I was lost in a familiar street. I stumbled in, ordered a drink and sat alone at a table in the back room. The beer garden was rectangular in shape and almost deserted. It was deep and narrow, stretching away from the rest of the venue, which stretched away from other bars in the city: all contemporary and soulless places. The walls of the room were a muddle of posters, pictures, and graffiti in every colour, size, shape, font, skill level and echelon of profanity. I hadn’t seen anything like it for years. I thought they’d phased out places like this. There were stickers and notes between the larger works on the wall; anonymous letters to anyone and everyone, replies to the letters and replies to those. The message threads were uplifting, talking of grand things and simple pleasures. Some of them were mindless and derogatory. Little symbols and patterns were etched here and there, easy to miss unless you belonged to the club they denoted. The duller wall spots were stained with beer, wine, grime and mould. There were careless smudges from furniture, disrespectful clumps of gum, angry slashes, dents, chips and scratches in the paint, and sad black holes where cigarettes had sparkled before being extinguished. Every spot in the room was coloured, discoloured, tainted and beautified, lovingly decorated and violently assaulted. The place was a mural never to be finished, a projectile vomit from collective imagination.

It was more of a courtyard than a garden, with a corrugated plastic cap to keep out the dripping night. It was warm and damp like the other rooms. You could see the clouds through the leaky ceiling and if they fancied customers could enjoy a cigarette with their drink without breaking any laws. Plants dangled from the rafters in pots with chains, hovering above heads like terracotta halos. Their lovely tentacles sprayed up and trickled down to tickle peoples’ necks and remind them that this was the right place to be, the only place to be.

I finished my drink, went back to the bar in the front room and got another. A band was packing up for the night. I sat, drank, and did it again. I found a gallery in the side room. The paint was still wet, soaking in something secret and forgotten. Business was starting to pick up. The other rooms weren’t as vibrant as the courtyard but any sprays of colour and flair not found on the walls were splashed across the patrons themselves. The crowd was a sea of hats, feathers, polka dots, odd socks, dreadlocks, scarves, mittens, glitter, velvet jackets, hair to one side, black and white stripes, fluorescent stockings and drops of silver in the nostrils, eyebrows, back of the neck, between the fingers and anywhere that looked unusual and painful. They were wide-eyed students, washed-up winos, punks, emos, hippies, indies, homosexuals, intellectuals, poets who didn’t know much at all, writers who didn’t write, boozers, stoners, losers.

A young girl with a harmonica raced an old man with a plastic flute around the venue, each of them exchanging successions of off-key, out-of-tune notes they called songs for drinks. The sweaty silver man telling jokes for gold coins got more business but he spent them all on beer anyway, so all three both won and lost. Some of the patrons were a little too odd but were probably harmless, just there to wash away their sorrows like me, forgetting everything that lay beyond The Sinkhole’s clammy walls; until closing-time anyway.

I went back to the beer garden and sat in my favorite spot. There were people with pens, papers and coloured markers scribbling half-finished pictures at the table next to mine. There were musicians near the back door smoking forbidden cigarettes seeping that wild sultry scent of the underworld and they sailed off somewhere even more remarkable than the place I saw them standing.

I noticed him at the table in the corner. He sat alone smoking a self-rolled cigarette like the other musicians. He wore a top hat and a swarm of multicolour dreadlocks tumbled out from under it, sliding down his velvet back like sea serpents. Although he faced the corner I felt his eyes slinking over me. He took a draw on his sparkling stick, exhaled, and the smoke wound around his figure, thicker and thicker.

It wasn’t the transparent-grey, carcinogenic smoke of normal cigarettes; The thin noxious filth leaking from a prostitute’s, or a sad old homeless mouth; but the whiter, brighter, fluffier puffs from clouds and dreams. Glorious plumes of liquid silk; the type you could sit on and ride to infinity if only we lived in cartoons.

The harmonica girl was smoking too, and as she walked past she told me to enjoy my meal. I didn’t have any food. Before any objections could be raised she’d exhaled, and I had a face full of the same bleached fog from across the room. She blew a single note on her instrument and the commotion around us slowed gently to a halt. The cloud before me grew thicker, and soon the glowing yellow wall lights were all I could see.

