Jackson let the door slide shut behind him and watched as the draft dented the smoky curtain between the entrance way and the rest of the tavern. Off to the right, patrons lined the bar, packed cheek to jowl like puling kittens fighting to suckle at oblivion’s teat. Further in, as far as he could peer through the gray interior, Jackson saw people seated around tables built from old telephone cable drums or pieces of wood nailed to battered oil barrels. Items ranging from car fenders twisted into curlicues to pieces of mannequins adorned with barbed-wire jewelry decorated the posts holding up the ceiling.