He is a terrible man.
On his chubby arm is a low-quality tattoo of a Virgin Mary holding a little baby mutant. As he walks into the bar the janitor looks up at him. Both of them are bald, and so is the barkeep, polishing the heavy glass beer mugs. The place suddenly feels like an annual Northfields failed hairdressers convention. There's nobody else in the bar, which doesn't come as a surprise since it's early morning and the Tap isn't even open yet.
This bar - the Tap is a fine place on the north side of New Flagstaff where you can hang out during the day and drink a fine cup of espresso and read the newspapers. Except there is no espresso and newspapers. But that's pretty much the feeling you get when you walk into a friendly bar like this. One could even say it's family oriented, except... well you kinda get it.
"I'd like a glass of your finest toilet tank gin." - the terrible newcomer says as he walks up to the bar, grinning wide.
"Sure thing pal." the barkeep puts down the heavy glass mug with the thud and pours generously to his first customer of the day. "Haven't seen you around for some time, what have you been up to?"
The terrible man keeps his grin frozen and lifeless upon hearing that and answers, his face a mask now: "Well you know... been here and there. I've been looking for someone so I thought, best start lookin' at the umbilical knot of the Northfields first, right?"
The sound of a wet mop being dragged over the wooden floor, as it hits the chairs and wooden legs is the only thing that can be heard in the awkward silence. That, and the squishing sound of a glass mug being meticulously cleaned with a dirty towel. But that's why people get into the bar, to get out of the silence and solitude, and into the crowd and gossip. A food for your brain to chew on and go numb with legal chems, all for a very low price or your privacy and some chips.
"Aren't you gonna ask me who I'm looking for, give me a hand or something?"
"Nope, I mind my own business. How about some more gin?" - the barkeep shakes a clear glass bottle with no label.
"Hmph... tough crowd at New Flagstaff, as usual." the terrible man grunts. "I don't know why I love this town so much."
"You don't... you are just tied in debt to all the bars so much that you can't leave." The barkeep passes a torn out piece of paper with the crossed lines, bundled in fives, like a convict would make to count his days or years.
The terrible man grins wider now that he got to the bottom of the strange vibes he felt earlier, finally swimming in murky waters - his specialty.