Liam and Owen are two bouncers in an elite club. One day, an elderly man tries to enter, but they maltreat him. Their boss doesn’t want ‘such a person’ in the club, and even the bartender poisons him. The man’s hidden identity is revealed, but it might be too late for them, including their boss.
The throbbing bass pounded on Mr. Wilson’s chest like an insistent heart, a stark contrast to the steady rhythm of his own. Neon light, bleeding from the club’s gaping maw, painted grotesque shadows on the cobblestones. Above, the sign boasted: “Inferno: Where Every Night is Scorching.”
Mr. Wilson, however, felt more like a moth drawn to a flame, foolish and out of place. Yet, perhaps, something – a dare from his granddaughter or a flicker of youthful defiance – propelled him forward. He adjusted his tweed jacket, a relic from a time when suits fit a man like a second skin, and approached the iron gates guarding the club’s entrance.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Youtube/DramatizeMe
Two figures, bathed in the sickly red glow of a floodlight, materialized from the shadows. Young men, barely past their teens, bulked up by more protein shakes than life experience. Liam, the taller one, sneered. “ID, please, Grandpa,” he said, voice dripping with mock amusement.
Mr. Wilson’s smile was genuine, unfazed by the barb. “No need, young man,” he said. “I assure you, I’m well past needing identification.”
Owen, the shorter of the two, snorted. “Then you’re past needing to be here too. This ain’t no senior center. This is Inferno.”
Mr. Wilson’s smile faltered, a flicker of hurt crossing his eyes. But he straightened his back, defiance replacing disappointment. “I see,” he said, his voice firmer now. “And what, pray tell, makes this inferno exclusive?”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Youtube/DramatizeMe
Liam puffed out his chest. “This club has standards, old man. We only let in the kind of people who add to the heat, not extinguish it.”
Mr. Wilson chuckled dryly. “Heat without substance is merely smoke and mirrors, my boy. And frankly, your door policy sounds more like a draft.”
Liam bristled, but Owen, ever the pragmatist, intervened. “Look, gramps,” he said, raising his hand. “We have rules. Reservations only.”
Mr. Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Reservations, you say?” He tapped his phone screen, a glint in his eye. “Consider it done.”
Within moments, a confirmation email pinged on his phone. Liam and Owen stared, mouths agape, as Mr. Wilson strolled past them,...