“Who are you?” A man’s voice asked.

“I’m Frank.” I answered, flapping my arms to get rid of the haze.

“And just whoo is that?” The voice came from the figure materialising from the depths before me: a top-hatted square-headed, slow-talking silhouette.

“Frank.” I repeated “I’m from Edenvale Lakes. I work for Smith and Partners.”

“That new development in the No0orth” He extended and changed the pitch of certain vowels when he spoke; like a Machiavellian from a Hollywood comic book-movie adaptation. “All the subeerrbs are turning into those soulless monstrosities. Houses all the same, white, heterosexual, middle-class families, 2.4 offspring; all currently enrolled or alumni at St Whoever’s Grammar.”

The shadows continued to hide his face. His patronising annoyed me but I ignored it to concentrate on being polite. He was the only person who’d talked to me all night after all.

“… Yeah I suppose.”

“That anonymous grey tower in the centre of this dreary streamlined city. The accounting firm on the 56thfloor; that lifeless little cubicle with drawers and papers, computers and telephones; business-as-usual every day.”

“That’s the one.”

This was ridiculous. I wondered if he’d ask me a riddle next. Maybe he’d start rhyming as he spoke, or present me with a paradox of some sort.

“Can I interest you in one of these?” He gestured towards the grey packet with silver lining in front of him.

“No thanks. I’ve given up.”

A smirk wrinkled his forehead and tugged on his cheek. He was annoyed at my dismissal but wasn’t out of tricks yet.

“How about something special then?” His demeanor was playful now. He reached under the table and presented an oversize yellow cocktail glass crowned with a gold-orange blob.

“Apple Martini?”

It was indeed an apple; rotten, or fermented in something: the shriveled corpse of an apple. It was pierced through the heart with a larger-than-normal toothpick. The stick’s ends sat on the left and right edges of the martini glass so the old fruit hovered over the liquid with its belly dipped in. The cocktail must have been sitting on the seat the whole time; he’d plucked it out as if it were, although I surely would have noticed a drink on the chair earlier as I went backwards and forwards to the bar.

“They really pride themselves on presentation here.” He tuned solemn again as he took the ends of the stick in his fingers. They were thin, long, claw-like, and twirled the orb to coat it in the icy solution. He gazed at me as he did this, like a hypnotist dangling a pocket watch for a nit-wit.

“So tell me Frank; who else are you?”

I decided to play along. This was his turf, his poise and dress both said so. He was associated with any number of these wild bohemians, which come to think of it had all drifted away. It was just the two of us in the room but I was out of my element; best not to challenge him.

“Well I’m married. I don’t have 2.4 kids, not even 1. I used to write songs and hang out at places like this… Then I graduated and got a real job.”

“A real job? Who are you to know what’s real and what isn’t?”

“Here we go,” I thought, “the dirty little ‘what is reality?’ routine. Give me a break. Are you having fun with me Joker? Riddler? Mystery Man? You’re a fool.”

He stared at me while he slid the icy sculpture my direction. He trapped my eyes in his: big, wise, yellow, reptilian, intoxicatingly handsome. I opened my mouth to speak and then decided not to, then thought I’d better say it.

“Well I know this isn’t real.”

He was silent for a moment. His mouth remained open to let a breath of smoke seep from his lips, slowly and eerily to exaggerate the mystery.

“…It’s a shame you feel that way.”

“I’m only saying it because I know I’m asleep. I remember going to bed.”

He took another puff on his cigarette. The smoke circled his face, drops of silver in his nose and eyebrow glowed the same ghostly colour as the haze around us. Words oozed from the foggy space between his lips.

“At the moment you see me. You see this place, it’s all real to you now. But then you could wake up to find everything gone. What if you woke up while you were dreaming about a day at the office? How can you be sure anything that happens isn’t a delusion? Your days slaving away in the grey tower, your nights at home with the nice sensible girl, the one time a week you drink yourself into a stupor to numb yourself into thinking everythings alright. What if none of that is real? Who’s to say that one day you won’t wake up to find the last 20 years nothing but a bad dream?”

