And then there was writing!
It's not much, but it's something.
The drunkard's pre-planned excuse was cut off when his face was suddenly smashed into the top of the bar, hefted back up immediately by a hand tangled in his hair. He tried a second time, sputtering, but his efforts were once again brought to a premature halt when he was slammed downward for another meeting with the bar top, just as violent as the first.
"You have the fucking chits next time your ass visits my bar, or your face is gonna get a lot more than a love tap," the bartender growled, yanking the bewildered patron up again. "We understand each other, Mister...?"
"Juh... Jona--" Another slam into the counter.
"I didn't ask for your goddamn name." This time, instead of lifting his head, he let the man tumble off of his stool and onto the hard concrete floor. "You pay for the drinks you get, then maybe I'll care what you call yourself. Now get the hell out of here before I decide I'm having too much fun beating sense into your ugly mug."
The man struggled to get back to his feet and find enough balance to make it to the door, a feat made more difficult when a few of the regulars were pitching random condiment packets at him on his way out.
"Hey -- hey! Knock it off, unless you wanna sweep the floor before you leave," he shouted, getting a few laughs from the customers before everyone went back to their drinks, card games, and whatever else they were keeping busy with. He grumbled to himself as he pulled out a cloth and started to wipe down the bar, where the unfortunate encounter with a man's face had caused some smudges.
Off to his left, a hand appeared, pushing a small pile of credit chits in his direction, and he looked up to see a man he only half recognized as having been in here a few times before. "Yeah, what's this for? I don't take tips, people tend to mistake 'em for bribes."
The other man shook his head, lips curling in an easy grin. "For the idiot's drinks, that's all."
Admittedly a little surprised by the offer, he still waved it away with a half-frown, going back to his work without a thought about it. "Just keep it, I couldn't justify taking it out of his hide if he's not technically in debt anymore."
A chuckle and a shrug met his words, the other man pulling the money back and stuffing it into a worn wallet. "You certainly know your priorities."
"I find they respond better when they know what my priorities are, too," the tender quipped back, stuffing the cloth back into his apron and leaning with both hands on the bar. "I'm guessing you have no problem with it, since this is -- what -- the third time I've seen you in here?"
"No problem at all, 'cause I don't plan on having my head slammed into the bar anytime soon." The visitor stuffed his wallet away with another chuckle, slipping onto a bar stool and extending an empty hand this time. "Name's Garret, by the way -- think I might be taking a liking to you and your establishment."
His outstretched hand was met with a look of mild skepticism, but there was only a slight pause before the bartender shifted his weight and slipped his own hand out to clasp Garret's in a firm, if brief, shake. "Well, you don't give me a reason to show your face the VIP tour of my bar counter, and I'm sure we'll take a liking to you and your chits, too. You can call me Chain -- most people do, anyway, prolly on account of it being on the sign out front. Now what can I get you this fine, post-apocalyptic evening?"
I am so horribly out of practice. Like -- horribly, horribly out of practice, omfg.
It is horrible.
And ly.
The drunkard's pre-planned excuse was cut off when his face was suddenly smashed into the top of the bar, hefted back up immediately by a hand tangled in his hair. He tried a second time, sputtering, but his efforts were once again brought to a premature halt when he was slammed downward for another meeting with the bar top, just as violent as the first.
"You have the fucking chits next time your ass visits my bar, or your face is gonna get a lot more than a love tap," the bartender growled, yanking the bewildered patron up again. "We understand each other, Mister...?"
"Juh... Jona--" Another slam into the counter.
"I didn't ask for your goddamn name." This time, instead of lifting his head, he let the man tumble off of his stool and onto the hard concrete floor. "You pay for the drinks you get, then maybe I'll care what you call yourself. Now get the hell out of here before I decide I'm having too much fun beating sense into your ugly mug."
The man struggled to get back to his feet and find enough balance to make it to the door, a feat made more difficult when a few of the regulars were pitching random condiment packets at him on his way out.
"Hey -- hey! Knock it off, unless you wanna sweep the floor before you leave," he shouted, getting a few laughs from the customers before everyone went back to their drinks, card games, and whatever else they were keeping busy with. He grumbled to himself as he pulled out a cloth and started to wipe down the bar, where the unfortunate encounter with a man's face had caused some smudges.
Off to his left, a hand appeared, pushing a small pile of credit chits in his direction, and he looked up to see a man he only half recognized as having been in here a few times before. "Yeah, what's this for? I don't take tips, people tend to mistake 'em for bribes."
The other man shook his head, lips curling in an easy grin. "For the idiot's drinks, that's all."
Admittedly a little surprised by the offer, he still waved it away with a half-frown, going back to his work without a thought about it. "Just keep it, I couldn't justify taking it out of his hide if he's not technically in debt anymore."
A chuckle and a shrug met his words, the other man pulling the money back and stuffing it into a worn wallet. "You certainly know your priorities."
"I find they respond better when they know what my priorities are, too," the tender quipped back, stuffing the cloth back into his apron and leaning with both hands on the bar. "I'm guessing you have no problem with it, since this is -- what -- the third time I've seen you in here?"
"No problem at all, 'cause I don't plan on having my head slammed into the bar anytime soon." The visitor stuffed his wallet away with another chuckle, slipping onto a bar stool and extending an empty hand this time. "Name's Garret, by the way -- think I might be taking a liking to you and your establishment."
His outstretched hand was met with a look of mild skepticism, but there was only a slight pause before the bartender shifted his weight and slipped his own hand out to clasp Garret's in a firm, if brief, shake. "Well, you don't give me a reason to show your face the VIP tour of my bar counter, and I'm sure we'll take a liking to you and your chits, too. You can call me Chain -- most people do, anyway, prolly on account of it being on the sign out front. Now what can I get you this fine, post-apocalyptic evening?"
I am so horribly out of practice. Like -- horribly, horribly out of practice, omfg.
It is horrible.
And ly.