It had been happening all night at roughly five-minute intervals and the bartender and servers couldn’t figure out why. They walked up the stairs, down the stairs and brought their faces close to the stairs to–I assume–check for any voodoo incantations carved into the wood. They left stumped and we started placing bets on when people would slip down the cursed steps. We traded wins and losses for most of the evening; victory resulting in beer, defeat in more beer. Then you went upstairs to the washroom and walked slowly back down on your return, your face contorted in mock fear. We laughed and then laughed harder as you actually slipped and hit the last three steps with your ass, which in turn meant you won the latest wager. I called collusion you called on us for another drink.