Dens of iniquity do not photograph well. The lighting is inadequate for one thing; the clientele are unseemly. And all you ever get are hands or backs of hands; faces hidden behind a pulled up leather collar.
There is always a ritual being scheduled. A sacrifice or offering every Tuesday. The bowling league was disbanded because no one had the balls to set the pins. But it didn’t matter anyway. Mephistopheles always monitored the door. And how do you get a camera past a six-foot-seven-inch dude with a goat head?
Besides, he never photographed well.
His girl Shirley did however take a marvelous picture. Albeit, sans clothing. They were never sure of the connection, but she had earned the nickname “Whore of Babylon”.
But, the enigma in this whole soiree was “Pops”. Eighty-three, slightly balding and hunched back, a very pronounced limp as a result, every word defined the proprietor”. The kicker was his soiled “Highway to Hell” concert tee with the sleeves rolled to reveal his “Born to Raise Lazarus” tatoo.
A motley crew for sure, but they were a private lot here in Salem. They held a wicked grudge. So just be sure to not piss them off. Or take their picture!