The tavern was in a dank, dark alleyway and I’ll be forthright and honest in explaining that I don’t remember how I even got there. We had been drinking; it was Saint Paddy’s Day, an ancient Irish tradition which now takes the form of a drinking contest. Twisted and distorted, my mind was about to get a shock that would wake it up into consciousness. It was more than a meeting, and I hope it’s fair to say my attendance was completely unnecessary and unwarranted. I am not by nature an evil person. Detached from my friends and inebriated, I stumbled down an ethereal-looking alley to relieve myself. After urinating, I turned to find steps descending into a cellar-like pub. The music was odd but still something about the steps seemed to call out to me, beckoning me downward. I descended slowly, cautiously, yet I didn’t sense any presence of danger, at least not yet.

The ambience was hazy, and there were but a few worn down, shabby-looking stragglers at the bar, as I walked up and ordered a drink. The bartender was expressionless and to this day my memory fails to recollect his facial features; it is strange but it was as if his face was anonymous, his facial features an occlusion on my mind. This was the first inexplicable detail, but I can assure you the bizarreness of this place didn’t stop there.

                I ordered a tap beer and began to “go sip”, or gossip as it is more commonly known. A strange, red-haired man told me of his betraying to his father, an Arab spoke of terror in the skies, a Viking talked of tricking a country into inhabiting the wrong island, a German spoke of his conquest. They all sounded like braggarts, dead-beat losers trying to support a lost cause; genocide, a Holy War, betrayal and false advertising. I listened and tried to be witty and supportive.

                When I was halfway through my beer, an old man half-limped and staggered in. Everybody in the pub seemed to know him. He was clearly a man who was infamous throughout these parts. The right side of his face was covered with a large bandage. The German bought him a shot of Jägermeister, and they clinked their glasses together before tossing it down the hatch. 

                A man dressed like a joker turned to a suspicious-looking fellow and said, “There must be some kind of way out of here,” and he looked at me when he said it, which in all honesty made me quite paranoid. The entire experience was, in truth, very surreal. I was going to finish my beer and leave, but I got the very real sense that there was no leaving.

                Eventually the old man with the bandage over the right side of his face clinked a spoon against a glass and spoke up, “Welcome to the meeting of the worst people in the history of the world.”

                “Of course, you all know why you’re here,” announced the old man.

His voice filled me with fantastic terrors that I had never experienced before. I tried to scream but it only came out as a yawn. Surely there was something ethereal if not supernatural happening here. My head was spinning; surely this was some kind of feverish dream. Please, God, tell me that I’m still asleep, I thought to myself. As I did not wake, I continued to sip my beer in the hopes it would provide some amnesia to the very alarming present in front of me. A meeting? Of the worst people in the history of the world?  As reality continued to unfurl, several questions came surfacing to my mind. Was he serious? Why was I invited? Was this some kind of mistake? I went to finish my drink and leave, but the bartender had run off somewhere and I was unable to pay my tab. I considered leaving, but given the situation, I didn’t want to trifle with these shameless men. The meeting continued unabated.

“We should call the roll,” exclaimed the old man. It turned out that he was known as the adversary, no first name, no surname, just the adversary. In the old days, old men used to call the Devil something similar. If the old man was the Devil, I’ll say this, he didn’t appear that powerful or strong. He looked meek, as if a stiff summer breeze might knock him over.

They had called the role. It is important to note that my name was not called. Most of the attendees just ignored me, some acted as if they couldn’t even see me. I wondered if they could.

“What street is this pub on?” I asked the joker, but he acted as if he didn’t hear me, although he did give me a bemused look.

“Very well, old business,” the old man announced and all attention turned toward the red-haired traitor. He had pulled a scroll out from his tunic and was unrolling it.

He cleared his throat. “As you all know, if you bothered to read the report, everything is going according to plan. Both famine and disease have steadily risen since the turn of the century,” he said proudly.

“Das ist not enuff,” the German scowled nastily. “Var ist scarce und hate appears to no longer be der zeitgeist. Ve must have more!!!”

“There are nine wars going on in Africa alone,” the red-haired traitor explained.

“Nein,” doubted the German, straightening his mustache.

“Misery is strong,” the Arab suggested.

“Misery ist nil,” the German exclaimed miserably.

“Envy is making a comeback,” the red-haired traitor reasoned.

“Envy is strong,” said the suspicious-looking thief.

“Never underestimate the power of envy to destroy,” replied the joker.

“ENOUGH!!!” bellowed the adversary in a voice that was not overtly strong but seemed to cut off everybody in the room.

