at the bar - 8 p.m. - open
Brent had arrived late and already quite thoroughly drunk. His pupils were massively dilated, suggesting there was more at work in his system than simple alcohol. But he was clean, or what passed for it in Brent's estimation, and dressed in something other than scrubs for the first time in days. He perched himself atop a barstool and ordered a beer -- bottled, of course, well aware of what substances and foreign objects could find their way into a glass at a place such as this. He swayed slightly on the stool as he turned in place, observing the other patrons with a sharply arched brow.
"God damn those look good," he said, hooking his fingers into a bowl and dragging it over toward him. He dug into the gummy shamrocks as though they were the first things he'd eaten all day. With a hand full of the colorful gummies, he waved frantically toward BB, one of few faces he actually recognized. Small shamrocks flew through the air, bouncing off the bar top and skittering to the floor.