In the event that you go into this one modest, grimy one-story bar in Paris, and the correct barkeep is behind the counter that night, you may have the capacity to see an exceptionally selective display show of the lost works of one Henri Beauchamp. Be that as it may, to get in, you need to demonstrate you're an aficionado of the craftsman to get in.
You'll be asked, in clear and immaculate English, "What might want to share of this great night?". Answer absinthe, regardless. Some other drink, from bourbon to water, will execute you as you rest.
The following inquiry will respect the sort, and you MUST answer one of two things: "The stuff that Man himself couldn't stand to take," or, "The well done. The best stuff." If you request some other absinthe, in some other way, you will be tormented by bad dreams for 13 days. Every night's fantasy will be more terrible than the last, until, upon the thirteenth dream, your bad dream will tail you, each snapshot of your waking and resting life. Try not to attempt and cheat the bartender: the entryway bolted behind you. You need to drink what he gives you, fate or not. That such an intense man conceded you gathering of people ought to be sufficient. In addition, I've heard that the withering complimented his beverages in their final breaths.
On the off chance that you make it that far before fixing your destiny, the barkeep will state, "Make certain you handle this with mind; this is the finest I have." From here, you may complete one of two things: Say, word for word, "I overestimated my backbone, and I offer you great eve.". On the off chance that the bartender gestures, you may leave the entryway you entered, safe and with nothing picked up and nothing lost (aside from the time spent inside).
Or on the other hand you can go on. You will be given a glass with a seven-sided edge, with each side winding carefully around the bowl until framing a smooth and basic handle. You will likewise get an, exceptionally extraordinary absinthe spoon, in the state of a key; the openings at the key's best fill in as the depleting point for the liquor to pour over the sugar 3D square. What's more, obviously, a plain container, stripped long back of its mark, pieces of paper adhering to its sides, shrouded in the spoil of the decades past.
The spoon is totally level, however has two unmistakable sides: one with a section along the pole of the key, and one without. Turn the pole down, so its furrow will be look down. In the event that you endeavor this face up, your absinthe will taste foul, your nose will consume, and your eyes will wither in their attachments with unspeakable detestations not of this world. Presently, if your spoon is the correct far up, start setting up the absinthe as one would (put the sugar on the spoon, and pour the liquor over so it picks up its shading and "extraordinary characteristics").
Say "cheers" to your companion, the bartender, and bottoms up. In the event that you don't, the absinthe will consume each innard it contacts with the power and agony of sulfuric corrosive.
In the event that you've done it right, the officially diminish lights will go off, and haziness will expend the bar. Try not to be anxious; the haziness is the sign that you've been affirmed for the display. Endure the haziness, and keep quiet as the dead, or the barkeep choose to make you so.
In the long run (not very long, a few minutes), a green floodlight will sparkle splendidly on an entryway on the most distant mass of the bar. The bar will be washed in green, and not simply from the floodlight. Minimal luminescent circles will delicately float through the room, and the bartender will never again be there… nor some other unassuming supporter inside previously. There's no risk by this point… think of it as a protected point. On the off chance that you didn't complete the absinthe, you don't need to, however you may require the liquor. In any case, take the spoon and place it in the keyhole of the green-lit entrance's doorknob. It will fit impeccably, and achieve the finish of the keyhole with a resonating snap.
Inside is a little lift, with the most wonderful lady any mortal eyes can envision, showered in the green sparkle in simply such an edge, to the point that the light refracts past her into the state of wings.
The Green Fairy herself will ask you, "Going up?", and considering all the inconvenience you experienced, it would just bode well to state yes.
Presently, you have one more obstacle to clear. She will ask you, as you go too far from the bar to the compartment, "How might you contrast Beauchamp's surrealism with that of, say, Rene Magritte?" For your answer, you should state, "I've come to see more than craftsmanship this evening."
In the event that you don't, the green floodlight will victory, the entryways will hammer close, and the lift will dive through an apparently unending darkness before a rea light becomes brighter as the lift nears the plain profundities of Hell. Presently, if your lift starts to go up, the green light will likewise blur, yet in its place will be the cool sparkle of the moon. In any case, before you even remember it, the lift will achieve the highest point of its… well, we should call it a pole to not get excessively mind boggling.
Presently, I'm not as beyond any doubt about this as the rest, but rather I've heard that, if the Green Fairy kisses you on the cheek as she leaves the lift, you will dependably be honored with an inventive motivation: a lasting, consistently evolving muse. You can't ask her, you can't kiss her; she needs to do it of her own volition. If not… well, nothing, but rather no motivation to do it at any rate and outrage the lady who is in charge of protecting the Beauchamp canvases for such a large number of years.
You will enter, from the lift, a turn-of-the-century parlor, with a vast blurb of Henri Beauchamp on the left half of the contrary divider; on the privilege is an entryway.
Setting aside the opportunity to peruse the blurb is a genuinely smart thought, as it clarifies the plain essentialness of Mr. Beauchamp. He was a battling surrealist in the 1920s, continually influencing craftsmanship to attempt to be free of all intention, and figured out how to do as such. After one night in a modest, dirty one-story bar in Paris, he started to paint… designs. To begin with it was geometric examples. At that point finish fractals. At that point pictures that would be in the daily paper the following day. At that point one week from now. At that point from fifty years prior. 100 later on, 200 before…
At that point, on his last night of life, he abducted three young ladies from their homes around evening time, killed them, and painted his finest magnum opuses in reds and yellows with the blood and bile of virgins.
These are behind the entryway.
The initial six, from the left, appear, from left to right: the beginning of the universe, the main genuine look of God as perceptible to the eyes of man, the genuine picture of Jesus Christ, the sprawling billows of Heaven, each Pope from the first to faces not yet unmistakable, and a representation of Jesus' appearance in his Second Coming.
The other six, on the right, appear, from appropriate to left: the disastrous of the universe, the main genuine look of Satan as distinguishable to the eyes of man, the genuine picture of Judas, the sprawling flares of Hell, each human-epitomized evil spirit from the first to faces not yet unmistakable, and a representation of the Antichrist in his Second Coming.
Presently, six and six makes twelve. Be that as it may, what of the thirteenth?
This thirteenth painting is pivoted on its divider stick, the picture confronting the divider. The space around it is restricted up at a wide distance across, and under the flipped picture is a sign, in three dialects. The best is in the sacred writings of the seraphim, the base in the runes of the most astounding wicked requests, and in the center, in Roman letters.
DO
NOT
Contact
Presently, similar to the kiss, I can't state this part with as much sureness, however all the same… I heard that, some way or another, as he kicked the bucket, Beauchamp excoriated his skin, his organs, his exceptionally soul, into some kind of montage. How he took his dead body and made such a horrendous perfect work of art, I would never say, nor would I ever set out to.
He submitted suicide instantly in the wake of painting precisely 13 of these.
So… in the event that you make it, possibly you can flip the canvas over and let me know at some point? You can inform me concerning it over a drink.