Name's Randy J. Davies. Louisiana born and bred. Just come here from time to time to look at things that make me laugh. I think we could all use a laugh nowadays, yeah? I'll update this again when I find a new place t'work. Oh, and don't go to the Firefly. That bar sucks. Just sayin'.
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""Sure," Jason said as the third gulp of alcohol disappeared, he didn't ask for another, not yet. "Until others are ready to string you up by your laces and turn you into nothing but meat because you happen to be related to one of the most notorious gangsters in town. Suppose that's just to teach the son of a bitch a lesson, but really, they're just doing him a favor." His speech was faster now and the light in his eyes was bright, glimmering with humor. "You ever get into the real dirty work?""
Asked by jasongray-sna
Randy said nothing to that. He did, however, produce from nowhere, a glass of water, which he set down in front of Jason without a word, adding ice after the fact.
Keeping his face solemn and continuing to polish a glass, the bartender furrowed his brows and tossed back his unsightly-long hair—out of fashion with the times and getting into his face; in dire need of a trim. He seemed to honestly think about Jason’s question before bringing his head down, blue eyes placid and face composed.
“Yeah,” Randy said finally, poker-faced. “I used t’shovel manure.”
