McGurk's Suicide Hall

McGurk's Suicide Hall (or McGuirk's, the standard Irish spelling but less often seen in reference to the Hall), technically McGurk's Saloon, was a beer parlor, in the loosest sense of that word, and whorehouse at 295 Bowery in the New York City district of the same name, richly mentioned in Asbury's Gangs of New York and no doubt other histories of the bad side of the city in those years. It was opened in 1893 in a former hotel by one John McGurk or Patrick McGuirk (again records vary, with the former by far the most common), of unsurprising moniker, a decidedly ungentle man who apparently had an astounding knack for depravity even by the standards of fin-de-siècle New York.

His saloon, which almost immediately gained a reputation as the worst, lowest dive in the city, obtained its common appellation from the copious number of prostitutes working there who killed themselves — a fact McGurk himself boasted about; more whores died in his place, he claimed, than anywhere else on earth. (At some point he had the enticing slogan »Better Dead« carved into the lintel over the front door.) The place was such a hellhole (another of its popular nicknames, incidentally) that they had to invent the bouncer; the first such officer history records is John »Eat-'Em-Up Jack« McManus, who kept the disorder at McGurk's.

Such carrying-on could not last, of course; and it didn't. McGurk's Suicide Hall closed in 1902, after less than a decade in operation, leaving, no doubt, few mourners. 295 Bowery became a cheap restaurant and flophouse, and was finally torn down in 2005 to make room for the new rock bottom in Manhattan depravity — apartments for the merely well off.

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Welcome to McGurk's Suicide Hall.

I'm not surprised you found us. Many people do. Mostly by word of mouth. We're not allowed to advertise. 

Word of mouth, like I said. Most of our customers have been here because a friend has. Or someone they know. Or someone told them. Or they just wandered in, somehow, one day. It's not like we're obtrusive. We just sit here, looming over the parking lot, and expect people to come by. And they always come by. Somehow we never run out of customers.

Now, if you'll follow me --

Here near the entrance you'll find our most popular items -- rope, handguns, knives, pills, drain cleaner, drills, etc. The small things. The cheap things. Easily bought, easily used. Most of our customers reach this section and go no further. Most of them are -- this is the strange part -- most of them are here simply to buy handguns. To protect the home, some of them say. To defend themselves in public, others say. But so many of them wind up buying the farm anyway, using what we sell them. I guess handguns make it easy. We used to sell gas stoves in this section as well; they ran on coal gas, which was instantly lethal. But we've discontinued that line. Too expensive and complicated when you can buy a simple pistol.

Now, just behind the first section we have The Farm. Many people, perhaps most people in life, buy the farm, at a certain point. You'll notice we have a separate entrance here for those who arrive not looking for suicide, only death. This is where we ease their pain as best we can, in our own way. We do not actually charge for services at The Farm, besides a full faithful recounting of regrets and still-living hopes. If you look at the hill yonder, you'll see a few booths -- those are wher people go to kick The Bucket and bite The Dirt, if they need lots of help dying. Some folk just can't let go of life.

As we pass beyond The Farm you'll notice a door leading outside to a sunny rock platform. The platform stand above a large, dry canyon, with steep sides, perfect for jumping off and falling a very long time. Admission is somewhat expensive, because where else are you going to find a cliff like that, but it's the best option for those who wish to contemplate their own inevitable fate for a brief period before they die.

Moving on, we get into more elaborate deaths, some of which have no guaranteed finality. See here, this door will take you to our special traffic room, where cars whip by you at breakneck speed. Some people who step into the traffic are instantly obliterated; others are merely knocked about, and demand their money back. We simply tell them to give it a second try, but then, one of the quirks of suicide is that if you survive, the survival instinct kicks in and you're glad to be alive. Few who survive this room ever try it again, or even come back here.

Here is our trainyard. This one ought to be final, as trains are made of tons of metal, not pounds of foam, but there's always someone who lays down the wrong way and only loses a leg, or an arm, or an ear, and as they lay bleeding in the dust the survival instinct kicks in again and they ask for the hospital -- which we provide, of course, we're not entirely heartless -- and it winds up being far more expensive than the initial fee. I don't recommend this place unless you're willing to pay extra for our special Villain Tying You To The Tracks service. Throw in a bit more and he'll even wear the top hat, mustache and opera cape.

This room is one that is supposed to be absolutely fatal. Notice, if you will, the spinning blades of death going every which way, moving back and forth, up and down, with spikes shooting out here and there, tripwires, pits, and all manner of things. You'd think it would be fatal. You'd think the grinning clown overhanging the entrance would unnerve people enough to trip them up. But no, for everyone who goes in here and gets cut to pieces, there's someone else who manages to flip and twist their way through the whole thing, and we have to ask them why they even came here in the first place. We never manage to hear their quips before the room fades to black and they vanish.

That's a problem affecting most of the death-traps we have here. The more elaborate they are, they more easy it is to escape them. I guess every elaboration adds a failure point.

If you would like to go out with a great crash, there's always our racetrack, just out the door there. It's a road stretching into the desert, and at the end of it is a narrow box canyon with a large tree at the end, just at the bottom of a small hill. Most who choose this option are going so fast coming over the hill that they fly right into the tree trunk, never landing in time to hit the brakes.

In the spirit of fun, just through our next door, there's the Euthanasia Rollercoaster. It is designed, in a long drop and a series of tighter and tighter loops, to subject its riders to greater Gs than they can survive. In the same area we provide trampolines that will launch you into a pile of concrete, swings that throw you into the canyon, tetherball games where the ball explodes after a certain number of hits, and a rodeo with Cape Buffaloes instead of bulls.

Speaking of cape buffaloes -- that's through this next door. We've set up a safari with all sorts of beasts. Buffaloes, leopards, lions, stingrays, vipers, and the entire collection of Australian Wildlife. This is for those who like to go out looking tough, or perhaps foolhardy.

Just to put that in perspective, our next room is a large pool with rocks and ropes provided.

Beyond this point we've almost run out of ideas, although our hall is constantly expanding. We're planning to put in a Jaganatha parade next month. For now, this is were we have the booths where you sign up for heroic suicides. You can volunteer to rescue someone from a fire, show them out of the way of a vehicle, stand between them and a crazed gunman, or take the rap for them when the state has commanded their execution. what we provide here is probably a far, far better thing than you've ever done, so if you're looking to fulfill your life at the last possible moment, this is the place.

Our next booth, admittedly a small one but it is potent, is simply a microphone with a radio relay that can broadcast to the world. This is where you can go if you wish to commit political suicide.

And at the very end of the hall is Mr. McGurk's office. He is a liscensed psychiatrist, and if you've made it this far he's willing to talk you out of whatever you planned to do, and get you back on your feet. Because to be honest, none of us really want to provide any of these things. We just find that if we can manage everyone's suicide, regulate, and take the blame, all parties involved find it easier and cleaner. There's less recrimination and grief this way. People find it easier to blame us than they do our customers.

That's our hall, then. You might be back. Or not. I have no say in the matter. Or you might choose one of our services. It's all up to you, really.