I froze. Stupefied. This guy wasn’t so dumb after all.

“…That would be fantastic.”

The cocktail was encrusted white with frost, vaporising in the room’s warm air. My fingers stuck to the stem as I brought the giant glass to my mouth. His eyes were glued to me as it approached my lips. I hesitated.

“It’s not poison,” he chuckled. “I Promise. Here, do you mind sharing?” His manner had switched back to playful now, even friendly. He took the apple on the stick and bit into it before I could answer. He passed it back and I put the glass down to concentrate on eating the garnish. The fruit was slippery and warm: chili stewed apple with cinnamon and cloves, and something else. It was delicious.

“I’ve got no idea how they make it. All I know is it’s the wildest ride I’ve ever taken.”

We continued talking. He told me about gold and rainbows as we passed the apple back and fourth. He said we all had rainbow insides and that gold was at the end. Everything has it to start with: people, animals, places, ideas; all born with it. The apple spurted juice and lodged itself on his lips. I watched as he licked it up with a smooth, moist, forked tongue. I hoped it would happen again. He told me that this was the last bar in town to keep its rainbows intact; the last one with a soul. Its wet vivacious organs weren’t ripped out, tossed aside and plastered over with cold steel, polished oak, twinkling glass and two-for-one Cosmopolitans for the ladies on Thursday nights. Its name wasn’t snipped down to a trendy acronym like its neighbor; the N.P.Y., AKA: the New Prince of York; or just a plain old “Q” (formally the Queen of Hearts, across the street). It was the last place where underworld was alive, the only one to keep its nose turned up to Hollywood movies, commercial radio, standardisation, mass-production and the 11 hour/6 day working week. It was the last bohemian stronghold in the war against a city that denied its people true freedom and individuality. The old patrons of The Sinkhole would drown here, and the young ones would not be gagged by white collars, not until they graduated anyway; apparently.

I informed him that this place burned down years ago and he told me I was right. He said everything was the drug-induced fantasy of some loser in a mid-life crisis.

When the apple was finished I put the stick on the table and he placed it carefully back atop the glass. He said we might need it later. This was strange, but no stranger than some of the other things he’d been doing throughout our exchange. Much to my relief he’d dropped the criminal mastermind act. His behaviour jumped sporadically from lively to solemn. We’d leapt from the topic of this bar, to philosophy, to Buddhism; he said the monks in the secret mountain temples made love to each other and got closer to enlightenment. He’d told me a nursery rhyme about a captain who didn’t go down with the ship. As soon as one topic would finish he’d swap straight to the next as if he was working from a list. Like he was trying to fill me with as many ideas as possible. He’d turn his head to the door every now and then, as if our time was running out, as if the next patient was due to arrive. He’d gaze deep into my eyes; his filled with pride, confidence, allure, then duck his focus down to the table, cowering away. I wanted more. What was he hiding? ¨Why, Riddler, are you so passionate one moment just to shy away the next?¨ I needed more. I gathered he was intelligent, highly neurotic and spontaneous, to put it lightly. His head was a muddle of disconnected and transient thoughts; probably from too many of these apple martinis. Maybe he had a disorder of some kind: Mild autism? Schizophrenia? He made me feel smaller and younger despite my prognoses. Its delivery was shaky but his knowledge was wide and true. He watched me again as I finally took the martini glass and sipped its yellow contents. It was cold at first and then burned in my mouth. It blazed as it slid down my throat. I felt it deep inside, hot and electric as it mixed with the half-digested apple. As I continued sipping my stomach felt increasingly bloated. He told me another nursery rhyme about a golden egg with monsters inside. The room swayed and swirled and I found it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. I nodded and pretended to understand. The apple must have been soaked in something unlawfully potent; deadly when mixed with the yellow muck in the glass.

“Can you feel yourself getting smaller?” He asked, his eyes glowing wisdom and sobriety.

“Excuse me?”

“Can you feel yourself getting smaller?” He held the left end of the toothpick atop the glass in his fingers and gestured me to do the same to the right.

