I keep on going past this place. It has an odd look to it. A traditional old man-type pub in the middle of the curry mile... only there's *more* to it than that. It has an odd door, like a house... or slightly fake. The whole thing seems built-on... not fake in a tacky way but almost as if they're covering something up and have been for a *very long time*.
The smokers outside it always look somehow withered, like they all have some unspecified malnourishment or skin condition, or perhaps a genetic condition long harboured in the ancient denizens of Rusholme, pre-mass immigration...
I'd like to go in there sometime. At first I was just a bit afraid of the general 'look' the regulars have but now I've reached the conclusion that either:
a) The Huntsman backs onto a chemical plant which is causing all sorts of abberations
or, perhaps more chillingly, b) The Hunstman is in fact a front for an entire community of subterranean, humanlike (or somehow part-human) dwellers... the 'smokers' outside are merely sentries for an entire race of... I'm thinking the product of some unholy congress between ancient Rusholme denizens and demons they mistakenly summoned somehow, but I could be wrong.
More updates on Lovecraft-alike background details to my life as they unfurl.