The Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill. The sign slapped above the door is missing most of its vowels, and I’d bet my Bugatti the inside is just as neglected. Ever since I was a kid, it’s always been the type of joint that makes you want to wipe your feet on the way out. That’s the thing about Devil’s Dip. The places, the people. The fucking weather. Nothing about this shit-hole town ever changes. Stepping out of the storm and into the shipping container, I’m immediately proven right.
