+++
title = "101, I Salute You"
date = 2024-05-06

[taxonomies]
categories = ["Culture"]

[extra]
author = "Emil Miler"
+++

There once existed a singular establishment known as "101," a place that, though no longer standing, will forever be enshrined in the memories of those fortunate -- or perhaps unfortunate -- enough to have crossed its threshold. Its walls witnessed many a tale of intrigue, mischief, and debauchery, none of which could be considered anything but extraordinary.

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Over the years, a colorful array of characters passed through its doors, none leaving without a story to tell. Barroom brawls erupted without warning, drinks were consumed with reckless abandon, and, as if by some unspoken agreement, the usual conventions of society were all but abandoned. Anything and everything was permissible.

It was on the final night of the bar's existence that I found myself delivered, in the most peculiar fashion, in the boot of a car, directly into the midst of a celebration that shuddered on the edge of chaos. Those who had elected to remain at home would soon regret their decision, for they missed an evening unlike any other. By night's end, I had lost half of my trousers, my trusted guitar chordbook had inexplicably turned to liquid, and much of the revelry and quarrels had, by dawn, dissolved into a mere haze in my recollection.

The patrons, in a state of profound inebriation, spoke in tongues so slurred as to be incomprehensible; some were unable to lift themselves from the floor, yet somehow retained a remarkable grip on their glasses, never spilling a drop. A feat, I should think, that would baffle even the keenest of minds.

Indeed, it was a night to be remembered -- though I daresay that few in attendance are likely to recall it with any clarity.

F
