Two of the top club’s bouncers are Liam and Owen. An old man attempts to get in one day, but they treat him badly. The bartender even poisons their boss since their employer doesn’t want “such a person” at the club. When the man’s true identity is discovered, it could be too late for everyone—including their supervisor.
In sharp contrast to Mr. Wilson’s steady rhythm, the bass’s pulsating beat echoed on his chest like an urgent heart. The club’s mouth was so open that neon light was seeping out, casting hideous shadows on the cobblestones. The placard above declared, “Inferno: Where Every Night is Scorching.”
But Mr. Wilson felt silly and out of place, more like a moth drawn to a flame. Still, maybe it was something, a young defiance or a dare from his granddaughter, that drove him onward. He stepped up to the iron gates that guarded the club’s entry and adjusted his tweed jacket, a throwback to a period when suits fit a man like a second skin.
Out of the darkness emerged two people, bathed in the terrible red glow of a floodlight. Barely out of their teens, these young guys have gained weight from protein smoothies rather than real life experiences. The tallest of the two, Liam, scoffed. “ID, please, Grandpa,” he murmured, his tone belying faux humor.
Mr. Wilson was grinning sincere despite the jab. He responded, “Young man, no need.” “I promise, I no longer require identification.”
The shorter of the two, Owen, gave a snort. “So you no longer need to be here as well. There is no senior center here. Here we have Inferno.
Mr. Wilson’s eyes flickered with hurt as his grin wavered. But he straightened his spine, disappointment giving way to defiance. “I see,” he responded, sounding more assertive now. “And what, please explain, excludes this hell?”
Liam threw his chest out. “Old man, this club has standards.” We only let those who would increase the heat rather than put it out.
Mr. Wilson gave a dry laugh. “My boy, heat without substance is just smoke and mirrors. Your door policy also seems more like a draft, to be honest.
Liam became agitated, but Owen, who was always practical, stepped in. “Look, grandpa,” he gestured with his hand. “We follow the rules. Only with reservations.
Mr. Wilson’s eyebrow went up. You say reservations, right? Glittering in his eye, he tapped the screen of his phone. “Think of it accomplished.”
A confirmation email popped up on his phone in a matter of minutes. Liam and Owen gaped as Mr. Wilson walked by, his victorious fanfare accompanied by the thunderous bass pounding. A another world waited within.
Mirror balls showered constellations over the throbbing dance floor, strobes painted ephemeral pictures on perspiring faces, and lasers cut through the smoke-filled air. The bass reverberated in his bones, evoking a primordial beat of innocence and recklessness.
But under all the glamour and pulsating energy, Mr. Wilson felt something was missing. The laughing was brittle, the smiles were artificial, and the gestures were rehearsed. Though they danced in their own self-made fire, these juvenile fireflies’ light was cold.
Owen appeared next to Mr. Wilson, still smarting from his humiliation at the door. “Lost, old man?” he said with a sly chuckle, yet there was a glimmer of doubt in his eyes.
Mr. Wilson gave a kind grin. “Just taking in the view,” he remarked. “Very…invigorating.”
Owen snorted. “Gramps, this isn’t your bingo night. I have no idea what you are hoping to discover here.
Mr. Wilson answered, “Maybe. I’m not looking for anything.” Sometimes it’s enough to just be in the moment.
He made his way through the throng, avoiding swinging bodies and thrashing limbs. There was a strong smell in the air, like perspiration and spilled wine. He arrived at the bar and sat down, feeling the cool feel of the worn leather on his warm palms.
“Nice, whiskey,” he asked.
The young man behind the bar, whose arms were covered in smeared ink, gave him a curious look. “Are you sure, dad? Tough thing for such a delicate blossom as yourself.
Mr. Wilson has glittering eyes. “Delicate young guy, maybe, but not withered. And even if it may be harsh, a good whiskey and a good life are both full of flavor.
Intrigued, the bartender poured a large amount. Mr. Wilson lifted the glass, and the strobe was captured by a golden liquid that flashed like tears. He toasted, “To fireflies, may they find their true warmth.”
He took a drink, and the burn was hot and pleasant against the club’s artificial chill. A figure approached him, a cunning smirk playing on his lips, as he was enjoying the flavor. It was Owen once more.
With a quiet voice, Owen added, “So, gramps.” “Loving the warmth?”
Mr. Wilson looked back at him with piercing eyes. “Young man, I’m enjoying the observation,” he answered. “Watching the dancers in the fire teaches one a lot.”
Owen hovered about Mr. Wilson’s calm demeanor like a wasp. “You know this aint just any inferno,” he said, bending closer. We follow guidelines and expectations. Individuals similar to you have a tendency to upset the equilibrium.
Mr. Wilson’s eyebrow went up. “Equilibrium? Is that what you refer to it as?
Owen snorted. “Young man, don’t fool about. This is a club where exclusivity is key.
