The backroom of O’Malley’s Pub in Derry was a dive in every sense of the word—a dimly lit cesspool of despair that reeked of stale Guinness, cigarette ash, and the shattered dreams of every poor sod who’d ever stumbled through its doors. The walls, stained yellow from decades of smoke, seemed to sag under the weight of whispered secrets and bad decisions. At a wobbly table in the corner, three men nursed their pints, their grumbling voices a low hum beneath the distant clatter of glasses from the main bar.
Gerry, a stocky bricklayer with a face like a slapped arse, slammed his pint down, froth sloshing over the rim. “I’m tellin’ ye, lads, if I have to lay one more feckin’ brick for that bastard foreman, I’m gonna shove it somewhere the sun don’t shine. Same shite, different day.”
Joe, an old codger with a beard like a bird’s nest and a twinkle of mischief in his rheumy eyes, cackled through a mouthful of dentures. “Ach, quit yer whinin’, Gerry. Ye’ve got a job, don’t ye? Me, I’ve got nothin’ but me pension and me memories of the war. And let me tell ye, the Germans weren’t half as borin’ as yer gob.”
Pastor Rob, a wiry man in a cheap suit with a collar too tight for his scrawny neck, sighed into his pint, his Bible resting on the table like a silent judge. “Brothers, let us not drown in despair. The Lord provides, even in the muck of Derry. Though I’ll confess, a night out with ye heathens is testin’ my patience more than any sermon.”
Gerry snorted. “Aye, Pastor, ye’ve been preachin’ at us for hours. Loosen up, will ye? We’re here for a lads’ night, not a feckin’ revival.”
Their bickering was interrupted by the creak of the backroom door. A stranger slipped in, a wiry man with a sharp face and a glint in his eye that screamed trouble. His leather jacket was too tight, his smirk too knowing, and in his hand, he clutched a small glass vial that pulsed with an unnatural green glow, the label scratched but legible: *Evil Gay Serum*. He scanned the room, his gaze locking on the trio with predatory precision before sauntering over.
“Evenin’, gents,” he drawled, his voice smooth as sin. “Name’s Damien. Damien the Deviant, if ye fancy a title. Mind if I join ye for a wee chat? I’ve got stories that’ll make yer dull lives look like a feckin’ monastery.”
Joe perked up, wiping foam from his beard. “Stories, eh? Pull up a chair, lad. If ye’ve got somethin’ to spice up this miserable night, I’m all ears.”
Damien slid into a seat, his grin widening as he set the glowing vial on the table, casually covering the label with a grimy hand. “Oh, I’ve got more than stories, boys. I’ve got liberation. Been travelin’ the world, seein’ things ye wouldn’t believe. Men breakin’ free of their chains, livin’ wild. And I’ve got just the thing to help ye do the same.” He produced a small flask from his jacket, pouring a measure of the glowing liquid into each of their pints before they could protest. “A special brew, on me. Call it a taste of freedom.”
Gerry eyed his pint suspiciously, sniffing at the now faintly glowing liquid. “Smells like somethin’ died in it. What’s this shite, Damien? Ye tryin’ to poison us?”
Damien chuckled, leaning back with a wicked gleam. “Poison? Nah, mate. This is a thrill in a glass. Go on, down it. Or are ye too scared to live a little?”
“Scared?” Gerry barked a laugh, his pride stung. “Feck off. I’ve had worse at me ma’s Christmas dinner.” He chugged the pint in one go, slamming the glass down with a grimace. “Tastes like battery acid and regret, but I’ve had worse.”
Joe didn’t hesitate, knocking his back with a guttural cackle. “Seen worse in the war, lad. Drank shite that’d strip paint off a tank. This? This is nothin’.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, burping loud enough to rattle the table.
Pastor Rob, however, clutched his glass, his knuckles white. “I… I shouldn’t. The Good Book warns against unknown spirits. ‘Be sober-minded; be watchful,’ 1 Peter 5:8.”
