Genevieve pushed open the creaky wooden door to The Detroit Pub, the musty scent of stale beer, unwashed men and stale cigarette smoke hits her and causes the woman's face to wrinkle up in mild-disgust. Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, Genevieve moves further in taking in the dimly lit interior, shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke. The low buzz of conversations, clinking glasses and random bursts of raucous laughter fill the establishment, and slowly Genevieve gets used to the smell and lowers her hand, and moves to take a seat at the bar. 

Behind the counter, an aging bartender with a handlebar mustache wipes down a row of dusty glasses with a cloth. The shelves behind him are lined with bottles of whiskey and gin, some of them half-empty and covered in cobwebs. A sign advertising a popular brand of cigarettes hangs crookedly on the wall, and a clock with broken a face ticks away the seconds. Genevieve catches the bartender's eye as she took a seat, patiently waiting for the man to get to her. 

The pub's decor is distinctly old-fashioned, with faded wallpaper and peeling paint. The seating consists of worn leather booths and battered wooden chairs, with a few dartboards and a pool table occupying the back of the room. The only source of light comes from the dim bulbs of a few hanging lamps, casting deep shadows in the corners of the room.

Despite its dilapidated state, the pub is bustling with activity. Some of the faces in the crowd are familiar to Genevieve, some are not. Not wanting to interrupt anyone's evening, Genevieve decided she would just order her drink and sit alone for the time being. 

Polio had given himself an afternoon off and needed a well earned drink in the local.

It wasn't planned, no one knew he was going but as he opened the door it was great to see the hustle and bustle. It was like the good ole days.

With plenty of familiar faces from the local crews, Polio decided to get everyone a drink.

This one is on me he declared as he pointed to his favourite type of whiskey.

Polio saw Genevieve on her own, deep in thought, so decided to take a seat next to her

Ada sauntered into the dimly-lit pub, her eyes scanning the room for a pool table. She spotted one in the far corner, where a lone man was lining up his shot. Ada approached the table, her cue in hand.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, feigning innocence.

The man looked her up and down, a smirk on his face. "Sure thing, sweetheart. But I gotta warn ya, I'm pretty good."

Ada nodded, taking her place at the table. She watched as the man sunk a few balls, pretending to be impressed by his skills. When he suggested they make it interesting and bet on the game, Ada played along, acting as though she was a novice player.

The first game began, and Ada made a show of missing easy shots and making mistakes. The man grew confident and began to up the ante, eager to win more money. Ada, however, remained calm and collected.

As the second game started, Ada's true abilities emerged. She sank ball after ball, her skill and dexterity with the cue evident in every shot. The man watched in disbelief as Ada took control of the game, effortlessly sinking the 8-ball to win.

She collected her winnings, a sly grin on her face as she walked away from the table and over to the bar to have a drink. Ada knew better than anyone that sometimes, playing possum was the best way to get what you wanted.

Roya had just relieved her bowels at the 12th Street Toilet and after having her fortune read by the mysterious person that lives there (the news weren't good, but they were probably accurate), she was in desperate need of a stiff drink. Perhaps not just one, but many. She followed the sounds of people laughing and the smell of cheap beer and tobacco and found herself walking into The Detroit Pub. She looked around. The place was bustling with activity, despite being what looked like the place Roya had just walked out: a shithole. She spotted a beautiful woman playing pool with an apparently flabbergasted man. He was losing and not happy about it. Roya then looked at the bar and noticed Genevieve and Polio sitting at the stools, next to each other. She decided to join them.

"I'll have a glass of whiskey, please. Neat." Roya adressed the bartender, while opening her cigarette case and lighting a Marlboro Red. She offered the opened case to Polio and Genevieve "You guys want one?"

