Transformed by the smoke and neon lights of the familiar dive bar, we become modern werewolves. We are a motley mix of lumberjack plaid, cigarette smoke, and dirty boots. Every Thursday we return to the den to howl at the moon for the curse of cheap beer.
The Wolftrap is an old place full of an assorted crowd. We are the island of misfit toys. The Trap has seen layers of stories like layers of smoke and rusted paint. It is the oldest bar in Edmond, OK, boasting a classic country dive bar feel. It is dark and musty. If it was a person, it would have tattoos. There is neon in every corner. When you leave the den, it leaves its scent on you.
It is ungraspable, unattainable. It is the curse of collegiate alcoholism and the allure of respite after the daily grind. You can still hear the POP of the pool balls breaking in the background, the sound of laughter, and the thick smell of smoke on your nose.
The smoke, ever present, reveals the animal in people. We always return to howl at the moon.