Everybody Comes to Dante's!

“This - is - Hell!” cried Hoffman as he walked up, almost drunkenly, to the dark and fiery entrance of Café Dante, his arms outstretched, taking it all in. “This is Hell...” he whispered, and smiled.

The smile was, it appeared, a mask, for it rapidly melted, or even congealed, into a bitter stare off into space, past Café Dante, and into the immortal core of humanity. And as the smile melted, so did the supports in his arms: they slowly fell to his sides, although his wrists were still turned outwards.

Then - then he walked around the whole thing to the back and entered through the exit. Well, the back door, anyway. From the back it appeared to be quite a small and dingy little place. Dingy and of gloom. And it appeared fiery (both on the front and back) because some orange holiday lights were strung around a couple of the windows on the back wall; it was Halloween time, and apparently Café Dante was in a bit of a festive mood, even on its backside. Or, perhaps more realistically, some of the workers who only went in and out the back way were bored and depressed by the gloominess of the lack of illumination on their entrance, and decided to lighten it up a bit. Yes, that is probably the case. Thus, it was fiery - and dark, because it was night, and miniature holiday lights can only shine so bright.

He walked through the back door, through the white, sterile-yet-spicy, metallic kitchen, past all the chefs and waiters and cooks and waitresses and servers and through the double doors that led to the main restaurant/saloon area. What met his eyes was this: