Observe the café. This is where they all collect. Vampires, demons, werewolves, intelligent zombies, grimy physics geniuses with their exploding coffee cups. This is where they gather when they are offstage. In between stories, in between murders or seductions or devious plans, they gather here. It is always night here.
Observe the waitress. She knows who each of them is. She knows which story they come from, where they need to go. If they get too jittery in the breaks, she sits at their table and helps them find the courage to claw up or fang up as applicable.
Some say that she had a story of her own, but she escaped and came here. Others say that all their stories are spin-offs, and the waitress and her café are the real story. They know she has somebody’s name tattooed on her shoulder which has been scratched unreadable. They know she has a gippy knee where she might or might not have been shot or bitten. They know she sometimes gazes out of the window with a grim, cold look in her eyes, as if there’s someone or something out there who wants to enter the café but doesn’t dare to.
Observe the way the waitress reaches under the bar every once in a while. As if making sure something is still there. Once in a while, a fight will break out, or somebody will have starved for too long, and one of them will try to kill her. It has been known to happen.
When it does, she will grab the tiny silver chainsaw-knife hybrid that she keeps down there. It doubles up as a holy-water spray if needed. It has a degeniusiser attachment, for the mad scientists. If she has to cross a name off her list of customers, she prefers to do it in style.