The last time felt worse, but it was still awful. I was cold, sweaty and wanted to get out of this horrible building as quickly as possible. The floors were sticky and reminded me of the worst bars I had worked in. Back when I was starting out I had worked in some severely sub-par efforts.

Those days were long gone, but somehow the panic in the pit of my stomach never went away. One thing always leads to another. Get a gig at a better bar and you have to upgrade your kit. You start hobnobbing with higher-paying clientele. Before you know it, you’re spending just as much more than your paycheck as you had been last year. And there were always the visits to the Basement.

That’s how I knew I was in for it. You scrapped the bottom long enough and it started to become a part of you. The Basement was the clearest representation of everything wrong in my life. The doorman checked my ID and gave me the stamp—always some form of a red heart, but always a little different. This one was ornate, like the suit from a deck of Bicycle playing cards.

“Hello, barkeep. The usual room, B3 on the elevator. Right this way.”

“Thank you,” I responded, shifting my leather cocktail bag.

The elevator descended quickly. The door chime sounded and the metal doors slid back. The hallway was lit with a light blue, and there was a red glow coming from underneath the door at the end.

I strode to the door. As always, my stomach was in knots. This would have to stop. This would be the last time. As always.

I opened the door and the red light flowed out into the hallway, diffusing into a deep purple.

This door opened into sort of waiting room. Another doorman, this one much better dressed, compared my stamp to an identical stamp in a small booklet he produced from his jacket pocket, then ushered me inside.

The room inside contained a small stage, where a pianist drifted through a Haydn sonata. The red light was even stronger inside this inner lounge. There was a good crowd tonight. I clenched my teeth and tried to focus on how much I could make if things went well.

I took up my place at the bar and checked through the bottles to acquaint myself with what was available. A couple approached, seemingly on a first date—close to each other but walking awkwardly.

“Good evening. What will it be tonight?”

“A pair of boulevardier’s, yes?” he asked. She assented and I rolled out my gear. The Campari drizzled over ice almost looked blue in the red light. I dashed the vermouth into both drinks, then finished them with my personal twist: a 2:3 mix of bourbon and rye whiskey. I garnished the drinks and set them on the bar. The couple nodded their thanks and worked their way back to their table, stopping to chat as they went.

I watched them for a little bit too long, and knocked over the simple syrup as I tried to replace the Campari. One of the guests had walked over for a drink and saw my mistake. My face went white.

“You won’t do that again,” he stated flatly. More and more eyes turned towards me. Too late, I felt someone walk up behind me. Their teeth sunk into my neck, and I stumbled forward.

There were lots of grins now, teeth showing. The last thing I saw was one of the guests leaning over the spilled simple syrup, lapping at it like an animal.