The sign above the big, red door use to say 'The Smoke Shop'. Now the white paint over the wood lettering is barely legible, and the word 'Soul' has been splashed, in bright, violently red paint, over the word 'Smoke' in uneven jags of blood. The building's cracked windows seep an otherworldly miasma. It roils and heaves from the tiny space under the door, and pours out of the lock. White strobe lights illuminate the smoke in jarring bursts. Silhouettes sway and dance across the windows. We've been waiting. We've been waiting. Come on in.
