Yippykaiyay, Motherf*cker Who: Anneliese and Open When: Evening Where: Smaller Bar What: On a very determined mission to get shithoused drunk.
Anneliese strode into a bar that didn't look like it had many women patrons, not that she gave two flying fucks. She was dressed as usual, and needed to get drunk for cheap and as quickly as possible. The standard meat market club involved lots of politics and umbrellas in her drink and Top 40 douchebags in visors and leather flip flops calling her 'baby' and telling her to 'holla' and lots of other things that made her wish she were packing a hatchet in her boot, as opposed to a hunting knife. She didn't want to dance. She didn't want to 'party' and she didn't even know who the fuck Lady Gaga was. This place, with it's rickety wooden floors that thudded and squeaked beneath her boots and dim lighting and smell of beer and peanuts and dollar store dish detergent was definitely more her style.
She hopped up on a stool and ordered a beer, then turned to lean on her elbows against the bar and survey the rest of the room. Lots of good ol' boys. Lots of other people that looked like they fit in about as much as she did. Was it the recent news that it was 'safe' now that brought the people out? Likely. She was just thankful to have a place to get a fucking drink again.
The bartender sat her beer down beside her and she lifted it to her lips to take a sip as she directed her attention to the pool game in progress to her left, wincing ever so slightly at the tug on her left arm. It seemed there was still a bit of healing to do. One of the men playing caught her eye while he was waiting his turn to take a shot and touched the tip of his pool stick to his black cowboy hat, leaving behind a faint blue smudge. She arched her brow, smiling a little in return. She was exceptional at pool.