If a priest were to hand me a crock of shit this deep anywhere but Max’s, where the very walls breed strangeness, I’d tell him he spends way too much time on the internet. But in this case, the evidence sings for itself... “Wayne Gertler was a member of my parish for thirty years,” Father Darcy tells us over another round of coffee. “A difficult man, but not a bad one.” He lowers his voice. “Then, one day, he came to me for confession. May God forgive me for divulging this, b

A strange coffee house... A dead pop singer... An evil song that refuses to die... Bolted to the wall of Max’s coffee shop, about 6 feet off the floor, is a faux wood grain early 1960s TV cabinet with a mismatched black formica door. Behind the door is a mad doctorish collection of dials, pulleys, meters, gauges, and knobs called Victor. A one of a kind jukebox, Victor has been filling the establishment with sound since long before Max acquired the place from its previous own