Everyone I asked said it was a piece of cardboard.
Someone had even torn it in half and given it back to me.
Right now, as I sat in bed, I stared at the bronze token in my hands— complete and whole.
I’d tried to fix it with some tape. But the moment I let the two torn halves touch, I couldn’t pull them apart. Somehow, the token had become whole again an hour after being torn— when nobody was around.
I witnessed a miracle in front of me. Something that shouldn’t have been possible by any laws of science. No matter how much it felt and functioned like metal in my hands, it inevitably behaved like cardboard in anyone else’s.
Was this something like quantum superposition? Where the token was somehow kept in the state of being metal and cardboard at the same time?
I doubt that even a PhD in Quantum Physics could get me to understand this phenomenon.
At the very moment I’d watch the two halves become inseparable, my whole Universe had shattered.
Everything I thought I knew up to that point had been thrown into question.
Ghosts, Demons, Gods, ESP, supernatural powers— everything I’d disregarded as impossible had now come to the forefront of my mind. If what I’d witnessed was possible, who was to say that any of those things weren’t?
I needed answers.
I couldn’t simply go to bed as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t still and just ignore this physical impossibility. And the person who had given me this token.
Who was he? How did he know my name?
Well. Knowing my name was hardly surprising in this day and age. But the question remained. If he had given me this impossible object, who was he?
Why did I feel like going to Amsterdam out of nowhere? As Rian had said, it was a four hour, 60 dollar journey both ways. There was something there that had called me— something that my gut picked up on, refusing to let me sleep.
The time was 9:34pm. Immediately, I got up and hastily changed out of my pajamas.
My destination?
The Stokerij bar, Spuistraat, Amsterdam.
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This seedy looking bar in a seedy looking place was definitely the place.
Once again, I pulled out my phone and read over the note I’d made.
‘Stokerij bar, Spuistraat. 1:07am. Dream shot.’
This was definitely the Stokerij. But for how expensive the man dressed, I’d expected the bar to be a little more… I sighed. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. There were 10 minutes left to see what exactly my gut had in store for me.
The door rang when I pushed it open— as if it were some cowboy pub in the Wild West.
Surprisingly, the inside was completely unlike the shabby exterior and was packed with people. Every table was occupied, save for a single seat by the bartender.
Perfect. It looked like the man on the train was kind enough to save me a spot.
I looked to the ceiling and wanted to ask the heavens to give me a good story that doesn’t involve anything dangerous.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
An uncomfortable stench of welly armpits and onions hit my nostrils as I squeezed in between two men on either side of the seat.
Fucking hell, forget my initial impressions, this place was exactly what I imagined it to be.
Ignoring the smell with all my willpower, I stuck my arm out— ready to call on the busy barman. He moved fast and with practiced efficiency. And the moment I noticed his moment of respite, I called out to him.
“Excuse me!” No response. It looks like he couldn’t hear it over the din of the bar.
Damn it. I have to embarrass myself by calling him again…
“Excuse me!” I called out louder and this time he responded.
“What can I get ya.” He asked, staring at me with a slight frown.
“Can I get an—”
A meaty hand grabbed my shoulder. Who the fuck was—
It was a giant, brute of a man. Despite his size, the muscle definition in his cannon-like arms told me he was 300 pounds of pure muscle. I just hoped he had a high-pitched voice that would make him less intimidating.
“My seat. Get out.”
He said in a rough, not particularly amused voice. I could’ve protested— could’ve said something, but I chose not to. But what could I do against a towering behemoth of muscle? I had only recently started going to the gym.
And even then, I’d started with the lowest weights— being skinny as I was. Fuck. I don’t like this feeling one bit. But I got up and left anyway, not wanting to pick a fight.
I glanced at my phone, pretending to unlock it and nonchalantly swiped through. But I noticed that the time was 1:05 already. Shit.
“Excuse me!”
I made sure to call out the barman a good distance away from Mr. Muscle mountain, and this time the barman responded immediately.
“You again. What do you want.”
I lowered my voice and craned my neck forward— to which the barman graciously lended his ear.
“I…”
I looked at the time.
“Give me one more minute.”
This seemed to earn a hearty laugh from him, who winked and told me to carry on. Exactly a minute later, he seemed to turn even before I called him.
“So?” He asked.
Once again, I whispered, craning my neck forward.
“Give me an angel shot.”
The barman nodded nonchalantly and went back to business.
…
5 whole minutes passed… But nothing happened.
I sighed. Those bastards Yokuttan and Rian must’ve probably pulled this prank on me… But that didn’t really make sense. If they were the ones pulling this prank, how did they know I’d be on the train?
But something did happen eventually. I watched him disappear into a storage room in the back.
Exciting.
But no. He didn’t bring back anything. He simply grabbed a bottle of vodka from a violet-lit shelf and poured a shot— which he pushed towards me. And then his eyebrows quickly rose and sat down.
“You asked.”
Did I? Whatever. I brought out my wallet and asked him, “How much?”
But he just smiled, “You pay with your soul.”
“Huh? I’m sorry, what?”
He laughed heartily.
“For you my friend, it’s free.”
But before I could voice my concerns, he went away.
I looked at the clear liquid in my shot glass with dread. Not because it was vodka, but because I knew that free things came with the worst price… Mostly… And I only hope he was joking about the whole ‘pay with your soul’ thing.
I called out to him again, “Excuse me! Is this…” He came closer, looking at me with unreadable eyes, “Is this poisoned?”
My remark cracked his unreadable eyes— now clearly reading amusement.
“My friend, the only poison inside is the vodka.”
And this time he went away for good.
I stared…
And downed the shot— burning as it slid down my throat. Gently, I sat the glass down with a wince. It was regular vodka, which was strange. Why call regular vodka an ‘Angel Shot’?
I absent-mindedly looked around, unsure of what to do now. The darkness of the bar— lit by a very dim light, was very aesthetic. I always loved the soft lighting that some bars had.
There were a few fairy lights strung around the wooden beams of the place— further adding to the bar’s lively glow.
Unknowingly, the liveliness of the place had brought a smile to my face. If I had the choice, I would live in an ambiance like this forever. With my friends. Chatting shit and knocking it back.
But good times never last. And this ambiance didn’t last a second. Because the moment I blinked,
I was standing in a room of pure white.