And when someone like me, a wayward spark, comes along and dumps a bucket of reality on your priceless flames, what happens, Mr. Wilson asked?
Owen’s gaze grew strained. “You see that?” he said, pointing to some girls who were laughing near the DJ booth. Lucho’s table is that one. He doesn’t treat unwanted guests well.
Mr. Wilson felt a chill of unease go down his spine, not from terror but more from a sense of something sinister lurking behind the club’s glitzy exterior. Lucho appeared to be the enforcer and the muscle that kept the bonfire of the Inferno ablaze.
Adam, the bartender, anxiously wiped out a glass while glancing sidelong at Owen and Mr. Wilson. He glanced to Mr. Wilson, making a nonverbal request for details. Adam gulped, stuck between dread and loyalty.
He said, “Just finish your drink, pops.” “And perhaps…leave soon.”
With a sardonic twist of his lips, Mr. Wilson grinned. “Young man, I appreciate your care. However, I haven’t yet finished watching the fireflies dance. Please, another whiskey.
His eyes saw a flutter of activity close to the rear door. With a twisted expression, Owen reached over the bar and drew Adam, the bartender, into a quiet meeting.
Mr. Wilson noticed something flash in Owen’s fingers as they murmured, the sickly red glare of a nearby strobe casting a shadow over their faces. A vial that gleamed like a malicious star slid from his hand to Adam’s, disappearing into the sleeve’s darkness.
Mr. Wilson felt a cold dread take hold of him. With a platter balancing dangerously in his shaky hands, he saw Adam approach. There was another glass of amber liquid resting on it, resembling a spider web.
Mr. Wilson glanced from Adam’s quivering hands to the shimmering beverage before returning his attention to the vial that had disappeared into Owen’s pocket. Abruptly, a massive person with a look of boiling fury and gold chains strode in their direction. Lucho was the one.
“You!” Lucho exclaimed. “The elderly gentleman who believes he can waltz here and throw off the beat.”
Sensing the tension, the audience split apart like a pond’s waves. Mr. Wilson met Lucho’s stare with subdued defiance while he held onto the unbroken glass.
“I just wanted to watch the flames,” Mr. Wilson stated. “Maybe to present an alternative viewpoint regarding the heat.”
Lucho gave a sharp, irritating chuckle. “Viewpoint? Old guy, this isn’t just any art gallery. Here in this inferno, we burn and do what we please—take your drink, for example.
Mr. Wilson’s second glass was seized by Lucho’s meaty paws. The elderly guy wavered, unsure whether to intervene on behalf of the massive monster. However, it was already too late. Lucho drained the glass completely. Then his mouth parted, as if he wanted to say something else. But he closed his eyes.
At last, his form sagged against the bar and dropped to the ground like a sleeping infant.
Mr. Wilson was spun around when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. With a suspicious expression on his face, Liam growled, “You! How have you treated Lucho?
Mr. Wilson defied calmly, meeting his stare. “Young man, nothing. I just stood by and let this large, young man take my drink before he passed out.
Owen, being the shrewd one, jumped in, saying, “He’s lying! I caught him fighting with Lucho just before he passed out.
A fresh voice entered the altercation. That concludes everything! Antonio, Liam and Owen’s supervisor, said, “If you two idiots can’t kick an old man out of my club, I’ll have to do it myself.” When his hands got hold of Mr. Wilson’s arm, they started to tug.
“Grandson, are you sure you want to do that?” Mr. Wilson gave up and asked. It’s time for the actual boss to show up.
Antonio was rendered motionless by the words. A glimmer of recognition expanded his furious, constricted gaze. As Mr. Wilson’s arm was being held in an iron vice grasp, a tremor went through his hands.
“Pop Pop?” Antonio gave a croak. Why are you here, exactly?
Mr. Wilson let out a sigh. To observe, Antonio,” he murmured. “To witness the results of your avarice and conceit. to observe what you have turned this into, what you call a club. I handed you the club to operate.
He glanced over the dumbfounded assembly. “This…this Inferno is not what I imagined for you, Antonio,” he said, his voice growing louder. It was not intended to be a playground for ego and exclusion, but rather a haven of passion and innovation.
His straightforward remarks cut through the Inferno’s exterior and revealed the decay underneath. Antonio felt shame creep into his eyes.
Mr. Wilson said, his voice resounding with authority, “Enough.” “We’re going to hold an early staff meeting. Each and every one of you.
Liam and Owen flinched as his ruthless and unwavering stare went across them. Under the gaze of the owner he had never met, even Adam the bartender winced.
Mr. Wilson said again, his voice full of resonance, “We will talk about respect.” Regarding inclusion. Regarding the actual significance of heat that lights rather than consumes.
He looked into Antonio’s eyes, a flicker of forgiveness battling years of stored hurt. “And as a gardener who tends to the fireflies, leading them toward a light that warms rather than burns, you, Antonio, will learn to lead this club instead of being a king of ashes.”
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