It takes a few more seconds before I can see worth drek. When I can, I scope the place out. The Hole’s a "shotgun" arrangement, not much more than six meters wide, but stretching almost three times that in length. To the right of the door’s the bar, a scarred macroplast thing with uncomfortable-looking stools in front of it. Directly to the left is what’s left of a laser jukebox—you’d call it an antique if its electronic guts weren’t trailing on the floor. Down the left wall are half a dozen round tables covered with terry cloth to soak up spilled beer and other fluids. Two of them are occupied, one by the hulking figure of a troll, the other by a couple of dwarfs. All three customers are giving me the evil eye, probably watching to see if I’ll back down. So I give them a killer grin, jander over to the bar and settle myself down on a stool.