but enough about that... Ted walked into the main portion of the building, using one of the giant windows to make sure his hair was slicked just right. He couldn't be looking like a goof with all of the most esteemed mobsters hanging out with him, now could he?

Taking a seat, he waited for someone to notice him. Anyone. He was sure it wouldn't take long now, everyone always could almost sense when he was in the area. He had that much of a pull. He didn't know it if it was sexuality that he oozed, or the fact that he was such an important person within his community, but no one could get enough of Ted, he was sure of it...

n00b had heard stories about this place and the characters that had once inhabited it. The legendary Gordon_Zola, SexyBeast, and Bearderus once rubbed elbows here. He also heard of lesser beings such as Marionette, Chuckle, and ThomasHarrow, who rubbed their balls all over each other and any rotten corpse they found on the street.

After a long night of drinking shitty pilsner on Ragnarok's dime, n00b took the advice of his boss Barry and took a trip to The Peach Pit, to have a look at what it was all about. Apparently, a few made guys, specifically The_Stig and Batiatus, were trying to bring it back to it's former glory.

As n00b walked through the door, the stench of stale booze, fecal matter, and endless bad decisions slapped him right across the face. This place was nothing short of a rancid shithole, but for some reason, had some old world charm and appeal to it. Perhaps a meal and a drink was a good idea?

The chicken pot pie and old fashioned was delightful. A real treat for a guy used to sucking on tube steak and gargling semen on a regular basis, but n00b didn't care, he was willing to do anything to get ahead. Or give head, for that matter.

He planned on spreading the good word of The Peach Pit to the masses, as this was the kind of place people should frequent when visiting Detroit. But before leaving, there was one thing left to do...

As he headed toward the exit, he looked over to the corner, locking eyes on the bucket and mop used to clean up The Pit on a nightly basis. Without any hesitation or indecision, he dropped his pants, squatted over the bucket, and unleashed a demonic beer shit in to what had only moments before been an innocent bucket. Without wiping, he pulled up his pants and exited, looking forward to his next trip to The Pit.

The_Stig had had heard on the Factory grapevine of the comings and goings……..mainly comings actually, at the disused and neglected “Peach Pit” in downtown Detroit. Even with the sign removed and several futile attempts at setting fire to the place it still had a strange magnetism which groped and then grabbed at the wanting crotch of nearly everyone who passed by its once empirical entrance.

Bloodlines whose ancestors had stood shoulder to shoulder and contributed with their seed to the communal ejaculation mound affectionately known as “El Boner” were being tempted yet again by the sights and sounds, not to mention the tonsil tugging stench, of this marvel among the streets of Detroit.

He was keen to see for himself what on earth was going on and more importantly, if the electric erection booth was still in working order. He swung his beautiful Buick into one of the vacant spaces out front, slipped a street urchin $3 to keep an eye on it for him and made his way up the fabled marble steps towards the enormous revolving oak entrance.

He wafted in, maintaining a sublime level of composure and serenity as he did so and immediately stumbled arse over tit as he tripped over the squatting form of nOOb who was half way through a successful bowel evacuation just in front of the bar. Nothing changes he thought to himself as he dusted himself down and left nOOb meticulously measuring the girth of what he had just produced.

The_Stig was amazed to see so many people waiting, looking, touching and generally behaving in a manner commensurate with their surroundings.

He made straight towards the erection booth, plugged it in to the socket on the wall and entered………………the thing began to shake and smoke, as he took a seat and admired an old faded photograph of Gwarble being subjected to a good fisting by the Pakistani cricket team of 1929.

He then spotted Ragnarok, stood in the shadows with both hands busy in his pants pockets, perspiring at an alarming rate and making deep grunting noises in time with every inadequately concealed thrust of his hips. Batiatus peered through the glass doorway of the erection booth shouting at the top of his voice with every sentence prefixed by the word “fucking”. The scene was set, a gathering was in the offing, and even odds were now being offered against Barry losing his virginity that very night.

It had been a long time since Barry had stepped foot in the infamous backwater shit-ridden cesspool that had once upon led a double life as a bar. He looked around the familiar sights with a sense of nostalgia and mostly shame. Shame that he hadn't been here for nearly 6 months and also shame because he had been here before at all. It was a mixed bag, The Peach Pit; fifty percent lust, fifty percent disgust and one hundred percent filth. It was as much a monument to Gordon Zola as the naked, one-bollocked statue in the Warehouse was.

Barry hadn't come to the Pit for pleasure though, this was a business trip. He had planned to ask n00b to meet him there and fully intended to chain him up to the bar and abandon him but that had been scuppered by the memo on his desk that morning from Curtis. Apparently The_Stig had gone off the rails again and was under the impression he had been "authed" to set up a crew in honour of the one eyed trouser snake and had been spending his days locked away in the erection booth hammering every last ounce he had. 

Barry sighed and tentatively approached the booth, nudging it with his foot "You in there, shitbag?" he asked. 

FIN

Disorder had walked the streets for some time looking for the building. He had nothing but a half blurred sketch map scrawled on a napkin for guidance. Scipio had told him stories of the place after he'd mentioned his own father had spoken highly of it in old journals. Eventually he found the tell tale fire damage above the doorway, pulled down the mysterious french film caption and went inside.

Nothing can really prepare a person for the overwhelming swell of sickness brought on by being hit full in the face with a well enclosed smell. Rot, shit, fire, damp, dick and urine. All hitting together like one immaculate punch. Disorder was rocked back on his heels, the Champ struggling to keep his feet. Regaining his composure, he wadded the napkin map over his face and pressed on into the gloom.