RamsDale see a nice looking pub and decides he should go in he walks towards the door and opens the door he could smell the cigs and he goes towards the bar and asks the bar keep for a pint of beer he then walks too a table that's facing the door and pulls a chair up so he can sit by the wall he then takes a sip of his beer thinking about his life and the responsibilities he has 

Vallenar opened the doors of the pub and a wave of nostalgia seemed to assault him. The all too familiar scent of aged wood, stale beer, and the lingering of hushed conversations greeted him. The decor of the place was a testament to its storied history, with faded wallpaper peeling off the walls and layers of paint showing their age.

The seating arrangements were a mix of worn leather booths, their once-vibrant colors now faded by time, and battered wooden chairs that creaked with every movement. In the dimly lit ambiance, a few dart boards hung on the walls, marked with scars of countless games, and a well-worn pool table stood proudly at the back of the room, its green surface reflecting the dim glow.

Dim bulbs suspended from hanging lamps cast a soft glow, their light creating intriguing patterns and deep shadows in the corners of the room. The play of light and shadow seemed to mirror the duality of the pub itself, a place where secrets were shared, and hidden alliances formed amidst the buzz of activity.

Finding himself drawn to the dartboards, Vallenar made his way toward the rowdy group engaged in a heated game. As he approached, he caught the eye of a player, a stranger with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He gestured toward the empty dartboard adjacent to his, an unspoken invitation to join the game.

With a nod and a knowing smile, Vallenar accepted the challenge. The clink of glasses and the hum of conversations provided the backdrop as Vallenar and the stranger became quick friends. Vallenar remained focused on the task at hand, with dart in hand, he felt a surge of energy coursing through him enhancing his perception and his aim.

With each throw, Vallenar could sense a connection forming between himself and his new acquaintance. They exchanged banter, sharing laughter and friendly jabs. As the darts found their marks on the board, their camaraderie grew, an unspoken understanding woven through their interactions.

As the game progressed, Vallanar and his new friend discovered shared interests beyond the realm of darts. Conversations meandered from pub anecdotes to the mysterious, delving into the esoteric realms of the occult. It became clear that they were kindred spirits, both familiar with the enigmatic forces that lie beneath the surface of the ordinary world.

Between turns, they sipped their drinks, the cool liquid offering respite from the intensity of the game. Amidst the dilapidated charm of the pub, the new friends found solace in their connection, a shared appreciation for the ancient traditions and a mutual understanding of the balance between power and consequence.

As the night wore on, the bustling activity of the pub seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the connection forged between newfound friends. In this dimly lit haven, they played their game, danced on the edge of mystery, and discovered that amidst the peeling paint and worn leather, there was a place where friendship and the enchantment of the occult converged.

Tempted as he was to just drive around in the recently purchased Chevy, Fortunato had decided that the Cardosis could do with another stop along their leisurely route.

"Don't even pretend you couldn't use a swig of something to loosen those pretty, tight curls, red," Forunato said with a sly grin as he looked at the puzzled expression across his better half's pretty face. "Surely they got some kind of red wine?" A cursory glance back to the door to the establishment had him second-guessing his own reassuring tone. 

Once they made their way inside, the pack of Camels in Fortunato's suit jacket nearly jumped out by themselves. A dry butt rested on his lip as he completed the ritual of the raised arm to get the bartender's attention. After glancing at some of the local clientele, Fortunato's other arm snaked around the waist of his wife and made sure she was close by to his hip. 

"What'lleet be?" Said the bartender while cleaning one of the never-quite-sparkling glasses of the pub with a dirty cloth. 

"I'll take two fingers of something Irish preferably but it's not a deal breaker if we are drinking with the Scotts. Normally I'd ask for something single malt, but I'm not going to push my luck today." He said with a wink as his hand rifled through his pockets for his lighter. A few sparks later and the camel began to puff to life. 

"Oh, and your finest pour of red for the misses." Fortunato hoped that the man realized he was talking wine as he laid a ten-dollar bill down on the counter and began to look around for an empty table they could snag. Across the bar, he saw a familiar face chatting with one of the locals over a competitive game of darts. "Hopefully he's winning," Fortunato said to Ginevra with the lit end of his cigarette pointing off towards their crew mate.