If you visit this tiny, dingy, one-story bar in Paris, and the right bartender is behind the counter that night, you might be able to see a very exclusive gallery show of the lost works of one Henri Beauchamp. But to get in, you'll have to prove you're a devotee of the artist.
You'll be asked, in clear and perfect English, "What would like to partake of in this glorious night?" Answer absinthe, no matter what. Any other drink, from whiskey to water, will kill you as you sleep.
The next question will regard the type of absinthe, and you MUST answer one of two things: "The stuff that Man himself could not bear to take," or "The good stuff. The best stuff." If you ask for any other absinthe in any other way, you will be plagued by nightmares for 13 days. Each night's dream will be more horrible than the last, until, upon the thirteenth dream, your nightmare will begin to follow you, every moment of your waking and sleeping life.
Don't try and cheat the barkeep; the door locked behind you. You have to drink what he gives you, doom or not. That such a powerful man granted you audience should be enough. Besides, I've heard that the dying complimented his drinks in their death throes.
If you make it this far without sealing your fate, the bartender will say, "Be sure you handle this with care; this is the finest I have." From here, you may do one of two things. The first is to say, word for word, "I overestimated my fortitude, and I bid you good eve." If the barkeep nods, you may leave through the door you entered, unharmed and with nothing gained and nothing lost (except the time spent inside).
Or you can go on.
You will be given a glass with a seven-sided rim, each side twisting ever-so-delicately around the basin until a sleek and simple handle is formed. You will also receive a very, very, very special absinthe spoon, in the shape of a key. The holes at its top serve as the draining point for the alcohol to pour over the sugar cube. You will also receive an unmarked bottle stripped long ago of its label, scraps of paper sticking to its sides, covered in the rot of decades past.
The spoon is completely flat, but has two distinct sides: one with a groove along the shaft of the key, and one without. Turn the shaft so that its groove is facing down. If you use it face up, your absinthe will taste foul, your nose will burn, and your eyes will shrivel in their sockets at unspeakable horrors not of this world.
Now, if your spoon is the right way up, begin preparing the absinthe as one would (put the sugar on the spoon and pour the alcohol over, so that it gains its color and "special qualities").
Say "cheers" to your friend, the barkeep. Then bottoms up. If you don't, the absinthe will burn every innard it touches with the power and pain of sulfuric acid.
If you've done it right, the already dim lights will switch off, and darkness will consume the bar. Don't be afraid; the darkness means that you've been approved for the exhibit. Wait and keep silent as the dead, lest the bartender decide to make you so.
Eventually (not too long, around two to three minutes later), a green floodlight will shine brightly on a door at the far wall of the bar. The room will be bathed in green, and not just from the floodlight. Little luminescent spheres will gently drift around you, and the barkeep will no longer be there...nor any other unassuming patron previously inside.
There's no danger at this point. Consider the bar a safe space for now. If you didn't finish the absinthe, you don't have to, but you might need the alcohol. Either way, take the spoon and put it in the keyhole of the green-lit portal's doorknob. It will fit perfectly and reach the end of the keyhole with a resounding click.
Inside is a small elevator with the most beautiful woman any mortal eyes could imagine, bathed in the green glow at such an angle that the light refracts beyond her into the shape of wings.
The Green Fairy herself will ask you, "Going up?". Considering all the trouble you've been through already, it would only make sense to say yes.
Now you have one more hurdle to clear. She will ask you, as you cross the line from the bar to the compartment, "How would you compare Beauchamp's surrealism to that of, say, René Magritte?" For your reply, you must say, "I've come to see more than art tonight."
If you don't, the green floodlight will blow out, the doors will slam shut, and the elevator will plummet through a seemingly infinite blackness. This will occur before a red light grows brighter, the elevator nearing the very depths of Hell.
Now, if your elevator begins to go up, the green light will also fade, and the cool glow of the moon will take its place. But before you realise, the elevator will have reached the top of its...well, let's call it a shaft, to keep things simple.
I'm not as sure about this as the rest, but I've heard that if the Green Fairy kisses you on the cheek as she leaves the elevator, you will forever be blessed with a creative inspiration: a permanent, ever-changing muse. You can't ask her and you can't kiss her; she has to do it of her own volition. If not...well, nothing, but there's no reason to force her and anger the woman responsible for keeping the Beauchamp paintings safe for so many years.
You will enter, from the elevator, a turn-of-the-century parlor, with a large poster of Henri Beauchamp on the left side of the opposite wall. On the right is a door.
Taking the time to read the poster is a fairly good idea, as it explains the significance of Monsieur Beauchamp. You see, he was a struggling surrealist in the 1920s, always making art to try and be free of all premeditation. Eventually, he managed to do so. You see, after one night in a tiny, dingy, one-story bar in Paris, he began to paint...patterns.
At first, geometric patterns. Then complete fractals. Then images that would be in the newspaper the next day. Then the next week. Then from fifty years ago. One hundred years in the future, two hundred years in the past...
On his last night of life, Beauchamp kidnapped three young girls from their homes at night, murdered them, and painted his finest masterpieces in reds and yellows with their virginal blood and bile. He committed suicide immediately after creating exactly 13 of these works.
They are behind the door.
The first six show, from left to right: the genesis of the universe, the only true visage of God (as viewable to the eyes of man), the true image of Jesus Christ, the sprawling clouds of Heaven, every Pope from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of Jesus' appearance in his Second Coming.
The other six, on the right, show, from right to left: the cataclysm of the universe, the only true visage of Satan (as viewable to the eyes of man), the true image of Judas, the sprawling flames of Hell, every human-embodied demon from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of the Antichrist in his Second Coming.
Now, six and six makes twelve. But what of the thirteenth?
This thirteenth painting is turned around on its pin, the image facing the wall. The space around it is roped at a very wide circumference, and under the flipped image is a sign, in three languages. The top is in the scriptures of the Seraphim, the bottom in the runes of the highest demonic orders, and the middle in Roman letters.
DO.
NOT.
TOUCH.
Now, like the kiss, I can't say this part with as much certainty, but all the same...I heard that, somehow, as he died, Beauchamp flayed his skin, his organs, his very soul, into some sort of collage. How he took his dead body and created such a horrific masterpiece, I could never say, nor would I ever dare to.
So...if you make it, maybe you can flip the canvas over and tell me sometime? Over a drink, maybe.
Original author unknown
Originally uploaded on August 16th, 2010