He quietly opened the door to the “Bunny Cradle”, attempting to make as little disturbance as possible. The smoke filed his nasal cavity, blessing him with the smell of cigarettes instead of the B.O. of many unshowered men. Pool balls knocked together, mugs were clunked around, and music played above all other sounds. Wondering what he would find here, Dixon sauntered over to the bar, taking a seat isolated from the others.
“What can I get for ya?” the bartender called over his shoulder while cleaning out one of the mugs.
“Prune juice. Warm, not chilled,” he responded smuggly.
The bartender stopped for a moment, then turned toward him, embers burning in his eyes. “How dare you bring your sorry butt in here and order something like that! You come to an honorable estab-“
CRACK, cried the baseball bat as it collided with the back of an unsuspecting man’s head, ensuing into another bar fight.
The bartender paused again. “Okay, whatever, need to get rid of it ‘neways,” he finished, moving into the stockroom to grab the unopened crate.
“Mr. Dills, I’m surprised to see you back here again,” called out a familiar voice from behind him.
Dixon turned as Mr. Knuckles greeted him as well.
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