I'm quite certain that the Claremont doesn't have any heat and positive that it doesn't have air conditioning. It barely has ventilation.
The 15 story building crouched on top of the bar is deserted/condemned, and The Claremont lies at the rear bottom. Once inside, you are in a seedy club along a shadowy alley or, more aptly, underground. The place is like the Cantina on Tattoine and its strippers fit the bill too.
Its unabashed hideousness is its beauty.
PBR is an award-winning beer. People forget that. I buy it whenever possible, especially off the tap where it's at its freshest and most award-winning. There, at the bar, I held the brew in my mouth for a moment and thoughtfully considered what I had just imagined. Swallowing, I let it play out in front of me:
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Cold beer. You know it's cold when you feel the wetness of the can when you pick it up. The frosty beer makes the overwhelming heat of the club almost bearable. My only qualm is the guy leaning on me trying to get the bartender's attention. I turn to tell him to get the fuck off of me -
SHOOOOOOM
The bar turns bright bright white. The fucking Sun enters the bar and I instinctively cover my eyes and my face and cower behind the bar with the girl who I have brought there. It's a good thing we do - everyone caught in the direct line of the blast is incinerated, blinded, fried...
My ears are ringing, my eyes are burning, my skin is burning (not bad but feels hot), the bar is shaking. I sense movement. There is a rumbling, a whoosh and a rush behind me. My barstool is knocked down; me with it. It's okay because I can huddle lower against the bottom of the bar. Sound floods my ears - screaming, crying, yelling, and the sound like the sound of a wave crashing above you in the ocean - muted and fierce.
Then the entrance to the bar collapses on top of the kids who were dancing there moments before. The ceiling and what is above it comes down around them.
Everything is still shaking and is uncertain. I'm gripping something tightly and it's a moment before I realize its my other wrist.
Then it stops.
It's another moment before I realize what's happened. We've been attacked by...who...who..somebody. But I, along with my companion and the rest of this motley crew have survived. In fact, we're the only people left. It's up to us to create the new world. Maybe it's up to us to fight back.
And I look around to see what we're left with. I look to see who are the seeds of the new smarter better world - a world that won't destroy itself again - and there they are - grotesquely beautiful strippers, a dozen fratty dudes wearing their hat backwards, a couple thugs that may or may not have guns on them, an alcoholic bartender and his very dark under-eye circles (or is that a black eye?), a bikini-clad tattoo covered stripper (mildly attractive), an old man wearing 1970's style bib snowpants, a few scantily clad sorority girls, a few waspy looking couples looking for something different that night, and me. Ladies and gentlemen, your New Government!
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I've always been freaked out by "the end of the world" no matter how it happens, but I've never considered until then, ( thank you post-apocalyptic movies) and hypothesized why, the most evil fucking people always ended up controlling the world. Maybe it's because the craziest, sleaziest bars end up surviving the War with their biggest customers in them.
I admit that the weirdest looking people are usually the nicest. But regardless - next time you're in a weird place, look around and imagine which of your fellow freaks would try to take control of the "new world order" and become a super villain or what role "that guy" would take in the "new government." It's a fun exercise.
I'd definitely run for President.
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