Bar crawl of Cthulhu

To the right of the main street, on a short alley that looked like the moon, were the doors to Hell.

And since that was the name of the saloon, we jokingly would say things like «Let’s go to Hell» those afternoons when there was nothing else to do but lull the afternoon with a beer on hand and paly darts or «Come with us to Hell» to our cousins from the city or … «Why do you think I work for? To go to Hell, of course». To this joke, my grandmother, a respectable and  gray haired woman on her 70s whom always went to mass, would raise an eyebrow and purse her lips in reprobation. Her small defect of a tumour like appendage on her right side of the lips trembled.
One day, the dough was resting on the table waiting for my grandmother to finish a new table cloth’s embroidery and getting puffier when a ding dong came from the door. I wanted to scream, my nose was a leaking tap and my head was like a fluid fish bowl with my brain floating on it dead. But grandma can barely move around so I couldn’t help snorting when I saw her on her feet and opening the door to a couple of guys. Then she turned around and yelled towards my room:
—Christian were going bar crawling tonight! Get the truck ready honey
She laughed a lot when she realised I was there on the stairs, transfixed looking at the tiny tentacles around her mouth.
Then she and her also tentacled friends came up to me and surrounded my shoulders with their arms.
— Tonight we aren’t going to Hell. We’re going to all the Styx, Purgatory, Valhalla and Paradise boy…