Kaminski didn't seem to register his surroundings as he all but fell through the door of the bar, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting. He spotted the counter and made a beeline for the nearest bar stool, sitting down halfway before standing up again to crack his back. He'd only been able to wrangle up one friend to help him move, and they'd learned the hard way that crappy furniture did not necessarily equal lightweight furniture. Kind of the opposite, actually.
Finally he settled on the stool, and Frank decided it was safe to approach. "What'll you have?"
"I'll have a Stone IPA and a..." He squinted at the menu. "What the hell is a 'Johnny Burger'?"
"It's just a hamburger."
"Well then why don't you just call it a hamburger?"
The bartender shrugged. "We just don't. Do you want one?"
Kaminski looked personally affronted. Or perhaps his lower back muscles were spasming again. "Yeah fine, give me a Johnny Burger with some Johnny Bacon and hold the Johnny Ketchup. Does my beer have a first name too, or are we not that familiar yet?"
Frank, who'd obviously dealt with far more obnoxious customers in his time, just rolled his eyes and served Kaminski his beer. "Pff, Johnny Burger," he muttered to no one in particular as he glanced at the other bar patron out of the corner of his eye. Oh, hey, hot chick. With a bike helmet. How had he not noticed that? Must've been in more pain than he realized.
The last notes of "Sweet Child of Mine" finally faded as Kaminski sipped his beer, only to be replaced by Rod Stewart singing "Forever Young". He winced and placed the glass against his temple; maybe if his headache eased up the music would be less grating (what part of him was not in pain today?). "I hate you, Rod Stewart. I hate you so fucking much."