Damien leaned in, his voice a seductive purr. “Come now, Pastor. Even Jesus turned water to wine. One sip won’t damn ye. Or are ye sayin’ ye don’t trust yer mates to lead ye right?”
Gerry smirked, nudging Rob’s elbow. “Aye, don’t be a wet blanket, Father. Drink up. God’ll forgive a wee lapse on a Tuesday night.”
Rob’s resolve crumbled under their jeers. With a shaky hand, he raised the glass, muttering, “Lord, forgive me,” before gulping it down. A shiver ran through him, his face twisting as if he’d swallowed a lemon whole.
For a moment, silence hung over the table. Then, slowly, the serum began to work its dark magic. Their eyes glazed over, pupils dilating with an unnatural sheen. Gerry’s voice dropped an octave, husky and rough, as he shifted in his seat. Joe’s grizzled chuckle took on a leering edge, and even Pastor Rob, fighting the tide, let out a low growl he couldn’t suppress. Awkward glances turned heated, their usual banter replaced by something… hungrier.
The tension was shattered by the door swinging open again. A young man stumbled in, clearly out of place. He was delicate, almost pretty, with a skinny frame drowning in an oversized coat and a posh British accent that screamed “lost tourist.” His blond hair fell into his eyes as he glanced around, clutching a crumpled map. “Erm, excuse me, chaps. I seem to be rather turned around. Is this the way to the city center?”
Gerry, now a man possessed, let out a low wolf whistle before he could stop himself, startling even his own ears. “Well, feck me sideways, what’ve we got here? A wee lost lamb in the lion’s den.”
James froze, his cheeks flushing crimson. “I-I beg your pardon?”
Joe slapped his knee, hollering with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Get over here, ye wee English muffin! Let’s have a gander at ya. Been a while since I’ve seen somethin’ so… tasty wanderin’ in.”
Pastor Rob, his internal battle raging, muttered a quick prayer under his breath before his voice turned gravelly, betraying him. “Forgive me, Lord, but this lad’s a temptation straight from the devil himself. Come closer, son. Let’s… save yer soul.”
James, flustered beyond words, took a step back, his map crumpling in his trembling hands. “I-I think I’ve got the wrong place. I’ll just… be on my way, shall I?”
But the trio was already on their feet, circling him like sharks scenting blood. Gerry loomed closer, his usual gruffness now laced with a playful, predatory edge. “Nah, don’t run off, lad. We’re just havin’ a bit of craic. Never thought I’d fancy a posh boy, but here we are. Ye’ve got me feelin’ all sorts of confused.”
Joe chuckled, scratching his beard as he blocked the door. “Aye, it’s a queer turn of events, ain’t it? Didn’t think I’d be eyein’ up a fella at my age, but ye’ve got a face like a bloody angel. Makes a man wanna sin.”
Pastor Rob, sweat beading on his brow, gripped his Bible like a lifeline but couldn’t tear his eyes away. “I’m fightin’ it, lad, I swear. But the flesh is weak, and ye’re makin’ it weaker by the second. Just… stand still, will ye? Let me pray over ye. Up close.”
James, cornered and wide-eyed, stammered, “This is… highly irregular! I’m just looking for directions, not… whatever this is! Please, I don’t mean to cause any trouble!”
Gerry grinned, stepping closer, his voice dripping with a newfound charm. “Trouble? Oh, ye’re trouble alright, but the kind we’re startin’ to like. Stick around, pretty boy. We’ve got all sorts of directions to show ye.”
The air crackled with tension, their banter teetering between awkward humor and something darker, more primal. From the shadows by the bar, Damien watched it all unfold, his smirk growing wider. The dim light of the pub cast an eerie glow over the scene, reflecting off the empty vial in his hand as he murmured to himself, “That’s it, lads. Let the chaos reign. This is only the beginnin’.”
The backroom of O’Malley’s Pub had never felt so alive—or so dangerous.
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