Elks Lodge #1112.
That sexy name refers to the San Mateo, California Elks Lodge, located on some street near a freeway.
Right? That’s why I write, people. I’m a stickler for detail.
Anyway, this place was built in the year 1200 AD and most of its patrons were old well prior to that.
What the hell is an Elks Lodge? It used to be a place where men gathered and very likely did racist, chauvinistic things, but it’s no longer a haven for old, white men. Now it’s home to old people of all variety, women included.
So once a week, a group of us go there to drink, write, and drink. The place is dusty. The Crypt Keeper would be a young stud here.
Take him in. You know what? This image is ludicrously large for this post, but fuck it. Look at the size of the Crypt Keeper. He’s huge! No way I’m resizing it, though. The upload gods wanted him to be that large, and so it shall be done. I’ll accept full responsibility.
Point is, every aspiring writer needs a place. This is mine. Except, that is, when that ancient asshole opens the door to the library room, shuffles in, and retells the same joke I’ve heard thirteen times already. You know who you are! Luckily for me, he doesn’t know shit about this blog. Or the Internet. Or computers. Or electricity. No, motherfucker, there’s not a hole in my shoe, and I can still put my foot in it, damn you! I don’t know if he’s trolling or if he’s battling advanced Alzheimer’s, but either way, an intervention is necessary.
I wonder if the Crypt Keeper ever has any nice tales from the crypt. (Not a question; more of a thought.) He always delivers that titular line in a dramatic, eerie tone, but what if one of the tales is actually about some guy who did well for himself, lived a long life and died peacefully in his sleep surrounded by family? What then, Crypt Keeper? You still gonna be so gods-damned spooky with your delivery?