“What a space this’ll make for a VIP room,” my boss slurred at me. He’d been given access to a basement of an old meat-packing factory, closed for decades, through the wall of his club. The owner had been liquidated and now the space was on the market for chicken-feed.
“We’ll need to brand it; appease the insta crowd. It’s got-to-be the place-to-be, know what I mean? Get yourself down there … and think edgy, Lenny – but not animal-sacrifice-edgy.”
With that, he’d lobbed the keys at me.
So that’s why I down here now; to tour this grotty basement and see beyond the filth. To create his exclusive brand, his high-end concept.
I guess they butchered the animals down here; and prepped the meat for service. Jesus. The thought of it makes my teeth creak inside my mouth, and my tongue dries up like a piece of biltong. I’m kinda glad of that, however, as I feel I could taste the air; and it was foul. I spot something horrid on the white-tiled wall.
What the hell is that? A spurt of long-congealed blood? Am I seeing things?
I rub at my eyes; closer inspections suggests the spatter was just crud. I remind myself this place was closed back in the sixties, and inspiration starts to boil like a pot of ribs. I get a sense of what the space could be … those white tiles could work man, they really could.
Sure, it was gnarly, but the boss’d get the deep-cleaners in, chrome the place right up. I understood why he’d been so buzzed. It was a speakeasy-in-waiting.
My thoughts are interrupted by a strange sound.
What the Christ is that scratching noise? Rabid claws, tearing into metal. Wait! Now it’s a beak, pecking at the stainless-steel counter in wretched convulsions.
With a shake of my head, I get back to business. I need to focus. My boss needs a concept; and he needs it today. Hospitality is a fast-paced business, kid. Bars were popping up in all kinds of freaky places. The more bizarre, the better. These days, the customers are all dead inside; and don’t care to communicate, unless on a screen. These days, what counts isn’t the one you’re with, it’s the instant experience of it all, the snapshot – that’s the only show in town.
As I tip-toe round, I discover an industrial drain in the floor below the counter, set slightly below floor-level. The corrugated cover has around thirty holes, crusted and rotted. I gag, imagining the utter filth which has encircled it. The plumbing underneath must be pipe after pipe of decrepit flesh, bony parcels and long streaks of copper-coloured blood.
A braying scream pierces the dank air. Jesus!
Where the hell is that coming from? Is it the behind walls, the tiles? Is it … in the necrotic pipes below? Has this place trapped the cries of all the poor animals that were slaughtered down here?
I burl around, regaining my senses. I need to get back to the task. I take my photos, I measure. I think of where the downlighters might go.
As the minutes pass, the stench becomes overpowering. At one time there must have been slop buckets against this back wall, filled with gizzards and cracked bones.
This city enjoys a bit of Avant Garde. We’re no stranger to an illicit bar … but a high-class VIP where butchers used to slice and dice; where they’d carve the carcasses?
A new sound strangles what air is left. In the name of the Good Lord! What am I hearing now?! My ears are filled with a distinctly non-human gurgle … like an animal trying to clear its throat of its own blood.
A flash of white light; and a sudden image invades my mind. I see a bloated, snarling man; his dirty grey apron covered in bloody prints. He’s holding a cleaver, and a cigarette hangs from his fat, purple lips. The cleaver rises and falls repeatedly. A piece of … something … falls from his killing table, and he kicks it underneath. The cadaver underneath the counter seems to writhe; to seek escape, and he kicks at it again. And then, the vision clears; as suddenly as it came.
My hands are shaking and there is sweat on my upper lip. I flip my torch on and tilt my head underneath the counter and… dear God … I see that drain … that crusted drain … and it is undulating.
And then …
A splurge of rancid blood and guts bursts out like a geyser, covering me in decades old filth, swilling and spewing. I fall backwards, screaming, and all around me drips the excreta from the pipes below.
Help me! Dear God, help me!
I flee; I slip on the puddles of blood forming on the floor. I’m on my hands and knees. As I scramble, the cries of all the dead beasts fill the air.
I grab at the floor to steady myself, and I feel the decrepit grime under my fingernails and the stinking blood soak through my jeans. I put my hands to my ears to stop the death wails, and stagger into the fire door.
I fall out into the back court, into the blessed night-rain, frantic.
Gasping, I wash the blood and entrails from my hands and hair. I find my breath. I peer down at myself. There is no blood; no gore. It has, all of it, been a figment.
And then, my phone goes. It’s the boss.
“Well now Lenny,” he says, pronouncing his words like he’s chewing a bloated piece of gristly beef. “What do you make of the new space, then? It’s going to be super exclusive. The real deal. Think we’ll call it … ‘The Abattoir’. What d’ye reckon Lenny?”
“Lenny? You there? What d’ye reckon?”
I look up. I let the droplets wash over my face.
“You’ll make a killing boss, a killing.”
Originally appeared in Flash Phantoms.