originally an auto-body shop; old tools and a rusted track still remain scattered throughout the space
now it’s the local watering hole for the broke and dispossessed
you can feel/hear an unsettling, psychic thrumming throughout the bar in the hour before sunrise
B’s is the diviest bar in Newtown; if the decor doesn’t make this clear, the patrons certainly do. B’s serves moonshine, brewed in the back, and whatever pest has been captured and cooked today. The place is lit only by rotwax candles, and the walls are covered in fragments of cracked mirrors to reflect the flickering flames. The tables and chairs are entirely improvised — milk crates, busted electronics, sacks of gravel. The swill is distilled from crabcorn, the only cereal that grows in blighted Newtown.