The bartender appeared. Again his face seems to elude me; it was covered by a tray of shots that were neon blue. They glowed bright in the hazy light of the pub, I remember that. I also remember being startled; as I looked down at my beer, it appeared to be full. Again, I had this feeling that I might be dreaming, and I tried to pinch myself but I did not wake. The faceless bartender was distributing the glowing aqua shots, the tray still blocking his face.

“Hypnotic,” said the joker to the thief. They clinked their glasses together. There was the sound as if a toaster was popping up. How odd.

“New business,” stated the adversary.

All eyes turned toward the Arab, who was opening a small flip-top laptop. “We are getting close, closer, closest, it is crumbling…crumbling…crumbling,” he seemed to be building up to something.

“Mankind is always crumbling,” stated the Viking. “The world is in a state of decay.”

“The best part is that the stupid humans are oblivious,” the Arab laughed, but the pub was still silent.

“Humans are cockroaches,” said the German; everyone in the pub seemed to agree.

There was an uncomfortable silence. The Arab was typing on the keyboard.

“The New City is nearly flooded,” the Arab stated.

“Stupid humans built it below sea level,” retorted the joker.

The Arab just stared at his laptop.

“Maybe it’s a false sign,” said the thief.

When the grumbling stopped, the Arab continued, “We have also seen the second sign, wintertime at the Great Pyramids.”

Nobody said a word.

“And the third sign, the approaching asteroid.”

The Arab whispered, “The caldera bubbles more each day,” as he typed something on the keyboard. He mumbled something. It sounded like Yellowstone or Hello, Stone. “It should be soon,” he finished sounding somewhat callow.

“When?” the adversary questioned. “Soon could be a hundred years in the life of a volcano. And yet we still continue to stew here and wait.”

“Ze time vill soon be at hand,” said the German showing his support for the Arab. I looked to the walls for some timepiece or clock and was once again startled to see none. I got up to leave but became consciously aware of all eyes on me. The German cleared his throat and the adversary let out a Hmphf, so I sat back down. What had I walked into the middle of? And what would happen if I attempted to leave? The meeting continued unabated.

The laptop seemed to change colors or at least the screen did. “When the sky turns black and is filled with fire and the oceans turn to blood,” the Arab said confidently.  

“Das ist ze seventh sign,” added the German.

The seventh sign, I thought. Oceans turning to blood? Was he referring to the apocalypse? Again, I felt a ping as if reality had somehow split apart and its crazy inner core was being revealed. What was this place?

“It can’t be the seventh sign,” said the adversary. “We haven’t seen signs four, five and six.”

“That’s not the way it works,” stated the joker, and he looked quite serious.

“Please enlighten us,” said the adversary.

“There are Four Horsemen,” the joker said. “They are not literally horsemen but more like personifications of tribulations; Plague or Pestilence, Famine, War, Death. After the Four Horsemen, there shall be three signs.”

The Viking started to guffaw, “I don’t think the apocalypse comes with a set of instruction manuals.”

Then everybody started to whisper at once. The dead beer hall was suddenly filled with life, and chaos ruled.

The next five pieces of dialogue happened in the next five seconds:

“How can ve be sure?” questioned the German.

“Seven seals,” said the Viking.

“Four Horsemen and three signs?” questioned the red-headed traitor. “I thought it was seven signs.”

“The adversary doesn’t even know what he’s doing,” said the thief. “We should take him out!”

“Now is the time,” said the joker.

I figured the same, I could use the distraction to slip out.

I slowly, steadily tried to ease toward the stairs, but was caught up in the melee.

“You doubt me?” bellowed the adversary. He had unpeeled half of the bandage on his head, but I was afraid to look at what was underneath. From underneath the bandage, I saw movement and I had to look away. This old man had all of a sudden become a terrifying, powerful figure.

The bar became as silent as a lifeless tomb.

“Who brought you here and trained you? Who made sure you came back? Who is the gate keeper?” said the adversary.

I felt my heart sink as the adversary turned to me. “And you? Why are you here?”

I knew he was talking to me, but I hoped he wasn’t. “Me?” I questioned.

“Yes you,” said the adversary. “Who brought you here?”

There is no describing the terror I felt as all eyes turned toward me. The eyes of scoundrels that had murdered thousands, hell, millions, Hitler and Bin Laden, or whoever that German and Arab were; I assure you they were not ghosts but live beings. Their eyes suspiciously checked me up and down. Eric the Red (whose hair wasn’t actually red) and Judas the traitor (whose hair was red) peered down at me. The joker, whose half-face resembled a good friend of mine from high school, and the thief, who was clearly a criminal. Was this a nightmare? Was I hallucinating?

