Brklyn

Big ol’ disclaimer here: I was ten — no, fifteen — sheets to the wind when we hit Brooklyn after an engagement party with an open bar that I kept getting dragged to by people that may or may not have been me.
I couldn’t find my way back here if you paid me, it was down a few sets of stairs, in the dark, and pretty sure it was inside another bar. Maybe. Anyway it had rusted stairs, I remember that, but faux rusted, like, designer rust, and there was a big ol’ pool table and a Street Fighter 2 machine (although some weird ‘new’ version of SF2 and Ryu’s hadokens are really hard to do and a lot of the special moves have changed) and the bartenders were in jorts and had enormous boobs very small tops and the tumbler of bourbon was also huge and heavy as an ashtray and the back booths behind the DJ booth are kinda cramped but you can reach over and fiddle with the DJs buttons and there can’t really be that much of an art to it because no button we pressed did anything that we could tell, although a few changed colour so that must mean something.
Place was heaving like a fat kid on his first boat. Heavy tunes, writhing dance floor, good times dripping from the ceiling.