The bar I worked at didn't even have a name.

The sign up front had been blank since the early 2000s, and nobody who came in cared enough to ask what the place was called.

We could have been called, Drink Here, and it wouldn't have changed the thing.

Most of our regulars were either in debt,

going through their third divorced or waiting to die.

Or for a few, it was a combination.

I worked at the bar because it paid me in actual money,

not drink tokens or promises, most of the time.

I was behind on rent again. My bank account was so low it rounded to zero,

and I'd already tried every get-rich quick scheme that TikTok,

read it, and sheer desperation had to offer.

I didn't have the face for tutoring or the charm for streaming, and drop shipping

died before I figured out what the hell it even was. That night, I was wiping down a chipped

glass for the sixth time, wondering if I could call in sick tomorrow and still keep the job.

I stared at the TV bolted above the bar. Usually, it was

sports reruns or weather warnings. That night, some televangelist was pacing around a fake church

set, waving a crucifix like he was directing traffic. He was going on about demons, speaking in a voice that cracked between shouts and sobs.

People in the audience were crying.

It looked like bad theatre.

But what made me freeze was the giant number at the bottom of the screen.

Cleansing services start at $2,49.

I blinked at it.

...