Mario's is a small diner in New York City. Its furnishings make up for their cheapness with gaudy red and white coloring; even if the chrome fittings could do with a polish they still shine in the dawn sunlight. The hour is early, and the restaurant is almost empty, but the smell of cooking grease and strong coffee hang heavy in the air as the staff prepare for the coming breakfast rush. A waitress behind the counter watches the few patrons for empty coffee cups, while they in turn tend to their meals with various levels of lethargy. Viewed without context, the scene could be set in any of a hundred thousand diners throughout the country.
That quiet scene is broken by the front door flying open, apparently of its own accord. It hits a rack of classifieds, which are sent scattering. Objects on the bar and tables start exploding. Salt shakers and ketchup bottles send fragments of glass flying everywhere, and their detonations trace a path from the door down the restaurant. Near the end of the bar, a plastic display case full of pie tumbles off its perch, and a waiter standing stunned in the back of house entryway is pushed over by an invisible force.
From the kitchen can be heard the sounds of falling pots and pans, as if a wild animal were wreaking havoc, but for a few moments the dining room is once again quiet. A patron might have enough time to catch their breath and check themselves for cuts. They might even have enough time to look out the front windows and see a man in a cheap suit standing on the sidewalk out front, with a look of concentration on his face.
Then the diner erupts into flame, killing everyone inside.
-----
You wake up with a start. The plastic of the barstool creaks below you. You are sitting at a black plywood bar in what seems to be a dance club of some kind. With the house lights up, the whole place looks cheap and dirty. Overflowing trash cans stand near the walls, bits of lank streamers hang from the exposed rafters, and sticky spots on the bar and floor where drinks were spilled the night before have yet to be wiped up.
A slightly-built man stands behind the bar, grabbing the edge with both hands. He looks to be pushing fifty; his over-tanned skin makes it hard to tell one way or the other, and his eyes are yellow. He's wearing a tassled black leather vest with nothing underneath, and a pair of tight snakeskin pants the same color. His mouth is open in a toothy grin, and his teeth are the same gaudy gold of the massive lightbulb-studded sign above the liquor, which reads E*D*E*N.
Looking back and forth, you can see that four of the stools are occupied; three with people from the diner, and a fourth which has a crow on a wooden perch, positioned so that it can see over the bar. On the bar in front of each is a card. It is larger than a regular playing card, and is covered with a fractal design which shifts subtly in color and pattern as you look at it.
Something about the card gives you a feeling of recognition--like seeing an old friend, or finding a childhood toy you had almost forgotten about.
"Well, hello." Before you can contemplate that further, the man's voice--deep, melodic, and ripe with affected charm--breaks the silence. "I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but the bad news is that you're all dead."
That quiet scene is broken by the front door flying open, apparently of its own accord. It hits a rack of classifieds, which are sent scattering. Objects on the bar and tables start exploding. Salt shakers and ketchup bottles send fragments of glass flying everywhere, and their detonations trace a path from the door down the restaurant. Near the end of the bar, a plastic display case full of pie tumbles off its perch, and a waiter standing stunned in the back of house entryway is pushed over by an invisible force.
From the kitchen can be heard the sounds of falling pots and pans, as if a wild animal were wreaking havoc, but for a few moments the dining room is once again quiet. A patron might have enough time to catch their breath and check themselves for cuts. They might even have enough time to look out the front windows and see a man in a cheap suit standing on the sidewalk out front, with a look of concentration on his face.
Then the diner erupts into flame, killing everyone inside.
-----
You wake up with a start. The plastic of the barstool creaks below you. You are sitting at a black plywood bar in what seems to be a dance club of some kind. With the house lights up, the whole place looks cheap and dirty. Overflowing trash cans stand near the walls, bits of lank streamers hang from the exposed rafters, and sticky spots on the bar and floor where drinks were spilled the night before have yet to be wiped up.
A slightly-built man stands behind the bar, grabbing the edge with both hands. He looks to be pushing fifty; his over-tanned skin makes it hard to tell one way or the other, and his eyes are yellow. He's wearing a tassled black leather vest with nothing underneath, and a pair of tight snakeskin pants the same color. His mouth is open in a toothy grin, and his teeth are the same gaudy gold of the massive lightbulb-studded sign above the liquor, which reads E*D*E*N.
Looking back and forth, you can see that four of the stools are occupied; three with people from the diner, and a fourth which has a crow on a wooden perch, positioned so that it can see over the bar. On the bar in front of each is a card. It is larger than a regular playing card, and is covered with a fractal design which shifts subtly in color and pattern as you look at it.
Something about the card gives you a feeling of recognition--like seeing an old friend, or finding a childhood toy you had almost forgotten about.
"Well, hello." Before you can contemplate that further, the man's voice--deep, melodic, and ripe with affected charm--breaks the silence. "I'm sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but the bad news is that you're all dead."
