Rodeo / Open
Rodeo might not have been a suit and tie sort of man, but he pulled it off with the same effortless sort of carelessness did everything else in life. He had sauntered in like he owned the place in a simple black suit, white button-up, and skinny tie-- classic and handsome, and of course slightly comical paired with his scruffy face and messy long hair. It seemed to suit him, though. It was rugged and cool, and not a thing about him in formal wear came off as out of place.
He was proud of the place his sister had set up. Of all the contributions to life in the safehouses, he felt like the bar was one of the best. It would lift morale, would bond people, would give everyone a place to come and wind down after a long day of barely surviving the city with their lives intact. It really did feel like a bar, and after a couple drinks he started to forget what the world really was like outside those walls. He could almost believe he was in a real bar, in a normal city, full of regular people rather than fucked up survivors and cannibal corpses. It helped that he was drinking his bourbon from a glass for once. The stout, round glass he was drinking from had been refilled more times than he could count by the middle of the night, but he didn't mind. His buzz was strong, his mood was high, and not a soul had beaten him at the dartboard yet.
"Crossroads, will you ever let him go?" Rodeo crooned to himself as he poured himself another drink behind the bar. He twisted the cap back onto the bottle of bourbon, lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, then snatched a bright red maraschino from one of the jars tucked under the bar, popping it in his mouth. "Will he lie beneath the clay, or will his spirit roll away..." Rodeo glanced around, looking for some trouble to get into, for his lady to feel up on, or his sweet baby sister to sing a song with.