Bartend’r set the beer down with a soft clink. I threw a craw[
EDITOR’S NOTE: Orlo, most people still call them five doller bills. Don’t ask why, but next time you send in a vocal file, take a minute to clean it up, ok? It looks like I’m reading the translation of a cockfighting fan’s diary.
]on the count’r. He grabbed it quick, depositing it in a cash registar. That’s what I liked ‘bout this joint; it could afford the nicer things. I turned back to the stranger. He ’ad already popped open the top and was a-fourt’ through the bottle. What?
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He was diggin’ into the beer like it was the last one on earth.
“Alright,” he said, taking a breath to steady ‘imself from his little binge. “My Pa was a news man. Liked to tell a story. He was out with some family friend one day about ten years ago.”
I opened my mouth.
“I know. He wasn’t a thinker, alright? He had a gun, so he felt that anything that had died once was something that he could kill again. Buy me another one?"
He held up the empty bottle.