The Backstory

Frank Blumel is a twenty-eight year old man living in Brooklyn and working as a bartender at a faux-retro speakeasy and gastropub called Craft Love. He’s got vaguely nautical arm tattoos, gauged earlobes, a well-kept mustache, and his tried-and-true karaoke pick is “Some Nights” by fun. And he is currently trapped in a time loop by an incensed trickster god.

He didn’t mean to piss the deity off, but yesterday (the yesterday of 187 todays ago, and counting), Frank invited his buddies to come distract him during a long, slow Thursday night shift, and after he broke down the bar, he may have given the buddies a little back-of-house tour, bolstered by a few “sure, I’ll take a shot with you guys”’s of Fernet. How was he supposed to predict that he’d end up dared past the “Authorized Personnel Only” door his manager told him not to even look at, tripping into a dank cellar with salt poured in weird patterns on the floor, giggling and reading to his friends what had to be gibberish from what looked like one of those “magic tome” props from the tabletop game store down the street?

Not gibberish, real book, Frank knows now, and his punishment for waking this being from their ancient slumber and apparently asking them to kill everyone on the planet but not actually meaning it, what the fuck is to make sure none of his bar patrons die tonight. Easy enough, you’d think, except…

The Night

“My main man, Frankie B!” George’s loud greeting is accompanied by the sound of heavy footsteps on the last couple of stairs leading into the basement speakeasy. They come in an even thump-thump-thump.

Frank masks a breath of relief. “Good to see you, big dawg,” he replies from his perch on a tall velvet barstool.

“The hell you doing up there?” George’s girl, M-something, asks as she enters the bar behind him, squinting upwards and shielding her eyes with one hand. 

“Tightening this light,” Frank replies, grimacing and shoving the screwdriver in his mouth as he adjusts the flickering chandelier against the ceiling and holds firmly. “Behave,” he tells it under his breath. “Ca’ never ‘e doo careful,” he adds aloud. George nods, shrugs.

“Want any help?” Vicki asks, starting to shift on her stool. 

“Absolutely not, thanks so much, babe.” Frank finishes and drops back down to the floor, swinging casually around the bartop to return to his station. His hands grip the brass rail along the counter with white knuckles. “What can I make you though?”

“You know me, another martini, dirty as sin…” Vicki bats her eyelashes at him, leans forward on her elbows.

Frank wishes he could properly appreciate the effort. Maybe he’ll go home with her one of these nights, if he can ever make it out of here. Or if she can. He eyes his fully stocked well. “We’re out of olives, love. No can do.”

“Bullshiiiit!”

“Dead serious. Ran out last night.”

“Ugh, whatever mister, dry it is. With a twist.” Frank wonders if a tiny shred of lemon rind can block someone’s airway. He sighs, shrugs, grabs a coupe glass. 

Several carefully concocted libations pass by in a blur, a few dozen “Sorry, jukebox is out of order tonight!”, a couple of “Okay, how ‘bout I supervise this game of darts, be right back,” and a “Are you sure you should be drinking tonight? Aren’t you on medication right now? Don’t ask me how I know that, just order a mocktail. Thank you.” Patrons are finally trickling out, and Frank glances at the time on his phone in hopeful exhaustion. Fifteen till close. Could this be… it? The night he makes it, the night he does everything right?

Working through his closing duties in his mind, he heads to the restroom to give it a once over and close it up for the night. And that’s when it happens. “Are you kidding me…”

Frank watches what’s-his-name-starts-with-D get a piece of toilet paper stuck to his heel as he exits a stall. He watches the toilet paper continue its journey off of the roll and wad up on the ground, snagging in the stall door. He watches D-whatever begin to stumble. He lurches forward to catch him, and the man is righted, only to trip on the paper again, then slip on a water puddle, then careen wildly through the room, arms flung out, almost catch hold of the hand dryer, lose hold of the hand dryer, fall backward ass-first and in the process slam the back of his skull into the edge of the porcelain sink. Frank stares a hole through the floor as the incredibly unlucky man twitches in a growing pool of his own blood. “Motherfucker,” is all he can say.

“Frank! What the hell, oh God, call an ambulance—Frank? Earth to Frankie, where you going?” He drowns the words of the others out, hears them get replaced by a low, satisfied, rumbling laugh that begins under the old wooden floorboards and shudders up along the walls, rattling the liquor bottles as he bolts up the steps and out of the bar, onto the Brooklyn sidewalk. 

“Fine, you eldritch asshole, I’ll try again tomorrow,” he says into the air as he walks.

I̶̳̖̩͗̎̐͜t̵̮͙̜̦͒̿̓ ̴̺̖̾w̸̡͈̫̬͆̔̈́͘ȯ̴̢̙̪̼n̸̡̗͇̤̿’̶̢͎̬̠͊̑̑t̵̲̀ ̸̤̲̂ḅ̵̢̓̌͌͘ḛ̶̥̅ ̵̰͇͐̌̌̇t̷̲͕̿̇͋ò̷̜̈́̓̚͜m̸̼͛̋͑̃o̸̯̤̒͗̾r̴̻͇̦͆͒r̵͇̾̈̈́̃o̴̮̘̜̽͛̃͘w̷̡̟͋͛ͅ, comes the response.

“Yeah, ha ha, good one,” Frank replies, and steps into traffic. Friday starts over.