Playing Devil's Advocate

1//The Village Bar

This is hell, but hey - at least the lights are pink. I'm sure you're familiar with that dreaded sensation of expecting one more step than there is and then that sudden jolt of shock hits like ice... well that's somewhat close to what I experience as I breathe in the air of St. Bernadine's Baptist church. As I open the door, childhood memory excites me with the prospect of freshly burnt incense but, of course, I'm hit with an intoxicating stench of old beer wafting out of half empty, insect ridden bottles that lie deserted around the edge of the recently refurbished church which now serves a bar.

In fairness, I've seen worse. I've been to Ibiza, I've seen what an ungodly amount of people and an even more ungodly amount of substance can do to a room in one night, and compared to those, pink moon cocktails - the place I once knew as St. Bernadine's - is a tea party. Anyway, as I mentioned, the decor is pleasantly modest, with pink neon lining the walls. When I heard this place had been refurbished I had to drop by out of sentiment and I must say, I suppose the atmosphere isn't the worst. The cheap beer must've been consumed, for the most part, by a less civilised crowd earlier in the day because at the moment, all I see are people sitting around or standing with champagne or wine and conversing dryly. Closer to the alter, a site where an unenthusiastic pianist half heartedly taps out some jazz i faintly recognize, groups on their fourth or fifth drink sway awkwardly in and out of time with the music.

"What can I do for you?" A bartender standing with his back to me asks energetically.

"Just a cider," I say. 

As if in some musical, the bartender pours out a glass, spins on his heels and slides it along the bar to my stool. He wears the fancy shirt and waistcoat they all do, with a red pinstripe blazer and rolled up sleeves. His blackish hair is excessively gelled. He can't be much older than twenty.

"What brings you here, if I may ask, sir?"

I didn't come here looking for a conversation but I don't want to be rude so I coldly respond with a curt explanation about how I came to this church as a young boy.

Surprisingly, it's me who strikes up a conversation as the tv stops playing the sports and cuts to a news channel, one which is currently presenting on a country in the Middle East where people are dying as a result of an ongoing civil war for whatever land is left behind by more powerful countries.

"Heartbreaking,"  I say.

I turn to the bartender who seems to have drifted into something of a daze, his thoughts elsewhere as he stares blankly at the small screen. He turns back and a sad smile spreads across his face. 

"It is heartbreaking, isn't it?" He states solemnly, making sure no other staff are watching as he flips the cap off of a corona. 

"It reminds me of somebody I knew, actually."

I look at him curiously, silently indicating for him to continue as he takes a long swig straight out of the bottle. He nods and carries on his story.

"See, a while back, I had a friend who ended up in this village out in the middle of Alabama. It was surrounded by forest and all the WiFi was cut - it was sort of cut off from the world and, of course, nobody could leave. My friend was trecking and he luckily managed to get out but he spent the night in a motel, and listen to what he told me about how they lived."

I lean in, genuinely curious.

"So this whole place was ran by this guy who called himself the mayor. He was egotistical to the point that it was comedic - although in fairness he built houses for most of the people and bred the animals, essentially doing the village's work. It seemed like a fair transaction for his bizarre requests but as time went on, the power went to his head I suppose. He would ask people to do the strangest of things, just to appraise him because his ego craved it so much. Eventually, he began to introduce capital punishment. That's right, if you didn't agree to his demands, you would be executed. His one problem was that nobody seemed happy to do the job of executing those who disrespected him. Eventually, this one poor guy, he tried to lead a rebellion against the mayor. As you can imagine, he was overpowered and punished miserably. He was said to be a strong man too, young and attractive, but the mayor ended all that when he had him beaten until he barely retained his form, and then forced him to execute other people who dared to cross him."

I stare in shock, sceptical but shocked nonetheless. I'm not even sure what words to say at this point. 

"Wow," I murmer. "This mayor sounds... evil. And what about the executioner? Was he... well, was he okay?"

The bartender doesnt answer my question. Instead, he merely sighs. His sigh becomes a frown which somehow flips into an eery laugh.

"So you disrespect the mayor?" He says between hollow cackles.

I stare at the bartender, now certain that he's derranged, perhaps brainwashed by this strange Alabama village.

I  nod slowly. "He sounds like a terrible man."

The bartender shakes his head and sighs once more.

"I really thought you were one of the smarter ones, but no. Of  course, you go on about how evil the mayor sounds, but why, may I ask, did you come to this very building as a child to meet his exact demands? I'm sorry, my friend, I truly am sorry... but you've disrespected the mayor and in his eyes, there aren't many crimes worse. I'm gonna have to seal your fate now. It's my job. I'm the executioner. Oh, but hey-"

He winks before taking another swig.

"You can call me Lucifer."