“Hold on tight. Don’t let go”

The hot feeling inside grew. Tentacles in my belly clawed their way up my esophagus, through my sinuses and poked at my brain. I was dizzy. I focused on the glass getting closer and closer. I gripped the toothpick in my fingers, my hands, my arms. It surged towards me and in a moment I had to hoist myself on top of it to keep from falling to the table, which was a long way below. I stood and looked ahead. The bridge across the golden sea was a big enough diameter to walk. I presumed he was at the other end and made my way to the middle. It was hard to balance so I took extra care to keep away from the sides. I found him half way between left and right and he said it was time to wake up. He took my hand. His was hot and wet. My skin tingled.

“Close your eyes.” He instructed. “Take a deep breath. Dive.”

He held me close during our descent. The air flying past rang in my ears: scrambled notes from harmonicas and flutes; a jumble of shrill, stabbing sounds which were nothing close to music. He lost his hat and his hair broke free to thrash about like frenzied snakes. Liquid surged through my nostrils when we landed, toxins burrowed further into my brain. We sunk deeper and deeper until it was dark, wet and cool. The air down here was so crisp: fresh wet nourishment for my polluted old lungs. All I could see were those eyes: golden, snake-like, irresistible. I didn’t know where the surface was or the ocean floor. I felt his lips on mine: warm, soft, strong, gentle. It didn’t matter which way the current was flowing. I didn’t care where we were headed. Underwater, under a spell in the dark I breathed easier than ever before. I felt his tongue slide between my lips and wrap itself around mine. There were hands all over my body; more than two. His grip was tender then ferocious. Claws dug in hard. I saw stars. I felt him hold me from behind and hot breath on the back of my neck. My skin caught on fire and heat rushed through me.

“Can you feel yourself getting bigger?” He slithered in my ear.

A response leaped from the thing in my gut. It surged up my throat and gushed between my gritted teeth. A moan, a scream, a cry for more. He touched me in a place I’d forgotten was there. Snakes inside and all over: rubbing, twisting, turning, pounding. Skin against skin, body against body, heart against heart. Two souls dissolved into one. The pressure inside me kept rising. A balloon filled with water; an egg about to crack. I saw more stars. Real stars. I burst. A downpour to flood away the empty years between now and the last wet Winter’s night he was here. My rainbow ejection shot off in all directions. Ribbons of information hurled out to fertilise every faceless white dot in the sky.

I woke up sprawled across the muddy floor of the bathroom. Daylight fought through the gaps and cracks in the boards on the window. The toilet had overflowed and its contents were strewn all over the room. I waited for the stench to pinch me, to make sure I was awake. All I could smell were those magic self-rolled cigarettes. The paint on the walls was dry, faded, chipping and scorched. Graffiti, pictures, stickers, messages, angry cuts and burns made a beautiful and monstrous room. A final, bewildered outcry from a schizophrenic opposition. A protest burned to death years ago by cleanliness, efficiency, safety, fear, perfection. Apparently it was a horrible accident but there were a lot of people inside.

I went to the bar and ordered a drink. I lit up a cigarette and sat at a table. I wrote a song about a golden egg with angels inside.

I went home and made love to the nice, sensible woman I’d been chained to for the last 20 years. She moaned and twisted under me. She bit the pillow, writhing in a height of pleasure I’d never reach here. I stabbed and stabbed at the dead grey thing inside, trying to resurrect it with all my strength. When I came I heard their screams and cries. My hypercolour children coughed and spluttered, choking to death on the thin noxious filth inside her.

We lay together afterwards in that usually blissful moment of warmth and reflection. The time of staring into each other; our eyes steady and hearts complete. She was searching for something this time. She noticed something missing, or something secret. She waited for the eyes that never lied to waver, dart away, confess. I didn’t. I held her in my gaze: selfish, yellow, reptilian. I told her about my song and she told me that was silly. I knew she´d say that. She told me I was going to be late for work. I left the room. I walked down the beige corridor and descended the stairs to nowhere. I left the house and the street. I passed many others that looked exactly the same. I went to the empty city of cold stone, twinkling glass and business-as-usual. I jumped from floor 56 of an anonymous office tower and I landed in rainbows.

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