Your Money Is No Good Here Mr. Torrence.

Things have not progressed very far since the last time I posted. I still find myself drawn to the blasted Dirty Martini, the beast that ruined the old world.
Last night found me and some un-named cohorts in a vintage Golden Age hotel bar that looked like it was pulled right out of The Shining. In between haunting the other patrons the bartender managed to do more damage to my liver than Jack Nicholson with a fire axe. The atmosphere was distinctly plush and luxurious but ghostly, silent ballroom dancers fading in and out of existence and a creepy pair of twins kept asking if we wanted to play. By the third martini I was ready to stuff Scatman Crothers into the deep freeze, and after the forth I was ejected from the premises when they found me in the basement trying to stoke up the boiler to the point of exploding. But that was fine with me, I didn’t need to witness the bloodbath that was surely on the way. In the end, I believe I made great progress in finding out what all play and no work will eventually make Jack into.

‘Til we meet again, try not to step on your own dick.

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