Thuglit Issue Seven
“"Help you?" The bartender is a heavy man who appears to be in his sixties, though he is so out of shape, he could easily be ten years younger. His belly, barely covered by a faded Twisted Sister t-shirt, hangs down over his belt, a testimony to cheap beer and bar food.
He probably thinks he still has a thirty-four inch waist, I think. But I don't say it.
"I want to go fishing." My voice almost cracks. I haven't spoken since the episode with Marlene the night before, and my throat is still raw from the yelling.
"Yeah, well Viking is the place, I guess." His voice seems to emanate from the room itself, rather than from his mouth. The lack of light is disorienting—the single grease and cigarette-smoke stained window produces only a thin, gray diffusion. "But you're late. Or early. The party boats go out at dawn and sunset." "I couldn't get here any earlier." Why do I bother to explain? He is not capable of understanding.
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