Journal Entry 0, By Father Colerreli
Friday night, about a month ago you were one of the patrons at Nevin’s Irish Pub ( in Evanston ) on a fine fall evening. You were there with someone, maybe a few someones, and the night was moving right along, the sign outside tempting passers-by with ”$3 you call its”. Nevin’s is the kind of place where there might be an argument or raucous laughter now and then, but brawls were rare. After the shadows deepened outside and the sun dipped down and made its escape that particular night, things got a little… weird.
At some point in the evening, everyone heard a blood-curdling scream ( no way you couldn’t hear it ) coming from the men’s room. What you saw next was a series of events that seemed to tear at your reasonability; hard to put together not only at Nevin’s, but really any other place outside an asylum, maybe. A man running out of the bathroom, clearly the screamer because he was making that same shrieking pitch now, was clutching a can of hair spray ( of all things ) in his left hand. Upon him immediately were three other men definitely intent on violence.
The first and largest of these had deep sunken eyes and long black curly hair. The second was short and had a barrel chest, one that could rival most body builders. You’re sure there was a third man there, but the simple act of recalling even the simplest details of his appearance seems beyond you. He was simply… there. You couldn’t say any more than that, but when you struggle to recall you have a feeling clawing on the edges of your memory, an anxious uncertainty.
The long curly haired man closed the gap and forcefully grabbed the brandished can of hairspray, then began brutally beating the screamer in the head with it. Just then a deafening explosion was heard, and felt deep in the chest of everyone at the bar. Windows, glasses, bar mirrors and bottles all around shattered, and the air punched out of your chest with a whump. A few might have noticed that the bar tender has now holding a gun.
He had apparently just shot the long haired man as he bludgeoned on with the can. You’d think that would have been the end of it. You’d be wrong.
There was a moment where everything seemed to hang in the air; the smoke from the unbelievably forceful gunshot, the echo of broken glass, and thunder. After this surreal beat that seems clear as day in your memory, all reason seemed to leave the long haired man and Barrel Chest as well. They both threw themselves at the nearest people, spectators caught in the act of having a simple evening at Nevin’s go horribly wrong. It was a bloodbath, pure and simple. The two began clawing and biting, teeth and nails instantly wet with running crimson of the innocents around them, these poor people falling, recoiling back in horror, but for most of them to no avail. The human body has more blood inside of it than most might believe, if their only exposure to it was a cut finger, or the Discovery channel. After what you saw at Nevin’s, you’d assume there was now blood on the walls, and the ceiling too.
Instincts kick in fast; their instinctual, after all, and “flight” was at the top of the list. People started to flee the bar by any means and exit available (yourselves included). A few minutes later, frazzled patrons stumbling, bleeding, and vomiting in the streets outside were lit up by the red and blue of police cruisers arriving first, then ambulances. By that time the bar had gone quite, but the police would later determine that no one had seen any of the three aggressors exit, and none of the officers found anyone alive inside. The three men ( yes, there was definitely three ) were nowhere to be found.
On the floor inside were many bodies; the screaming man now silent, forever. He no longer held the hairspray, and much blood was pouring from wounds in his head, while a silver Zippo nestled clenched in his right hand. Among the other dead six were people known to your group.
That was a month ago. Nevin’s closed of course, now boarded up and ignored by everyone as they hurry past and look away. Everyone expect the gawkers and freaks from elsewhere who make light of driving by such scenes of past carnage. “That was the place,” some cackle while taking cell phone photos as they drive by. The sign is still up, advertising ”$3 you call its” on that fateful night.