You were all too used to dive bars and the kinds of folks that hung out in them; namely the rot-gut swilling, fight starting types who got handsy after a few too many shots and were quick to stiff you on your tip in favor of just one more drink.
That’s why you thought you could handle it when a surly hurricane of rage and resentment in the form of one towering, thickly muscled flame haired male sauntered briskly into the dimly lit doors of Jack’s Crocodile Bar, your relatively new place of employment. The scathing look that your boss, the steely eyed, strong backed bar owner Jack flashed your way had you hastily second guessing your lofty notions of pub mastery.
The words she drawled to you in that low sweet mid-west accent, and her crimson painted finger nails that curled around your t-shirt clad shoulder in a gesture of commiseration, didn’t do anything to help.
“That right there is trouble, plain as the day is long,” Jack said, following your line of sight to the immense glowering ginger currently slouching in the sticky vinyl of a dingy booth that sat a few strides from the dentine bar, “And he just sat down in your section.”
The Other Time Mad Sweeney Lost His Lucky Coin
27 Mar 2019
"i'd suffer hell if you'd tell me what you'd do to me tonight," - hozier's, dinner & diatribes.
Or, alternatively, he was just supposed to help you get rid of a very creepy man, but things never go the way they're meant to, do they?