The air in the bar was stiff. Not like it was hot or anything; it was a rainy night in New Boston, it never hits 90 unless the world’s endin’, but it was thick with something. Anger, violence, spilled liquor, I’ll never know. I sat at the bar old wooden bar, droping my notepad on the counter. It hit with a dull plastic thud as the man next to me looked up. Had he remained motionless I’da never seen ‘im.
“Reporter?”
I nodded in the affermitive, waving my hand at the barman. I wasn’t here for a drink.
“Not alot of you guys. Must be one hell of a business.”
“Yea. Not much exciting happens anymore, but if it does I’m there.”
I tipped my hat. I was damn proud of the job I was doin, and nothin’ but hell’d stop me from sharin’ that fact.
“Well good. I’ve heard enough god damn stories from you note taken idiots, so shut it.”
“What you got against reporters, smart ass?”
My entire family was reporters, as far back as we could count, and I made damn sure I’d keep the tradition going.
“Pa was one.”
I knew I had my story.