***

After several days, phone calls, cleaners, electricians, shop-fitters and painters, the place had regained an almost functional appearance. There was still a lot to do and several contractors were still busy at work rebuilding the fine oak bar, installing high-backed leather booths and tables but Disorder was pleased. Proud even. He'd carefully salvaged all the memorabilia he could. The old photos of Gordon_Zola, Chuckle, Marionette, Sexy, Barry, The_Stig and the gang had all been cleaned and framed. There were some odd ones too, a photo of a well abused toilet and another of a misplaced shit, one of a panicked face running from a burning background, one more of what looked like a prison style gang-rape in what used to be the kitchen. There were many more. Disorder didn't know the ins and outs of a lot of this stuff but he had a rich appreciation for history and knew it must be preserved and presented undoctored. Without close scrutiny the walls looked quite attractive, all covered in tasteful black framed 'arty' photos.

Disorder took a moment to sit on one of the new bar stools and look at the place. He was pleased. It was the perfect starting point for the next cycle of abused and neglect that would lead the now beautiful bar on it's inexorable journey to becoming a burned out shit hole once again. As a nod to the history he'd decided on a philosophically perfect sign above the entrance. In the mass of fire damage on the brick above the doorway, he'd simply used a cleaning fluid and wiped the name "The Peach Pit" in clean red brick surrounded by the thick black char. The electrician switched on the old dim lamp above it and presto! The chic of the place was restored.

He went inside, picked up the phone and dialed the office in Vegas.

"Hey Scipio, it's done man... Yeah it's all fixed up and ready to go. Just waiting on a shipment of booze now... Yeah man, tell green... Ok I'll see you guys soon."

Drumming his thick fingers on the newly finished wood, he looked forward to the first good drink since the last one. 

Scipio took the call from Disorder whilst bathing in his favorite lavender fragrance and receiving a swift blow job from the crew bike, BarbaraAmmer.

“Dammit Barb…….be careful with those fake nails of yours!”

“Right man, got it. Where is it again? Detroit! Right, I’m all over it chief. Leave it with me I’ll be right over.”

He’d heard a rumor that Disorder was about to re-ignite some burned out shit hole but couldn’t believe it was the depth of depravity itself…………. The Peach Pit.

My God, he thought to himself, I can almost smell the bottled urine and crushed velvet drapes encrusted with vomit. The Pit had had a reputation so he’d heard but chose to stay clear for health reasons and to ensure his masculine virility.

“Ok Barb that’s enough now luv, wipe yourself down and get me my finest pin stripe suit out will you please. I’ve got to get to Detroit to see old independent suspension bollocks. Yes, that’s right, the champ. Yes, the big champ. Stop drooling now Barbara and leave me alone.”

He makes his way to Detroit and finally places his foot onto the marble steps leading to the oak and brass revolving door. The doorway had the tell-tale signs of a toilet accident many moons before and the amount of what looked like pubic hair strewn about the place was nothing more than deeply worrying.

The occasional cushions on the leather furniture had what looked like skid marks on them, half full condoms in which the contents had congealed long before, hung from the crystal chandeliers and teeth marks could be seen throughout the length of the once highly polished surface of the mahogany bar.

He removes the handkerchief from his hip pocket and dusts down a bar stool before dragging it over beside Disorder………………….” Well my friend, you’ve done it then. One question though………who the hell is that old faggot strapped in that leather clad booth back there………. you know, him there.”

Scipio points to a disheveled looking character strapped to a chair with his index finger firmly planted up a cockerels arse and biting incessantly on a wooden mouth bit.

Having just been released from the Detroit city jail, HighPitchEric entered the Peach Pit carrying his parole papers.  He had just served a maximum sentence for narcotics trafficking, a full ten minutes, and was now court ordered to find legal gainful employment.  The first thing that struck Eric about the Peach Pit was the cozy, homelike feeling that washed over him, probably due to the atrocious smell reminding him of his own apartment.  Was that a man strapped to a booth in the corner?  He sat at the bar next to WhitePunkOnDope, some Made guy from New York.  "Hey look over there at that guy strapped to the chair!" Eric said to WhitePunkOnDope in his peculiar high-pitched voice.  As he turned his head to look, HighPitchEric took a quick swig from WhitePunk's whiskey glass.  He looked behind the bar.  It was Scipio.  "Hey Scipio!  It's me, HighPitchEric!" he squealed. 

Fifteen minutes passed as HighPitchEric tried to remind Scipio that they did indeed know each other, and in fact they were both in the same Las Vegas crime family.  Eric was mostly ignored by the other Farseer members, which was a pleasant change of pace to being ridiculed and beaten by the other bullylike members of FitzChivalry's outfit.  HighPitchEric eventually gave up trying to remind Scipio of who he was and decided it was time to speak business in his irritatingly high pitched voice.

I need a job Scipio.  My parole officer says if I don't find gainful employment they're going to throw me back in jail.  I don't want to go back.  They were mean to me there.  They made fun of my voice, they called my "piggy-girl", they said my mouth was a "face vagina" and used it as an occasional toilet.  Please help me Scipio.  I can wash dishes, mop... well that's pretty much all I'm qualified to do actually, and I'm not entirely sure I'm qualified to do that but I'll be a good worker and a good fit for a fine dining establishment such as this. Here's my paperwork...

He pulled his paperwork from underneath his arm, his armpit perspiration having soaked the ink into an indecipherable smear on the now wilted paper.

NOOOOOOOOO!