Neat,” I shout across the bar to Mitch. He slides the drinks across to me and I take them back to the customers who ordered them. Twenty Two Oh Eight bar is packed tonight. There are people crammed in everywhere and it’s crossed my mind more than once tonight that it might be a fire or health code violation to have this many people packed in the bar, but it doesn’t seem to be worrying Mitch or Carl (the other bartender) or Candy or Slash (the security guard). So, I try not to let it bother me. Slash is a beef of a man. Tall, black and built like a mountain. He’s also got a jagged scar running across his cheek. I’m not sure if his nickname is born of the scar on his face or his extracurricular activities, but something tells me it’s probably a bit of both. Carl looks much the same as him, minus the scar, on account of them being brothers. I do my rounds, squeezing through the throng of people who are all out to listen to Alabama’s hot new rock band, Fury. I stack a bunch of empties in the crook of my arm and start walking back to the bar.
