Imagine a Lounge Bar, manned by a whipcord skink who does tricks with his blued tail, like flip flaming firebrands into Charred Caterpillar cocktails. Plump specimens drooped along the bar, their forked tongues conversing deeply the bottom of their respective poisons. Expanding outward like an equibrilium theory experiment are circular tables. An astonishing variety of lizardkind is scattered pellmell in the spaces between tables on plastic seats. On the tables glow dim heat stones. There are tourists who died abroad. Another choked on a lucky ladybug. All kinds of deaths, they swapped it in the form of tales then moved on the never-ending possibility of topics. It is a colourful crowd. It wouldn't be the Lizard Locale if it weren't. To step into it is to step into eternity.
The dedicated lizard passes along mirrored walls reflecting exhibitions of decadence, cigarettes and obscure drugs fogging the dim atmosphere. Garish garrlence mingles with the doo-wop band playing at the distant corner. Walk as far as he may, he could enter a jungle region where cheering lizards of all varieties bet on beetle combatants or pit lizardkind against itself in cage battles. He might offer himself the question of where lizards went if they died in the Lizard Locale as he enters the desert biome, home to vast arrays of sexy lizardettes sunning on vibrant recliners like so many solar panels.
The extra determined lizard, having acquired some naughty habits, exhaling cigarette smoke and imbibing some Daniels, might explore all the avenues and, and circling back into himself along the infinity sign, conclude the Lizard Locale is one rocking afterlife.