Snippet #2415591

The End of the Line bar is a stand alone, two story building set off on the left side of Main Street. Anyone who goes through the city will see it, but it isn't really a place you take a second look at. The exterior is of plain red brick, paled by the sun and dirtied by years of pollution from the exhaust of the cars going by. The front entrance is marked by an old wooden door with red pain faded and chipping off, a neon OPEN sign setting up and to the left of the door. To the right a two foot by six inch sign on the outer wall reads, in bold black letters THE END OF THE LINE. Inside one will find that the exterior suits it well. The floor is hardwood, worn smooth over the years with several dips and scrapes. Straight ahead lies the bar counter with ten bars tools set on one side, and a man in a white shirt and black vest on the other side, a wall of liquor beyond him. The walls are covered in various signs and posters from events upcoming and long gone. Aside from the bar itself there are several tables scattered about the floor, all of them wooden with matching chairs, most round but with a few square ones along the walls. In one corner sets an old jukebox that looks like it might still play records, and near the ceiling on opposite sides there are mounted two small flat screen televisions.

Jack is the name of the man behind the bar. He is the son of the owner, and for the last five years he has been running the business that is The End of the Line bar mostly on his own, however, he has been the bartender for nearly two decades now. Each night he stands behind the bar, polishing glasses, pouring drinks, opening beers, and listening to the people who come in and set before him, placing themselves in his hands for the evening.

The blonde woman pretty enough to be in magazines goes by Vicky, but her name is Vivian. She works at bar to pay her way through medical school. Her family figured she would have ended up being a stripper by now, she has the body for it after all, but sometimes the men who come to The End of the Line often treat her like she is one. That explains the derringer she keeps hidden in her bra. If you play by the rules you'll never get to see the little beauty.

Vicky's co-worker looks more like the girl you expect to see in a place like this. Her name is Angela, and the Harley parked out front belongs to her. She's got more tattoos than you can count, but they go well enough with her short black hair and piercings. Angela gets just as much attention as Vicky, but Jack doesn't have to worry about her either. Despite her looks the woman is a black belt. One night, after a football game a few towns over, a group came into the bar and started getting a little too rowdy. When one of the guys disregarded Jack's warning and grabbed her ass he left the bar with an arm broken in three places.

Things settled down after that.

Hearing the familiar sound of the old door creaking on its hinges, Jack looks over, still polishing a shot glass, and nods when a face just as familiar walks in.

"Evening Will, the usual?" Jack asks, setting the shot glass and the washcloth aside and instead picking up a somewhat larger glass as he reaches for the whiskey.

"You know me too well Jack." The private investigator says as he nods to Vicky and Angela, passing them on his way over to a small table in the corner. "I thank you, but I think my liver might curse you."

It was Tuesday, and the sun was just beginning to sink down below the mountains on the outskirts of town, casting a pale orange-pink light on everything in the city. It was beautiful, in a way. It also meant, for Jack at least, that business would be picking up soon. Thins always seemed to liven up once the sun went down. The crowd tonight would be too big, it was too early in the week for very many people to show up. Payday was too far away at this point. But he was expecting a handful none the less, and a few usuals, like Will.

The bartender pours a few ounces of Jim Beam over a couple of ice cubes, then hands it across the bar to Angela who escorts the beverage over to its rightful place- sitting on the table before Will, between the ashtray where one of his cigarettes was already burning away and a copy of some cheesy pulp detective novel.