I stammered, “I…I…I got lost and wandered in here of my own free will.”

The adversary seemed to shake awkwardly with a sickness at the suggestion of free will. He shook it off. “Still you came here for a reason. What do you seek?”

It was a question I had often pondered. Was the answer money or fame or power or maybe even women? No, “Enlightenment,” I squeaked out timidly.

“Bah,” scowled the adversary. “We have no use for that here.”

“Maybe something with less dignity, something easier to attain,” said the old man. Several scandalously dressed women, exotic women seemed to appear out of the woodwork; one was Egyptian, the other Tunisian. They started to rub my neck and back. I was tempted but I told the old man, NO!!!

The women grabbed at my chest and crotch; even as my pants began to tighten, still I told them NO, NO, NO!!!

The word only seemed to fill the adversary with strength. And oddly the adversary looked taller.

He smiled savagely, “Perhaps flesh isn’t your thing.” He snapped his fingers. A Hispanic man with long hair in a black suit and sunglasses appeared carrying a briefcase. He lay the briefcase down, opening it, revealing it full of American dollars.

“Das ist yours,” said the German.

“All you have to do is never mention this meeting to anyone,” said the adversary.

“He may not remember anyway,” said the joker.

“Ja,” said the German. “He ist pretty hammered.”

“He’ll remember,” said the adversary with certainty. “Take the money,” he suggested.

I did not want to say no; he had already grown inches every time I said the word, as if he fed off negativity.

“I should go,” I said as calmly as I could.

 “Of course,” said the adversary. He turned away from the money, ignoring it.

“You must go home, but first a drink.” He looked me over as if he were judging me or perhaps weighing my soul’s worth. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly and the faceless bartender appeared again. He was carrying more shots. These were normal shots, they were not glowing like anti-freeze, and still something told me if I saluted I might not walk out of that pub.

“Excuse me,” I said calmly. Hitler looked as if he might speak up, but just cleared his throat, Hmmm. I rose slowly. I did not feel calm, my adrenaline was pumping and if this was a dream, it was one of those really lucid ones. There was a bathroom at the back of the pub; I entered and pretended to do my business. I was actually scouting out, this subterranean, chthonic pub. There were no windows and only one exit, the way I came in.

Just my luck. I decided I was going to have a make a break for it. I would have to run past the bar and the small crowd of outlaws and criminals, then up the dungeonesque steps. I assumed I could outrun them; most of them were, after all, fairly old. I peeked out the doorway; no one was paying attention.

I made a mad dash for it, scurrying along the wall. On the way out, I accidentally kicked a table, knocking over several beer bottles in the process. They all turned at once, glaring at me. The adversary yelled, “STOP HIM!”

The Viking and the joker were blocking the steps. I judged the joker to be much lighter, so I charged him. I hit the joker full force. When I hit him, though, it was clear he was not made of flesh and bones, but rather some jelly-like substance. Ectoplasm? For a brief moment my shoulder went through his body, his face tensed and strained, his eyeballs bulged, then he imploded like a balloon. I bounced off him and into the Viking’s horn. At least I hope it was the Viking’s horn. The horn pierced about a half-inch deep into my upper arm and I let out a yowl. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, Can you have pain in dreams? The answer is, most certainly, yes. However, what can’t happen in dreams is being pierced by a Viking’s horn. I hit the Viking but somehow fell up the steps. From my knees, I crawled up the remaining steps and into the cooling night air. My pulse racing and gasping, I stumbled around several dark alleyways, disoriented, before regurgitating most of what was left in my stomach. It’s fair to say I don’t remember arriving home.

 I awoke hungover, shirtless, still wearing the blue jeans from the night before, in a twist of bloody sheets with a deep stab wound in my upper arm. Cleaning my arm, I tried to think of another explanation for the incision on my arm.

I must have been sleepwalking and accidentally walked into something sharp. That explanation seemed to calm my nerves.

You were just dreaming. I didn’t really witness the Devil, Hitler, Osama Bin Laden, Eric the Red, and Judas plotting the Apocalypse.

The idea was preposterous, even silly. You were just having an anxiety dream. Relax.

As I removed my jeans, the idea seemed even further and further away, until I felt the pocket of my jeans.

There in the front pocket was a playing card.

It was the joker.

Some nights I lie awake wondering, pondering, hoping it was a dream, hoping tomorrow the sky doesn’t turn black and the world won’t come to an end.

By: Joseph DeMarco