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Live Action TV
Narrator: Getting the new tribes onside was more than a challenge. Part-time musician Greg Macainsh decided to make a student film about the toughtest crowd of all: Melbourne's Sharpies. He seemed to learn nothing from the exercise, and took his new glam band right into the lions' den.
Greg Macainsh: We were all wearing makeup, and I was wearing some hideous lurex sort of jumpsuit, and we thought we were definitely not gonna get out of their alive, surrounded by Sharpies, but we sort of won them over.
— Long Way to the Top: Stories of Australian Rock & Roll
Music
Tobacco and pipes and the dark candle lights
So outlaws are taking their hide
Draught beer and rum and dark shanties are sung
At a sinister dive called The Drift
So outlaws are taking their hide
Draught beer and rum and dark shanties are sung
At a sinister dive called The Drift
— Running Wild, "The Drift"
Fan Works
The moon was up and the night was, thankfully, almost cloudless. Willy’s Bar was a place which the living had no business visiting. It still had a bustling and varied clientele. It was run by a bumbling demon who trucked with the criminal supernatural element (which, in Sunnydale, was just about all of it), and you could find pretty much your phantasmagoria of ghoulies, ghosties, and long-leggity beasties there, with their beverages of choice.
Buffy and her friends were among the few breathing folk who came there in a capacity other than as victims.
This time, the Slayer went in with her redheaded friend, the latter of whom was wearing her Supergirl outfit under her jumpsuit.
Buffy and her friends were among the few breathing folk who came there in a capacity other than as victims.
This time, the Slayer went in with her redheaded friend, the latter of whom was wearing her Supergirl outfit under her jumpsuit.
Literature
This is a dive at the bottom of all dives. A dark, impenetrable place, where dark figures plan dark deeds and perform dark acts.
Eddie waits for his eyes to adjust to the gloom enough for him to find the damn door out of this place. He tries not to contemplate the strange noises around him: the whispers, the gruntings, the barking of mad laughter, the smashing of glass, and the inexplicable wet sounds.
It was a big mistake, coming here. This is probably exactly the kind of place frequented by the people he's trying to avoid. They probably pop in here after a hard day's murdering to throw back a few cold ones.
The Last Mistake was a place where the underworld of Camorr bubbled to the surface; a flat-out crook's tavern, where Right People of every sort could drink and speak freely of their business, where respectable citizens stood out like serpents in a nursery and were quickly escorted out the door by mean-looking, thick-armed men with very small imaginations.
Here entire gangs would come to drink and arrange jobs and just show themselves off. In their cups, men would argue loudly about the best way to strangle someone from behind, and the best sorts of poisons to use in wine or food. They would openly proclaim the folly of the duke's court, or his taxation schemes, or his diplomatic arrangements with the other cities of the Iron Sea. They would refight entire battles with dice and fragments of chicken bones as their armies, loudly announcing how they would have turned left when Duke Nicovante had gone right, how they would have stood fast when the five thousand blackened iron spears of the Mad Count's Rebellion had come surging down Godsgate Hill toward them.
But not one of them, no matter how far doused in liquor or Gaze of the strange narcotic powders of Jerem—no matter what feats of generalship or statecraft he credited himself with the foresight to bring off—would dare suggest to Capa Vencarlo Barsavi that he should ever change so much as a single button on his waistcoat.
A tapis-franc, in the slang of the murderers and thieves of Paris, means a smoking-house or inn of the very lowest class. A discharged convict, who in this foul language is called an Ogre, or a woman of the same class who is called an Ogresse, commonly keeps a tavern of this kind, resorted to by the refuse of the Parisian population: liberated galley-slaves, sharpers, robbers, and assassins congregate there. If a crime has been committed, the police casts its net in this receptacle of filth, and almost always the guilty one is caught.
— Eugène Sue, The Mysteries Of Paris
The Desperate Measure was the kind of bar in which most people wouldn't set a fire, let alone a foot. A green shamrock barely stood out from the dirty white of the illuminated sign outside, and its windows were small bevelled panes of blue and orange. It was a place where men went to drink and think about hitting other men, and where women went to drink and think about hitting men as well. Inset into the door was a small square of glass, barred like the entrance to a keep, presumably so those within could check on anyone seeking entry once the door was locked. It wasn't clear why they felt the need to check. Nobody outside could be any more threatening than the kind of people who were already inside.
Luke follows Ben into a murky, smoke-filled den, serving an incredible array of weird and exotic aliens, monsters, and disreputable humans. One-eyed, thousand-eyed, slimy, furry, scaly tentacles and claws are huddled over drinks.
(alien squawking and chittering)
Ben moves through the dingy room in search of a likely star pilot, while Luke edges up to the long metallic bar. A strange, multi-eyed creature and his surly human sidekick approach Luke.
(alien squawking and chittering)
Ben moves through the dingy room in search of a likely star pilot, while Luke edges up to the long metallic bar. A strange, multi-eyed creature and his surly human sidekick approach Luke.
— Roscoe Lee Browne, narrating "The Story of Star Wars" LP adaptation of Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope
Yes, Karedonia has bars that cater to minions, where after long months of ruthless fighting with superheroes, police, security guards, and whatever insanity their boss has cooked up, supervillain minions can blow off steam - by fighting the minions of other supervillains. Mom says that it’s all part of the minion headspace, go figure.
—Dragonblade, "The Road to Whateley, part 1", Whateley Universe
Video Games
Seneschal Bran: Although where you'd find a guardsman so quick to sell his honor and duty, I'm sure I wouldn't know.
Companion: (immediately) The Hanged Man.
Other companion: (almost simultaneously) Hanged Man.
Sebastian: Even I know that.
Companion: (immediately) The Hanged Man.
Other companion: (almost simultaneously) Hanged Man.
Sebastian: Even I know that.
Places like this are slaughterhouses dressed as nightclubs, I shit you not.
—Zaeed Massani, Mass Effect 2
"Ragna Rock was as inviting as a headache, flickering and flashing to a machine gun beat. The belly of the nightclub was a gothic theme park that began with bondage games and led to the nasty stuff from there... As subtle with it's dark message as a cop killer bullet through the heart. Like father, like son. Just like Jack Lupino."
You get a nice cross-section of unsavory sorts here. It can really make you appreciate how decent your friends are, even if they're dishonest bilge-lizards...
—Ballast Harbor bartender, Ocean's Heart
