There is a seedy old basement-level bar in downtown Plymouth that I visit often these days.
It’s a rather out of the way establishment; most of the people who ever visit were introduced or directed there at some point. Basically, not the sort of place were the city’s youths and nighttime fun-seekers frequent, which is just fine with us. The wooden sign outside says “The One Penny Bar” in chipping paint, but those of us who know and frequent the establishment tend to refer to it as “Rob’s den,” after the owner and main bartender.
There are a bunch of other dens scattered across the general vicinity of New England, a couple of others in Quebec and Montreal as well. Like all the other dens, the patrons of Plymouth’s are predominantly vampires.
The first time I remember visiting the bar was a month after my death and resurrection. To briefly summarize a rather complicated story, I stumbled into a bad situation involving members of the G