– Contains offensive language –
A smart looking fool walks into the smoky, low-lit bar wearing a trench-coat that reaches from the tops of his ears to his unseen ankles. The damn thing is buttoned up and he sweats profusely. Lyle eyeballs him from behind the bar, suddenly very territorial. The guy has been stuck in this hole for thirty-five years and not once has he seen a big city punk walk through his door. Something smells fucked up, and by the looks on everyones’ faces – from Tiny Tim’s steepling brow as he glances over his shoulder while taking a piss through the hole in the wall in the corner, to Pete’s first attempt at a gaze resembling inquiry since seeing Alice Freeman’s ripe, pubesent boobs for ten bucks fifteenyears ago, to Manny imploring his imaginary self with a desprately repeated litany of “shut the fuck up” and implied threats of knocking someone’s head off with the pool cue he wields – we all know this is about Sarah. Ordinarily, nobody gives a shit about us until that shit starts flowing downhill and one of us unfortunate dumbfucks happens to be standing a little too close to the smoking gun and gets brown torrented. But first, they will send their smart looking fool.