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the snake pit is not the bar you go to if you want to have a good time. it is small, it is cramped, and the bartender and owner has an attitude that few clients can put up with. however, it is the kind of bar you go to if you want to drink yourself into a stupor, if you want to forget. when a person walks in, the world outside of the snake pit ceases to exist. the door closes, and a patron is in another reality entirely for as long as their wallet can handle it.[break][break]

there are only a few tables, and each of them look like they haven't been reupholstered since they were made. the bar is cracked, scratched, and reeks of cigarette smoke. dim, flickering lights cast long shadows across the room, and the patrons are faceless and nameless. the walls, painted a dark, indeterminate color, are adorned with old, faded posters and obscure memorabilia, much of them depicting reptilian pokemon. the snake pit hosts no music, and whispered conversations and the clink of glasses are the only sounds that break the heavy silence.[break][break]

few clients stay for more than one drink unless they are of the clientele that the snake pit adheres to. the ambience is overwhelmingly dangerous, and patrons can owe that to the owner and bartender, absinthe. from four pm to 2 am every night, she assumes her post behind the bar, commanding her domain with what can only be described as the ruthless efficiency of a seasoned predator. she keeps careful note of every person who comes in and out of her world, all the while washing glasses and engaging in the endless minutiae that defines the duties of a small business owner. regulars mention her whenever speaking upon the snake pit in such a fashion: "she makes good drinks. just try not to look her in the eye." even better, there's no chance for her to spit in their drinks—not even her most dedicated patrons have seen absinthe's face beyond her eyes, owing to the dark mask always on her face.[break][break]

tonight is a slow one. weekdays are never particularly busy except for the usual lowlifes. as such, absinthe is unpacking bottles into her shelves, sorting glasses, and wiping the bar down in preparation for a lonely night. when the door chimes, indicating a new entry, absinthe's eyes raise, and their dark depths focus on the entrance. who could this be?

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