It's dead quiet tonight just like he expected. The large man in a black beany and blue and white workout sweats, closes the big heavy wooden door to McMullen's Bar, locking out the creeping grip of the 9 o'clock chill at the same time, and casually strolls across the deep mahogany finish of the floor – his worn trainers squeaking on the polish – up to the large black and brown wooden bar to slide up on a hard leather capped stool to put a single finger up. Behind the counter the aging bartender – gray flecked hair and lines on his face that indicate that his furrowed brow has been like that for some time over the years – glances up from where he is polishing the glass of a lightly sweating beer fridge and nods his head in acknowledgment. A cool beer is procured and placed down on a brand new McMullen's coaster in front of the large man. “Another loss tonight, eh, Andy?” Walter McMullen, the owner and manager of the bar, says with a hint of sadness touching his voice. “Yeah, not sure what happened this time.”
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