Inside, the club was dark. The bar was open, but the chairs were still up on the tables and the room smelled of dirty mop water. At the bar was Dante, a short, aging punk rocker with jet-black spiked hair. He was a fixture in D.C.; the kind of guy who would support the local music scene and run for city council at the same time. I liked to hang out in his place because I felt comfortable around the so-called “freaks.” Everyone from goths to vegans hung out at the place. The last thing they cared about was some scarred-up old bastard knocking back shots at the end of the bar.

Dante looked up as I approached, but the usual friendly greeting didn’t come. Instead, he just looked at me and gave me a somber nod. Something was bugging him. I assumed I’d done something the night before and had conveniently blacked out. I’ve been known to start a fight or two when I get loaded.

I slid up to the bar and tapped the rail for a beer and whiskey. Dante looked around and pulled a glass from beneath the bar pre-filled with frothy brew.

I tried to smile. “Expecting me, huh?”

Dante looked nervous, like he wanted to say something to me, but wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

I sniffed the glass and swigged the whole thing down in one long gulp, killing my headache and bringing a warm calm over my body. By then, Dante had pushed a napkin in front of me with writing on it, but it was too late.

The napkin read, “DON’T DRINK THE BEER.”

I looked at him. He stared. Suddenly, I knew I was in trouble. I could see Dante wanted to say something, but something was holding him back. I stood up and started to leave. As I grabbed for the door, whatever was in the beer began to crawl up the back of my brain and take effect. My head started spinning and my jaw went numb. I turned back toward the bar and saw a tall man step out from behind Dante, shoving him aside.

I stepped into the gloomy daylight as my arms started going numb and my eyes began to vibrate in their sockets like hot ball bearings. I stumbled forward, heading for home. One block. Two, three, four. Every step felt like I was dragging a wet sack of mud. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know the tall man was behind me, patiently following me back to my apartment.