The bar smelled like stepped-on crank, used beer, and denim. ZZ Top was playing on the jukebox, and the last person to order a glass of wine had been beaten to death with pool sticks.
Bobby was at the end of the bar drinking whiskey and fondling a stone-cold teen fox.
“You got a lotta nerve coming in here,” Bobby said as Billy pushed the teen fox out of the way and sat next to him.
“Why? Are we fighting?”
“Oh, no: we’re cool. It’s just a real rough place.”
“Yup. Bob, what are you doing here?”
“Gotta go where the money is. You wanna sell Nazi ivory, then you can’t do it on Ebay.”
“Nazi bullshit made out of ivory? That’s a thing?”
“Oh, no: that’s silly. I’m talking about elephants that were inculcated into the ethos of National Socialism, and then poached for their tusks.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty much the most reprehensible product you can imagine. Come to think of it, a lot of whales and orphans are killed in the process.”
“Money’s money, right?”
“That it is, Billiam.”
“Wanna make some more of it? I got a job.”
Bobby downed the rest of his whiskey.
“I don’t think my contact is showing. Fuckin’ bikers.”
“Mickey’s got the plane out back.”
“Mickey can fly a plane?”
“I didn’t say that: I said he’s got one out back.”
They were almost out of the bar when Billy tapped the largest, scariest biker in the room on the shoulder.
“That guy over there said you look like a fag.”
“WHO SAID THAT?”
As Bobby and Billy got in the plane, the bar erupted with shooting and punching and chain-whipping. Sirens wailed to life in the distance.